Magic Bleeds kd-4 Read online

  We headed to the Order. The snow crunched under my feet. Saiman would love it. Being a frost giant, he lived for winter. For me, the winter meant high heating bills, eating lean, and freezing as I tried to conquer snowdrifts. The colder the weather, the more poor people would die of exposure.

  We turned a corner onto a narrow path between two rows of decrepit office buildings. The magic hit hard here. Some offices had crumbled and spilled onto the street in huge piles of bricks and mortar. Some teetered on the brink of collapse, looking over the edge but not quite willing to take a plunge. Once the entire street crumbled, the city would clear the rubble out and rebuild—the location was too close to the Capitol to remain vacant for long.

  A male voice floated from behind the bend. “. . . just walk right on. Gotta pay.”

  A shakedown. I picked up speed and circled the pile of debris.

  Two men and a woman crowded an older woman toward a concrete building, all three with a familiar hungry look in their eyes. Not professional thugs, just opportunists—saw an easy mark and took a chance. Bad idea.

  The older woman saw me. Short, stocky, she was swaddled in a dark garment. An indigo mesh veil covered her dark hair and forehead. Two deep-set eyes looked at me from a face the color of walnut. She showed no expression. No fear. No anxiety.

  I headed toward them. The attack poodle trotted next to me, amused.

  “It’s our turf,” the younger woman barked.

  “Actually it’s my turf.”

  The thugs spun to me.

  “Let’s see . . . You’re hassling people in my territory, so you owe me a fee. A couple of fingers ought to do it. Do we have a volunteer?”

  The small thug pulled a bowie knife from a sheath on his waist.

  I kept coming. “That’s a mistake.”

  The thug crouched down. He clenched his knife, like he was drowning and it was a straw that would pull him out. A little crazy light danced in his eyes. “Come on, whore. Come on.”

  The oldest bluff in the book: get a crazy glimmer in your eyes, look like you’re ready to fight, and the other guy might back off. Heh.

  “That might work better for you if you held the knife properly. You were doing okay until you pulled the blade. Now I know that you have no clue how to use it and I’ll have to chop your hand off and shove that knife up your ass just to teach you a lesson. Nothing personal. I have a reputation to uphold.”

  I pulled Slayer out. I had years of practice to back me up and I made the draw fast.

  The two bravos behind the knife-wielding thug backed away.

  I looked at Slayer’s blade. “Well, check this out. Mine is bigger. Let’s go, knife-master. I don’t have all day.”

  The knife thug took a small step back, spun on his heel, and peeled out like his life depended on it. His friends chased him down the alley.

  I sheathed Slayer. Their would-be victim didn’t move. Her eyes stared straight at me, unblinking, the irises so dark, I couldn’t tell where her pupils were. She smiled, wide lips stretching, her mouth opened, and she laughed. It was a throaty, genuine laugh, deep for a woman.

  She wasn’t laughing at the thugs. She was laughing at me.

  “Are you alright, ma’am?”

  She gave no indication of having heard me.

  I shook my head and kept going. The attack poodle followed. The woman’s laughter floated after me. Even after we turned off onto the side path, I could still hear it.

  “It doesn’t matter if she’s a creepy old lady,” I told the attack poodle. “We still had to do our job.”

  Ten minutes later we stepped through the door of the Order’s building. Andrea exploded out of the staircase, her eyes huge.

  “Someone broke into Curran’s private quarters in the Keep and welded his weight bench together. They also melted the lock on the room where he entertains his women. Was it you?”

  “He’s making a big deal about never expecting me to behave like a shapeshifter. So I did.”

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  It’s not polite to lie to your best friend. “It’s a possibility.”

  “You challenged him. The whole Keep is talking about it. He’ll have to retaliate. He’s a cat, Kate, which means he’s weird, and he never courted anyone that way. There is no telling what he’ll do. He doesn’t operate in the same world you do. He might blow up your house because he thinks it’s funny.”

