Father's dinner guests had offered him a deal that he could have refused; instead, he jumped on it like a starving dog does a bone. It must have seemed perfect: a chance to get rid of an unwanted burden  -  and a constant reminder of his wife's preference for red hair  -  and get paid handsomely to boot. Too bad for him that I was tipped off. Great-Uncle Pip had always had a soft spot for the one person who didn't treat him like an idiot child. By the time the deal was finalized, he'd insured that I was nowhere to be found. And no one hides better than a null. The usual tracking spells are useless on us; we simply don't register, not even as a norm  -  and I can walk through most wards as if they aren't even there. The Fey did not take my disappearance well. The nobles who had intended to escort me into slavery in Faerie instead took back Father's head.

I pushed the memories away and pointed to a spot off the side of the stage. It was where the auction assistants usually stood to bring out new items for bidding. Since everything for sale tonight was already in place, no one was likely to be coming or going. "You can stand over there. We can talk after the sale." Assuming he could grab me before I managed to slip away in the mass exodus.

Matt lumbered up beside us. He was sweating despite the temperature, and his collar appeared to be eating into his thick neck. "Bidders aren't allowed on stage, sir," he told the Fey with fake bonhomie. "Perhaps you would like to take a place in front?"

"What I would like  -  " the Fey began, but I cut him off with a curse. For the second time that night, someone came through the main doors I really didn't want to see. In fact, I'd have preferred a whole room full of Fey to the sight of that narrow, smirking face.

Chapter 2

"What's wrong?" Mart's head whipped around. He scanned the plinths with anxious eyes, but I wasn't looking at them.

I gripped his arm. "It's Seb!" I pointed to where a tall, elegant figure in a dove gray suit had just entered, surrounded by no fewer than eight bodyguards.

"What?" Mart's eyes practically crossed, trying to take in the whole room at once.

I smacked his arm. "Sebastian! My cousin!"

I turned to run, but Mart's big paw descended on the back of my neck. "You can't leave. We're about to start."

"Didn't you hear me?" I asked furiously. "He isn't here to say hello!" Mart's hand didn't budge. "If I'm dead, I can't keep anything from going haywire," I pointed out.

"He's not here to kill you." Matt suddenly looked much calmer. A minute before, he'd been heading for a stroke; now his flushed face wore an expression of smug satisfaction that sent my own blood pressure skyrocketing.

"And you know this how?"

Matt shrugged. "I'm surprised you didn't notice. There's only twelve plinths, Claire."

It took a second to register, then the words hit home. Despite selling fakes whenever he could get his hands on one, Gerald was a superstitious old coot. He knew better than anyone that some of his merchandise was the real deal, and a witch had told him that selling them in lots of thirteen would be an added safety precaution. I hadn't noticed the omission tonight, but I should have. I'd been so worried about the sudden appearance of the Fey that I'd forgotten  -  they weren't the main reason I was in hiding.

"You're planning to sell me?" My voice went up an octave and Matt winced.

"I didn't have a choice," he said defensively. "Sebastian's boys tracked you down a couple days ago. I could have handed you over then, but I figured you might do better in an auction. So I told your cousin to show up tonight if he wanted you. Looks like he does."

Seb was staring at me, a little smile curving his thin lips. Match point, he mouthed.

Like hell.

"Matt! What do you think Seb will do with me if he wins?"

"He said something about the family business being tied up so one heir gets it all, and the rest are out of luck."

"And did he happen to mention what they do with the losers?" I almost screamed.

"I guess he forgot that part." It was pretty clear that Matt didn't give a damn. His own inheritance rested on keeping his father happy and showing a profit. What happened after the sale wasn't his problem, a fact he demonstrated by chaining me to the podium.

"I'll kill you," I promised as the manacle snapped shut around my wrist.

Matt laughed. "You're a null, Claire. You couldn't do a spell to save your life! Now settle down and don't make a fuss."

"You have no idea what kind of a fuss I'm about to make."

Matt didn't bother to reply. He started the bidding on the first item, keeping me for last. Practical. I'd be there to keep the peace until the other items were carried away by successful bidders. Then it would be my turn, unless I could figure a way out of this before then.

I looked around, trying to crush down my rising panic. For a minute, I thought the Fey had gone, then I spotted him propping up the wall just offstage. No help there. Matt must have called him in to give Seb some competition, and ran the price up.

After a fierce bidding war, the djinn was sold to a tiny old woman swathed in black silk and pearls the size of cherries. She placidly stowed him in her huge purse, showing no sign of worry about her acquisition. Either she was barking mad, or she was a powerful witch. Considering that she kept well away from me, I was betting on the latter.

Matt started the bidding on the next lot, a nail supposedly taken from the True Cross and said to give the possessor a leg up in battle. As it had been brought back from the Holy Land by a knight of the Second Crusade  -  which had been a miserable failure by any standards  -  I was a little dubious. It seemed the rest of the room agreed, because bidding was sluggish and the reserve wasn't met.

Matt quickly passed on to item number three, not wanting to lose momentum. I barely heard him describing the history behind the small fragment of parchment because Seb had moved to the bottom of the steps, his bodyguards having pushed a path through the crowd for him. He usually maintains the air of pompous gravity he thinks is appropriate for the head of one of America's foremost magical houses, but tonight his expression was gleeful.

"How old are you again, Claire?" he asked, taking out a calculator. "I ask because I have an offer from a couple of Harvesters. And age does make a difference, you know."