Magic Burns kd-2 Page 3

  Oh, hell. He didn’t come himself, though, did he?

  I glanced at her. She looked off-balance, almost as if someone had knocked her legs out from under her, but she hadn’t hit the ground yet. I had seen precisely the same look on her face before, three months ago. It had happened right after the Red Point Stalker called the Pack Keep. Curran and I had finally figured out who he was, and he wasn’t happy about the situation. The Stalker had held a phone to a woman’s mouth so Curran wouldn’t miss a single whimper and tore her to pieces until she died. The woman had been one of Curran’s former lovers. I had sat in on the call and as I was walking back to my room, trying not to cry, I saw Myong through an open doorway, hugging herself, that very look of utter helplessness contorting her face.

  With this recollection, a feeling flooded me, a feeling of being too dumb to see what was under my nose, of being scared, hounded, and alone, dashing about the besieged city, blundering from one mistake to another while all around me people died. It grabbed me by the throat. My pulse raced and I swallowed, reminding myself that it was over. Back then, when I was drowning, Crest offered me a straw, and I almost dragged him under with me. He deserved to be happy. Without me.

  “I’ll ask,” I said.

  She exhaled. “Thank you.”

  “I don’t know if I can convince Curran. Your lord and I have a tendency to infuriate each other.” And every time we met, something of mine got broken. My ribs, my roof, my hammer…

  She didn’t hear the last part. “I know we can. Thank you so much. We’re so grateful.”

  “Incoming,” Maxine’s voice warned in my mind.

  A familiar lanky figure appeared in the doorway of my office. About five ten, he wore pale jeans and a light T-shirt. His brownish hair was cropped very short. He had a fresh, clean-cut face and velvet brown eyes framed in embarrassingly long eyelashes. If it wasn’t for the promise of a masculine square jaw, he would be bordering on “pretty.” On the plus side, if he ever had to fight through a room full of adolescent girls, he only needed to blink a couple of times, and they would all faint.

  But his prettiness and smoky eyes were misleading. Derek was a killer. He’d seen more suffering in his eighteen years than some people packed into half a century and it had sharpened him to a razor’s edge. I hadn’t seen him since Red Point, when my big mouth managed to get him sworn to protect me with a blood oath. Curran had since released him from his oath, but a pledge sealed in blood didn’t just go away. Its aftereffects lingered. That had been the first and last time I would ever screw with the Pack’s hierarchy.

  “Kate, hello.” Derek said mildly. “Myong? What are you doing here?”

  Myong jumped off her chair and cringed. Her shoulders hunched, as though she were expecting a punch, her head drooped, and her knees bent. She looked down on the floor. Had she been in her animal form, I’m pretty sure she would have peed herself.

  Alrighty then, I guess we knew who stood higher in the Pack’s chain of command.

  “You don’t have to answer him,” I said. “Information disclosed to a representative of the Order is confidential unless subpoenaed by a court of law.”

  She just stood there, watching the floor. It was too much for me.

  “You may go,” I said.

  She fled the office. A second later the door leading to the landing clicked closed behind her. I bet she was running down the stairs to the outside. Hopefully, she wouldn’t break her legs in those stilettos. Her bones might take a whole two weeks to heal.

  “May I come in?” Derek asked.

  I pointed to one of the two client chairs. “Why is Myong scared of you?”

  He sat and shrugged. “I can only guess.”

  “Do.”

  “I work for Curran directly now. She’s probably afraid I’ll snitch, because I think I know why she was here.”

  “Will you?”

  He shrugged again. “It’s her own affair. Unless she starts plotting some harm to the Pack, I’m not interested. Coming here wasn’t her idea anyway. She’s very passive.”

  “Oh?”

  He nodded. “That asshole made her do it. I always said he was a slimebag.”

  “Your opinion is duly noted.” Thank you, boy wonder, for the editorial on my “almost could have been” boyfriend. What would I do without the moral compass of a teenage werewolf?

