Small Magics Read online

  “Thank you.” He rose, rubbing his chest, marked by red pressure lines. “May I ask why?”

  “Nobody should die chained to the bed.”

  Saiman stretched. His body swelled, twisted, growing larger, gaining breadth and muscle. I made a valiant effort to not vomit.

  Saiman’s body snapped. A large, perfectly sculpted male looked at me. Soft brown hair framed a masculine face. He would make any bodybuilder gym proud. Except for the bloated gut.

  “Is he preferable to the previous attempt?” Saiman asked.

  “There is more of you to guard now. Other than that, it makes no difference to me.”

  I headed into the living room. He followed me, swiping a luxurious robe off a chair.

  We stepped into the living room. Saiman stopped.

  The corpses of endars had melted into puddles of green. Thin stalks of emerald green moss sprouted from the puddles, next to curly green shoots of ferns and tiny young herbs.

  “The endars nourish the forest,” I told him.

  He indicated the completely green carpet with his hand. “How many were there?”

  “A few. I lost count.”

  Saiman’s sharp eyes regarded my face. “You’re lying. You know the exact number.”

  “Thirty-seven.”

  I zeroed in on the fridge. No telling when the next attack would come, and I was starving. You can do without sleep or without food, but not without both and sleep wasn’t an option.

  Saiman trailed me, taking the seat on the outer side of the counter. “Do you prefer women?”

  “No.”

  He frowned, belting the robe. “It’s the stomach, isn’t it?”

  I raided the fridge. He had enough deli meat to feed an army. I spread it out on the bar’s counter. “What do you do for a living, Saimain?”

  “I collect information and use it to further my interests.”

  “It seems to pay well.” I nodded to indicate the apartment.

  “It does. I also possess an exhaustive knowledge of various magic phenomena. I consult various parties. My fee varies between thirty-six hundred and thirty-nine hundred dollars, depending on the job and the client.”

  “Thirty-six hundred dollars per job?” I bit into my sandwich. Mmm, salami.

  “Per hour.”

  I choked on my food. He looked at me with obvious amusement.

  “The term ‘highway robbery’ comes to mind,” I managed finally.

  “Oh, but I’m exceptionally good at what I do. Besides, the victims of highway robbery have no choice in the matter. I assure you, I don’t coerce my clients, Kate.”

  “I’m sure. How did we even get to this point? The stratospheric fee ruined my train of thought.”

  “You stated that you prefer men to women.”

  I nodded. “Suppose you get a particularly sensitive piece of information. Let’s say a business tip. If you act on the tip, you could make some money. If you sell it, you could make more money. If both you and your buyer act on the tip, you both would make money, but the return for each of you would be significantly diminished. Your move?”

  “Either sell the information or act on it. Not both.”

  “Why?”

  Saiman shrugged. “The value of the information increases with its exclusivity. A client buying such knowledge has an expectation of such exclusivity. It would be unethical to undermine it.”

  “It would be unethical for me to respond to your sexual overtures. For the duration of the job, you’re a collection of arms and legs which I have to keep safe. I’m most effective if I’m not emotionally involved with you on any level. To be blunt, I’m doing my best to regard you as a precious piece of porcelain I have to keep out of harm’s way.”

  “But you do find this shape sexually attractive?”

  “I’m not going to answer this question. If you pester me, I will chain you back to the bed.”

  Saiman raised his arm, flexing a spectacular biceps. “This shape has a lot of muscle mass.”

  I nodded. “In a bench-pressing contest you would probably win. But we’re not bench pressing. You might be stronger, but I’m well trained. If you do want to try me, you’re welcome to it. Just as long as we agree that once your battered body is chained safely in your bed, I get to say, ‘I told you so.’ ”

  Saiman arched his eyebrows. “Try it?”

  “And stop that.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Stop mimicking my gestures.”

  He laughed. “You’re a most peculiar person, Kate. I find myself oddly fascinated. You have obvious skill.” He indicated the budding forest in his living room. “And knowledge to back it up. Why aren’t you among the Guild’s top performers?”