  I waved my arm. “It doesn’t matter. He didn’t get it.”

  Andrea shook her blond head. “Oh no. He got it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Your office smells like him.”

  Oh crap.

  “Can you sniff out what he did?”

  Andrea grimaced. “I can try. But no promises.”

  THE OFFICE LOOKED PERFECTLY NORMAL.

  Andrea wrinkled her nose and surveyed my working space. “Well, he definitely was here. I’d say about two hours ago.”

  She closed her eyes and moved to my desk. “He stood here for a while.” She turned, eyes still closed, and paused by my bookshelves. “Yep, here, too.” She opened her eyes and pulled a book from the far end. The cover showed a drawing of a lion sprawled on a rock outcropping. “You’re reading about lions?”

  “Research,” I told her. “In self-defense.”

  “Well, he flipped through it.”

  Probably chuckled to himself, too.

  “I’m not sure how he came in . . .” Andrea frowned.

  “Through the window,” I told her.

  Her blond eyebrows came together. “How do you figure?”

  “The bars are missing.” He must’ve disabled the alarm, too. If the magic had been up, he wouldn’t have gotten through the wards in a million years.

  She stared at the window, where the fastenings of a once mighty metal grate jutted sadly into the empty space. “Good call.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I’m a trained investigator—that’s just the way we roll.”

  Andrea rolled her eyes. “If he did anything, I don’t see it. Sorry.”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  She left. I trudged down to the rec room and got a small doughnut and a cup of coffee. On my return, the office didn’t look any different. Nothing out of place. Nothing jumping out at me. What the hell did he do? Maybe he did something to my desk. I sat into my chair and checked the drawers. Nope, all my magic crap was still where it was supposed to be.

  The phone rang. I picked it up.

  “Are you sitting down?” Curran’s voice asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Click.

  I listened to the disconnect signal. If he wanted me to sit, then I’d stand. I got up. The chair got up with me and I ended up bent over my desk, with the chair stuck to my butt. I grabbed the edge of the chair and tried to pull it off. It remained stuck.

  I would murder him. Slowly. And I’d enjoy every second of it.

  I sat back down and tried to push from the chair. No dice. I clamped the sides of the table and tried to twist myself off. The chair legs screeched, scraping across the carpet.

  Okay.

  I picked up the phone and dialed Andrea’s extension.

  “Yes?”

  “He glued the chair to my ass.”

  Silence.

  “Is it still . . . attached?”

  “I can’t get it off.”

  Andrea made some choking noises that sounded suspiciously like laughter. “Does it hurt?”

  “No. But I can’t get up.”

  Choking turned into moans.

  “Visitor,” Maxine murmured in my head.

  That’s just perfect. I hung up and crossed my arms over my chest. When your butt is permanently attached to a chair, the only thing you can do is sit and hope to look professional.

  A familiar man stepped into my office. Of average height and average build, he had a pleasantly unremarkable face, well formed, but neither handsome, nor affected by any strong emotion. If you passed him
on a street, you might overlook him the same way you would overlook a familiar building. He was a perfect blank slate, except for the eyes and his black overcoat. Elegant and soft, it was made of some wool I’d never seen before.

  “Hello, Saiman.”

  “Good morning.”

  He paused, probably hoping I’d get up to greet him. Fat chance.

  “What can I do for you?”

  Saiman sat in my client chair and surveyed my office. “So this is where you work?”

  “This is my secret HQ.”

  “Your Batcave?”

  I nodded. “Complete with Robin.”

  The attack poodle showed Saiman his teeth.

  “He’s delightful.”

  “What is your coat made out of?”

  Saiman gave me a blank look. “Cashmere.”

  I didn’t know they made coats out of cashmere. “Is it warm?”

  “Very.” He sat back.

  “So why do you need it?” I’d seen him dance naked in the snow before, with snowflakes chasing him like happy puppies.

  He shrugged. “Appearances are everything. Speaking of appearances, your Batcave looks . . . what is the word I’m looking for?”