  “Why didn’t he come himself? Shouldn’t he be here saying, ‘Hey, I know it didn’t work out between us, but I need your help?’ His ego’s so big, he sent his fiancée to beg his former girlfriend to arrange his wedding. How weak is that?”

  Pretty weak. “Not another word.”

  Derek sat up a little straighter. Yellow rolled across his eyes and vanished. That wasn’t normal.

  I pulled Slayer from its sheath and ran my finger along its length. The opaque, almost white metal of the saber nipped at me with faint magic teeth. Definitely a flare. Shapeshifters had trouble controlling their emotions during the flare. Great, just great. Perhaps Curran could be emotionally detached about this wedding problem? Ha! Who was I kidding?

  “You look good,” I told Derek.

  “Thanks.”

  “You never come to visit me, though. Are you in trouble?”

  “No. Is the room secure?”

  “You’re in a Chapter house of the Order. You can’t get more secure.”

  He reached behind him and pushed the door closed. “I’ve come to extend a petition from the Pack.”

  I don’t want to work with Curran, I don’t want to work with Curran, I don’t want to work with Curran. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that right. I thought you said the Pack wanted my help?”

  “Yes.” Little tiny sparks danced in his eyes. “We were screwed and he didn’t even kiss us first.”

  “How tacky of him. And this ‘he’ would be?”

  “We aren’t sure,” Derek said carefully. “But you have his bolt on your desk.”

  I leaned forward. “Do tell.”

  “Let’s just say that this morning one of our teams was jumped by a man using this specific type of bolt. He has stolen Pack property and we want it back.”

  “Aha. Why me?” The last time I checked, the Pack preferred to take care of their own problems. Hell, they didn’t even admit to having problems most of the time.

  “Because you have contacts we don’t.” Derek permitted himself a small smile. “And because if we start turning the city inside out looking for this person, certain parties will wonder why and the rather embarrassing facts of the theft might come to light. We don’t want to air our dirty laundry in public. The Order always helped us without undue publicity.”

  Great. The battle was lost. Greg was the only person within the Order who had earned the Pack’s trust. Now since he was dead and I had earned Friend of the Pack status, that trust naturally extended to me. The Order wanted to keep an eye on the Pack, I knew that much. Something told me the knights would view this petition as a wonderful opportunity to do just that.

  “What did the crossbowman take?”

  Derek hesitated.

  “Derek, I’m not going to hunt I don’t know whom to retrieve I don’t know what. What did he take?”

  “He jumped a survey team and took the maps.”

  I almost whistled, except that my Russian father would have risen from his grave and smacked me for whistling indoors. The Pack maps, legendary in quality, precise, up-to-date, with all the new neighborhoods and power zones clearly marked, every alley explored, every place of interest indicated. I knew at least a half a dozen people who’d give their left nut for a chance to photocopy the bloody things.

  “He must have balls,” I said.

  “He did look male.”

  “Description?”

  “Very fast.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you got?”

  “Very good shot.”

  I sighed. “Who did he shoot?”

  “Jim.”

  Oh shit. “Is he okay?”

&
nbsp; “He was shot four times in less than two seconds. He isn’t very happy about it. A bit tender in places. But generally he’ll be okay.”

  My brain put the pieces together. “After our mark went down, Jim got a call from the survey team. The crossbowman tailed Jim, jumped him, incapacitated the survey team, and stole the maps.”

  Derek’s face radiated all the joy of a man biting into a lime.

  One hell of a trick, tailing my former partner. “Just out of curiosity, how many people are in a survey team?”

  “Four.”

  Five with Jim. “And you let him get away?”

  “He just disappeared.”

  “I guess the shapeshifters’ sense of smell isn’t what it used to be.”

  “No, Kate, you don’t understand. He vanished. He was there one moment and then he was gone.”

  I couldn’t resist. “Like a ninja. In a puff of smoke.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you want me to track down a supernaturally fast sniper who can disappear into thin air, retrieve your maps, and do it so nobody finds out what I’m doing or why?”

  “Exactly.”

  I sighed. “I’ll get the paperwork.”