  Because being in top anything means greater risk of discovery. I was hiding in plain sight and doing a fairly good job of it. But he didn’t need to know that. “I don’t spend much time in Atlanta. My territory is in the Lowcountry. Nothing much happens there, except for an occasional sea serpent eating shrimp out of the fishing nets.”

  Saiman’s sharp eyes narrowed. “So why not move up to the city? Better jobs, better money, more recognition?”

  “I like my house where it is.”

  Something bumped behind the front door. I swiped Slayer off the counter. “Bedroom. Now.”

  “Can I watch?”

  I pointed with the sword to the bedroom.

  Saiman gave an exaggerated sigh. “Very well.”

  He went to the bedroom. I padded to the door and leaned against it, listening.

  Quiet.

  I waited, sword raised. Something waited out there in the hallway. I couldn’t hear it, but I sensed it. It was there.

  A quiet whimper filtered through the steel of the door. A sad, lost, feminine whimper, like an old woman crying quietly in mourning.

  I held very still. The apartment felt stifling and crowded in. I would’ve given anything for a gulp of fresh air right about now.

  Something scratched at the door. A low mutter floated through, whispered words unintelligible.

  God, what was it with the air in this place? The place was stale and musty, like a tomb.

  A feeling of dread flooded me. Something bad was in the apartment. It hid in the shadows under the furniture, in the cabinets, in the fridge. Fear squirmed through me. I pressed my back against the door, holding Slayer in front of me.

  The creature behind the door scratched again, claws against the steel.

  The walls closed in. I had to get away from this air. Somewhere out in the open. Someplace where the wind blew under an open sky. Somewhere with nothing to crowd me in.

  I had to get out.

  If I left, I risked Saiman’s life. Outside, the volkhvi were waiting. I’d be walking right into their arms.

  The shadows under the furniture grew longer, stretching toward me.

  Get out. Get out now!

  I bit my lip. A quick drop of blood burned on my tongue, the magic in it nipping at me. Clarity returned for a second, and light dawned in my head. Badzula. Of course. The endars failed to rip us apart, so the volkhvi went for plan B. If Muhammad won’t go to the mountain, the mountain must come to Muhammad.

  Saiman walked out of the bedroom. His eyes were glazed over.

  “Saiman!”

  “I must go,” he said. “Must get out.”

  “No, you really must not.” I sprinted to him.

  “I must.”

  He headed to the giant window.

  I kicked the back of his right knee. He folded. I caught him on the way down and spun him so he landed on his stomach. He sprawled among the ankle-tall ferns. I locked his left wrist and leaned on him, grinding all of my weight into his left shoulder.

  “Badzula,” I told him. “Belorussian creature. Looks like a middle-aged woman with droopy breasts, swaddled in a filthy blanket.”

  “I must get out.” He tried to roll over, but I had him pinned.

  “Focus, Saiman. Badzula—what’s her power?”


  “She incites people to vagrancy.”

  “That’s right. And we can’t be vagrants, because if we walk out of this building, both of us will be killed. We have to stay put.”

  “I don’t think I can do it.”

  “Yes, you can. I’m not planning on getting up.”

  “I believe you’re right.” A small measure of rational thought crept into his voice. “I suppose the furniture isn’t really trying to devour us.”

  “If it is, I’ll chop it with my sword when it gets close.”

  “You can let me up now,” he said.

  “I don’t think so.”

  We sat still. The air grew viscous like glue. I had to bite it to get any into my lungs.

  Muscles crawled under me. Saiman couldn’t get out of my hold, so he decided to shift himself out.

  “Do you stock herbs?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Do you have water lily?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Laboratory, third cabinet.”

  “Good.” I rolled off of him. I’d have only a second to do this, and I had to do it precisely.

  Saiman got up to his knees. As he rose, I threw a fast right hook. He never saw it coming and didn’t brace himself. My fist landed on his jaw. His head snapped back. His eyes rolled over and he sagged down.

  Lucky. I ran to the lab.