  “Sparse, functional . . .”

  “Shabby.”

  I hit him with my hard stare. “Shabby?”

  “Shopworn. Which brings me to my point.” He reached into his spiffy coat and pulled out the petition report I’d given him the day before. My summary of the case so far, listing facts, research, and theories. “I’ve read your summary.”

  “And?”

  “It’s not incompetent.”

  Be still, my heart, so I don’t faint from such faint praise. “Did you expect it to be written in crayon?”

  Saiman grimaced and raised his hand. “Hear me out. You’ve surprised me. This analysis is mercifully free of the amateurish enthusiasm and faulty reasoning I expected from you. If you can forgive a colloquialism, you do project the image of brawn over brains. Which isn’t to say that your native intelligence isn’t evident; on the contrary, but there is a great deal of difference between a naturally agile mind and a mind trained in logical deduction.”

  I rubbed my face. “For a man trained in logical deduction, you should be able to deduce the consequences of insulting a person of brawn in her shabby office.”

  He shook his head. “You know what you could be, Kate? An expert. You have the potential to become a true professional. All you need are the proper tools and freedom to use them. Here is my offer to you: I will lease and furnish a space, providing starting capital for, let us say, six months to a year. The main expense will come in the form of equipment. You’ll need a quality m-scanner.” He counted off on his fingers. “A working computer with a printer station, and a well-stocked herbal and chemical supply room, and an arsenal, all of which I’ll obtain for you. We’ll set up a relaxed repayment schedule. You can be completely independent. You can pick and choose your clients, provided that, when needed, my professional needs take precedence over the rest of your client list. You have a solid reputation, and with my backing, you can capitalize on it and be very successful. This is a professional offer, Kate. Strictly business, with no personal strings attached.”

  “Why, thank you, that lovely beachside property in Kansas you’re selling sounds wonderful.”

  “Your abilities complement my own. I can use you, and I would much rather rely on you than on the people I employ now, because you can do it better and you’re chained by a code of ethics, which, while bewildering, would prevent you from betraying me. My offer makes more sense than working long hours for an organization that is refusing to provide you with the resources and authority to adequately do your job.”

  A small part of me actually sat up and thought, This sounds good. Ted must’ve gotten deeper under my skin than I’d realized.

  At the core, Saiman was right. I was paid a fraction of what a knight made, my professional designation was precarious at best, and my half-assed status barred me from most of the resources available to a full-fledged member of the Order. If I took a cynical view, and it was probably right on the money, Ted had placed me into this position of “neither here nor there” on purpose. It was a bait-and-wait. Show me things I could have, give me a taste, and wait until I got frustrated enough to demand the whole enchilada and agree to joining the Order permanently. Except that he decided I betrayed the human race in the Midnight Games.

  I looked at Saiman. “How do you decide if someone is human?”

  He braided his long, slender fingers on his bent knee. “I don’t. It’s not up to me to assess someone’s humanity. Being human in our world is synonymous with being included into the framework of society. Humanity entitles one to certain rights and privileges, but also implies voluntary acceptance of laws and rules of conduct. It transcends mere biology. It’s a choice and therefore belongs solely to the individual. In essence, if a person feels they are human, then they are.”

  “Do you feel you’re human?”

  He frowned. “It’s a complex question.”

  Considering that he was part Norse god, part frost giant, and part human, his hesitation was understandable.

  “In a philosophical sense of the concept, I view myself as a person, a being conscious of its sentience. In the biological sense, I possess the ability to procreate with a human and produce a viable offspring. So yes, I consider myself a type of human. A different species of human perhaps, but human nonetheless.”

  I considered myself human. I knew Andrea did, too. Derek was human to me. So were Jim and Dali. And Curran. Ted Moynohan did not see them as humans. He wasn’t alone. I’d glimpsed similar views within the Order during my time at the Academy. That, more than anything else, made me want to leave.