  Chapter 3

  When you don’t know what to do next, go back to the beginning. I had no name, no description, and no place to start looking for the mysterious sniper, so I figured the garage where Jeremy almost toasted us was my best bet. Since the magic was determined to fluctuate and I didn’t fancy being stranded, I decided to take a horse from the Order’s stables, located a block away.

  Turned out I wasn’t the only person who had noticed the magic craziness. The stables were nearly empty, and all my regular choices were out. I entered on foot and left atop a red molly. Her name was Ninny, she was fifteen hands tall, and as she braved the downtown traffic with nary a twitch, I began to see the wisdom of mule breeding.

  The shortest route to the garage lay along Interstate 85 through the heart of the city. In happier times, the view from the highway must have been breathtaking. Now both Downtown and Midtown lay in ruins, battered to near rubble by the magic waves. Twisted steel skeletons of once mighty skyscrapers jutted like bleached fossil bones from the debris. Here and there a lone half-eaten survivor struggled to remain upright, all but its last few stories destroyed. Shattered glass from hundreds of windows glittered among chunks of concrete.

  Unable or unwilling to clear the rubble, the city grew around it. Small stalls and stands had sprung up here and there along the twelve-lane highway, selling everything from fake monster eggs to state-of-the-art miniature palmtops and precision firearms. The palmtops rarely worked even when tech was in full swing, and the monsters sometimes hatched.

  Horses, mules, camels, and bizarre vehicles all attempted to negotiate the crowded road, blending into a huge multicolored crocodile of travelers, and I rode within it, bathed in the animal smells, choking on automobile exhaust, and assaulted by gaggles of vendors each trying to scream themselves hoarse.

  “Potions, potions, cure for arthritis…”

  “…the best! First two are free…”

  “…water purifier. Save hundreds of dollars a year…”

  “…beef jerky!”

  Beef. I bet.

  Twenty minutes later we left the highway’s noise behind by way of a wooden ramp and trudged down into a tangle of streets collectively known as the Warren.

  Bordered by Lakewood Park on one side and South view Cemetery on the other, the Warren stretched all the way to McDonough Boulevard. A few decades ago, the area had been included in the South Urban Renewal project, its layout redesigned to accommodate several large, sturdy apartment complexes and new two-and three-story office buildings.

  In the years since the Shift, when the first magic wave hit the world, the Warren had grown poorer, tougher, and more segregated. For reasons unknown, magic displayed a selective appetite. It chewed some buildings into rubble, while leaving others completely intact. Walking through the area now was like trying to make your way through a war zone postbombing, with some houses reduced to refuse, while their neighbors stood untouched.

  The garage where Jeremy had lost his life sat sandwiched between a bank and an abandoned Catholic church. Three stories high and three stories deep, stained with soot and missing its roof, the garage jutted like a burned-out match of a building. I dismounted and tied Ninny to a metal beam protruding from the wall. Nobody in their right mind would try to steal a molly with the Order’s crest branded on its butt. The Order had a nasty habit of magic-tagging their property and there was nothing the street life disliked more than finding a couple of knights full of righteous anger on their doorstep.

  Inside the garage, the air smelled of chalky powder, the familiar dry scent of concrete turned into dust by the magic’s ever-grinding wheels. I took the stairs down to the bottom floor. The spiraling levels of the garage had crumbled in places, letting enough light filter down to dilute the darkness to a weak gloom. The stench of sulfur nipped at my nostrils.

  I found the big black stain on the wall and backtracked from there, until I came to Jeremy’s headless body. The Gray Squad must have been overloaded with cadavers this morning—they should have taken his body to the morgue by now.

  I walked the perimeter of the room until I found the fissure in the wall we had seen last night. I stuck my head into it: dark and narrow, smelling of damp clay. Most likely this was the way the bowman had escaped.

  I pulled my saber out and ducked into the tunnel.

  * * * *

  Being underground was never on my “things to do for fun” list. Being underground in the dark for what seemed like an hour, with dirt crumbling onto my head, walls rubbing my shoulders, and a sniper possibly waiting on the other side ranked right up there with getting a face full of giant toad vomit. I had only gone up against a giant toad once, and the nightmares still made me gag.