  It took a hell of a lot of practice to knock someone out. You needed both speed and power to jolt the head enough to rattle the brain inside the skull but not cause permanent damage. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t even try it, but these weren’t normal circumstances. Walls were curving in to eat me.

  If I did cause too much damage, he would fix it. Considering what he had done to his body so far, his regeneration would make normal shapeshifters jealous.

  Third cabinet. I threw it open and scanned the glass jars. Dread mugged me like a sodden blanket. Ligularia dentata, Ligularia przewalski . . . Latin names, why me? Lilium pardalinum, Lobelia siphilitica. Come on, come on . . . Nymphaea odorata, pond lily. Also known to Russians as odolen-trava, the mermaid flower, an all-purpose pesticide against all things unclean. That would do.

  I dashed to the door, twisting the lid off the jar. A gray powder filled it—ground lily petals, the most potent part of the flower. I slid open the lock. The ward drained down, and I jerked the door ajar.

  Empty hallway greeted me. I hurled the jar and the powder into the hall. A woman wailed, smoke rose from thin air, and Badzula materialized in the middle of the carpet. Skinny, flabby, filthy, with breasts dangling to her waist like two empty bags, she tossed back grimy, tangled hair and hissed at me, baring stumps of rotten teeth.

  “That’s nice. Fuck you, too.”

  I swung. It was textbook saber slash, diagonal, from left to right. I drew the entirety of the blade through the wound. Badzula’s body toppled one way, her head rolled the other.

  The weight dropped off my shoulders. Suddenly I could breathe, and the building no longer seemed in imminent danger of collapsing and burying me alive.

  I grabbed the head, tossed it into the elevator, dragged the body in there, sent the whole thing to the ground floor, sprinted back inside, and locked the door, reactivating the ward. The whole thing took five seconds.

  On the floor, Saiman lay unmoving. I checked his pulse. Breathing. Good. I went back to the island. I deserved some coffee after this, and I bet Saiman stocked the good stuff.

  * * *

  I was sitting by the counter, sipping the best coffee I’d ever tasted, when the big-screen TV on the wall lit up with fuzzy glow. Which was more than a smidgeon odd, considering that the magic was still up and the TV shouldn’t have worked.

  I took my coffee and my saber and went to sit on the couch, facing the TV. Saiman still sprawled unconscious on the floor.

  The glow flared brighter, faded, flared brighter . . . In ancient times people used mirrors, but really any somewhat reflective surface would do. The dark TV screen was glossy enough.

  The glow blazed and materialized into a blurry male. In his early twenties, dark hair, dark eyes.

  The man looked at me. “You’re the bodyguard.” His voice carried a trace of Russian accent.

  I nodded and slipped into Russian. “Yes.”

  “I don’t know you. What you do makes no difference to me. We have this place surrounded. We go in in an hour.” He made a short chopping motion with his hand. “You’re done.”

  “I’m shaking with fear. In fact, I may have to take a minute to get my shivers under control.” I drank my coffee.

  The man shook his head. “You tell that paskuda, if he let Yulya go, I’ll make sure you both walk out alive. You hear that? I don’t know what he’s got over my wife, but you tell him that. If he wants to live, he has to let her go. I’ll be back in thirty minutes. You tell him.”

  The screen faded.

  And the plot thickens. I sighed and nudged Saiman with my boot. It took a couple of nudges, but finally he groaned and sat up.

  “What happened?”

  “You fell.”

  “Really? What did I fall into?”

  “My fist.”

  “That explains the headache.” Saiman looked at me. “This will never happen again. I want to be absolutely clear. Attempt this again and you’re fired.”

  I wondered what would happen if I knocked him out again right there, just for kicks.

  “Is that my arabica coffee?” he asked.

  I nodded. “I will even let you have a cup if you answer my question.”

  Saiman arched an eyebrow. “Let? It’s my coffee.”

  I saluted him with the mug. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

  He stared at me incredulously. “Ask.”

  “Are you holding a woman called Yulya hostage?”

  Saiman blinked.