  “Back to my offer—being your own boss has its advantages,” Saiman said. “Money doesn’t purchase happiness, but it does provide comfort, cashmere coats, and chocolate. Think about it.”

  Thank you for that demonstration of your steel-trap memory. The only time he caught me drooling over chocolate was almost three years ago, when we first met. Saiman forgot nothing. “It’s a good offer. But I would be trading the Order’s leash for the chain of being in debt to you.”

  His voice gained a soft velvet quality. “Being in debt to me wouldn’t be taxing.”

  I matched his voice. “Oh, I think it would. A leash is a leash, whether it’s silk or chains.”

  Saiman smiled. “It wouldn’t have to be silk, Kate.”

  Full stop. Change of subject before we got to a place I didn’t want to go. “Were you able to crack my parchment?”

  Saiman assumed a martyred expression. “I should be insulted that after all this time you still doubt me.”

  I knew what was coming—the Saiman show. He’d cracked it and now he wanted to show off.

  Saiman reached into his coat and produced a narrow lead box. “Are you familiar with the Blind Monk’s Scrolls?”

  “No.”

  “Twelve years ago, an Eastern Orthodox monk by the name of Voroviev attempted to exorcise what he perceived as a demon, which had taken over the local school. He sought to banish the deity. The creature had attacked him during the exorcism, blinding him, and he defended himself by means of an ancient religious scroll containing a prayer. When the exorcism was completed, the scroll went blank. It was placed into a glass case, and over the course of the next three years, the writing gradually reappeared.”

  “What happened to the monk?”

  “He died of his injuries. The question before us is why did the writing on the scroll vanish?”

  I frowned. “I’d guess that the scroll’s enchantment was exhausted by coming into contact with the creature. If the writing itself was magic, it would vanish.”

  “Precisely. The scroll slowly absorbed magic from the environment, and when it replenished its magic reservoir, the writing reappeared. Your parchment is of the same ilk. The writing is still there, it’s simply weakened beyond
the level of our detection.” He snapped his fingers. A black oblong stone about the size of my middle finger popped into his hand. Saiman the magician. Oy.

  He turned the stone. A rainbow danced across the smooth black surface. He wanted me to ask a question. I obliged. “What is it?”

  “A tear of rainbow obsidian retrieved from under a ley line. Very rare. When properly positioned, it picks up residual magic, amplifies it, and emits it. I placed your parchment on one side of it and a piece of true vellum, calfskin, on the other. The vellum was cured with chanting over a period of two months. It’s extremely magic sensitive. A scroll of this vellum costs upward of five thousand. As I’ve mentioned, my fee is a mere pittance.”

  “You’re making more on this job than I make in a year.”

  “A disparity I have offered to remedy.”

  Not in this lifetime. “So the obsidian picked up the weak magic from the parchment and radiated it onto the vellum. What was the result?”

  Saiman opened the box and held up a small square of vellum. Blank. All except a corner, where eight tiny lines crossed each other: four vertical and four horizontal, forming a square sectioned off into nine smaller squares, like a tic-tac-toe field. Numbers filled the squares: 4, 9, 2, 3, 5, 7, 8, 1, 6.

  I’d seen this before. The sum of each row, column, or diagonal would be equal. “Zahlenquadrat. Magic square.”

  Saiman cleared his throat. He must’ve expected me to be baffled and I stole his thunder.

  “Yes. The magic square is quite old. It was used by Greeks, Romans, Chinese, Hindus—”

  The wheels in my head started turning. This was the area of magic I knew very well, because it related to my biological father. “It’s a nine square, three by three. Five in the middle, the sum is fifteen. The Jews employed Hebrew letters as numerals. The center number, five, corresponds to the Hebrew letter heh, which is a symbol for Tetragrammaton, YHWH, the holiest of the names of God. The sum, fifteen, is the Hebrew yah, which in itself is a name of God. This is a Jewish magic square.”

  Saiman’s handsome face jerked. “I had no idea you’ve studied Jewish mysticism. How interesting . . .” He let his voice trail into silence.