  The tunnel turned. I squeezed around the bend and saw light. Finally. I stood still, listening. No metallic click of a safety being released. No voices.

  I approached the light and froze. A huge chasm carved the ground before me. At least a mile wide and close to a quarter mile deep, it started a couple of yards from my feet and stretched forth for a good two miles, veering left, its end lost behind the bend. Piles of metal refuse lay in heaps along its bottom, giving slope to sheer walls. Here and there clusters of thick metal spikes punctured the trash. Razor sharp and shiny, they curved upright like the claws of some enormous buried bear, rising to three times my height. Above this baby Grand Canyon, two tall storklike birds surfed the air currents, circling the gorge as if they rode an invisible aerial calliope.

  Where the hell was I?

  Below, at the very bottom of the chasm, a large metal structure slumped among the iron debris. From this angle, it looked like some giant with a sweet tooth had gotten ahold of a metal hangar and squeezed its sides to see if there was cream filling inside. If I needed a place to hide, I’d be in that hangar.

  One of the birds swooped in my direction. A bright spark broke from its orange wings and plummeted down, slicing into the ground a few feet below with a heavy metallic clang. I negotiated the knot of crooked rusty pipes and climbed over to where it had fallen. A feather. A perfectly shaped bird feather, red at the root and tinted with emerald green at the edge. I flicked my fingers at the shaft. It chimed. Holy crap. Solid metal, shaped like a knife and sharp like a scalpel. A feather of a Stymphalean bird.

  I pulled my knife out of its sheath on my belt and pried the feather out, managing not to cut myself. A bird straight out of Greek mythos. At least it wasn’t a harpy. I stuck the knife into a spare loop on my belt, slid the feather into the sheath, and started down the slope. Mythological creatures tended to occur in bunches: if there was a Russian leshii in the forest, in the nearest pond you’d likely find a Russian vodyanoi. If there was a Greek bird in the air, some Greek critter would surely jump me in a moment. If my luck held, it wouldn’t be a handsome Gre
ek demigod looking for the love of his life or at least his love of a couple of hours. No, it would be something nasty, like Cerberus or a Gorgona Medusa. I gave the hangar a suspicious glance. For all I knew it was crammed full of people growing snakes instead of hair.

  Midway down the slope, the Universe treated me to another magic wave. The wind brought a whiff of an acrid, bitter stench. In the distance something thumped like a sledgehammer hitting a drum with mind-numbing regularity: whoom, whoom, whoom.

  Five minutes later, sweaty and covered in rust stains, I reached the hangar. Soft voices filtered through the metal walls. I couldn’t make out the words, but someone was inside.

  I put my ear against the wall.

  “What ’bout my mom?” A thin, high-pitched voice. A young girl, probably an adolescent.

  “I gotta split.” Slightly deeper, male. Heard it somewhere before.

  “You promised!”

  “The magic’s cresting, okay? Gotta split.”

  Young voices. A boy and a girl, talking street.

  The only available door hung crooked and would make noise when I tried to open it.

  I kicked the door in and walked inside.

  The hangar was empty, save for a huge heap of broken wooden crates. Sunlight punched into the building through the holes in the roof. The hangar had no floor, its dented metal frame resting on packed dirt. In the very center of the dirt sat a perfect ring of barely visible white stones. The stones shimmered weakly, wanting very much to be invisible, trying to slide out of sight into nothing.

  An environmental ward. A good one, too.

  “Anybody home?”

  A kid stepped out from behind the crates, dangling a dead rat by its tail. He was short, starved, and filthy. Ragged clothes, patched, torn, and patched again, hung off his skinny adolescent frame. His brown hair stuck out in all directions like the needles on a hysterical hedgehog. He raised his right hand, fingering a knotted hemp cord, from which dangled a dozen bones, feathers and beads. His shoulders were bony, his arms thin, yet he stared at me with unmistakable defiance. It took me less than a second to recall that stare.