  “Her husband is very upset and is offering to let us both go if we can produce Yulya for him. Unfortunately, he’s lying and most likely we both would be killed once said Yulya is found. But if you’re holding a woman hostage, you must tell me now.”

  “And if I was?” Saiman rubbed his jaw and sat in the chair opposite me.

  “Then you’d have to release her immediately or I would walk. I don’t protect kidnappers, and I take a very dim view of violence toward civilians, men or women.”

  “You’re a bewildering woman.”

  “Saiman, focus. Yulya?”

  Saiman leaned back. “I can’t produce Yulya. I am Yulya.”

  I suppose I should’ve seen that coming. “The man was under the impression he’s married to her. What happened to the real Yulya?”

  “There was never a real Yulya. I will tell you the whole story, but I must have coffee. And nutrients.”

  I poured him a cup of coffee. Saiman reached into the fridge and came up with a gallon of milk, a solid block of chocolate, and several bananas.

  Chocolate was expensive as hell. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had some. If I survived this job, I’d buy a couple of truffles.

  I watched Saiman load bananas and milk into a manual blender and crank the handle, cutting the whole thing into a coarse mess. Not the chocolate, not the chocolate . . . Yep, threw it in there, too. What a waste.

  He poured the concoction into a two-quart jug and began chugging it. Shapeshifters did burn a ton of calories. I sighed, mourning the loss of the chocolate, and sipped my coffee. “Give.”

  “The man in question is the son of Pavel Semyonov. He’s the premiervolkhv in the Russian community here. The boy’s name is Grigorii, and he’s completely right, I did marry him, as Yulya, of course. The acorn was very well guarded and I needed a way in.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  Saiman smiled. Apparently he thought I’d paid him a compliment. “Are you familiar with the ritual of firing the arrow?”

  “It’s an archaic folkloric ritual. The shooter is blindfolded and spun around, so he blindly fires. The flight of t
he arrow foretells the correct direction of the object the person seeks. If a woman picks up the arrow, she and the shooter are fated to be together.”

  Saiman wiped his mouth. “I picked up the arrow. It took me five months from the arrow to the acorn.”

  “How long did it take you to con that poor guy into marriage?”

  “Three months. The combination of open lust but withholding of actual sex really works wonders.”

  I shook my head. “Grigorii is in love with you. He thinks his wife is in danger. He’s trying to rescue her.”

  Saiman shrugged. “I had to obtain the acorn. I could say that he’s young and resilient, but really his state of mind is the least of my concerns.”

  “You’re a terrible human being.”

  “I beg to differ. All people are driven by their primary selfishness. I’m simply more honest than most. Furthermore, he had the use of a beautiful woman, created to his precise specifications, for two months. I did my research into his sexual practices quite thoroughly, to the point of sleeping with him twice as a prostitute to make sure I knew his preferences.”

  “If we get out of this, I need to remember never to work for you again.”

  Saiman smiled. “But you will. If the price is right.”

  “No.”

  “Anyone will work for anyone and anyone will sleep with anyone, if the price is right and the partnership is attractive enough. Suppose I invited you to spend a week here with me. Luxurious clothes. Beautiful shoes.” He looked at my old boots, which were in danger of falling apart. “Magnificent meals. All the chocolate you could ever want.”

  So he’d caught me.

  “All that for the price of having sex with me. I would even sweeten the deal by assuming a shape preferable to you. Anyone you want. Any shape, any size, any color, any gender. All in total confidentiality. Nobody ever has to know you were here. The offer is on the table.” He placed his hand on the counter, palm down. “Right now. I promise you a week of total bliss—assuming we survive. You’ll never get another chance to be this pampered. All I need from you is one word.”

  “No.”

  He blinked. “Don’t you want to think about it?”

  “No.”

  He clamped his mouth shut. Muscles played along his jaw. “Why?”

  The TV screen ignited. Grigorii appeared in the glow. Saiman strode to the screen with a scowl on his face. “I’ll make it short.” His body boiled, twisted, stretched. I shut my eyes. It was that or lose my precious coffee. When I opened them, a petite red-haired woman stood in Saiman’s place.