Magic Rises kd-6 Page 34

  You could hear a pin drop. The shapeshifters froze, silent and wary.

  Hugh turned the corner. He wore leather armor. Supple, but reinforced with metal plates, it molded to him as if it had been melted, poured over his body, and allowed to harden. Loose but thick leather pants shielded his legs. Wrist guards of hardened leather and metal plates protected his wrists. A strip of leather, likely hiding a thin flexible length of metal, guarded his neck. He had come to fight shapeshifters. Raking him with claws would do no good.

  He marched down the hallway, wearing black and cloaked in magic. He looked unstoppable. He would soon learn that looks could be deceiving.

  “Hail to Hugh d’Ambray,” the Iron Dogs intoned in unison, their voice one loud chorus.

  Hugh strode through the door and walked to our table, straight to Desandra’s chair on my left.

  “You’re in the wrong seat.” He held out his hand.

  Desandra blinked, stood up, and put her hand into his. Hugh led her to his chair on Curran’s right and held it out for her. She sat. He turned and sat in her place, next to me.

  Great.

  “You didn’t bring enough,” Curran said quietly.

  “It will suffice,” Hugh said. His voice boomed. “In honor of the hunt, I bring you entertainment.”

  The Iron Dogs took three steps backward, turning, moving in unison until they formed a line along the wall to our right, behind Jarek’s werewolves. People entered the minstrel’s gallery, carrying small round drums, accordions, and other instruments. A line of men walked into the great hall, dressed in identical jet-black djigit coats. The musicians plucked at their instruments, adjusting and settling down.

  A wild melody started, fast and limber, the rhythm of the drums like a racing heart. The men spun across the floor, dancing like a flock of graceful ravens, pivoting and leaping. The lead dancer dropped down and spun across the stage on his knees. I winced.

  Hugh pretended to be absorbed in the dance. What are you planning, you bastard?

  Something tugged on my jeans. I glanced down carefully. Atsany stood by my chair.

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  The small man patted my leg with his pipe, winked, and pointed to the side. I glanced up. Astamur stood by the door, leaning against the wall. He wore a long wide coat of black fleece that covered him from head to toe. A rifle rested in his hands. He looked straight at me and his eyes were grim. The nearest Iron Dog was feet away and oblivious to the man behind him. Nobody paid him any attention, as if they couldn’t see him.

  I glanced down. Atsany was gone. I leaned to Curran. “Do you see him?”

  “Who?”

  “Astamur. By the door.”

  Curran frowned. I looked back. Astamur was gone.

  Okay, I did just see that. That wasn’t a hallucination.

  The dancers snapped into their final poses. The music died. Hugh clapped. Reluctant applause followed from the side tables.

  “Is there going to be a play next?” Curran asked. “I never took you for the dinner theater type.”

  “I promise it will be a show you never forget,” Hugh said.

  A man and a woman walked in. The man, lean and graceful, wore the black djigit outfit, his profile hawkish, his dark hair slicked back. The woman wore a silver-white gown that covered her head to toe. Fitted in the bust and the waist, the gown flared at the skirt. She looked like a swan. Her black hair fell in four braids, two over her chest, two down her back, all the way past her narrow waist. A small hat perched on her glossy hair, with a white veil trailing from it to hide her back.

  The woman turned, standing side by side with the man. Her face was beautiful. I felt a brush of magic. It felt ancient.

  “Thousands of years ago Suliko’s family entertained the ancient kings of Georgia,” Hugh said. “Today she honors us with her presence. She will dance the kartuli for us. Count yourself fortunate. You will not see another dance like that.”

  A song started with a solo of some sort of reed pipe, so old it rolled through me, familiar and new at the same time, like an echo of some racial memory buried deep inside me, in the places mind and reason couldn’t reach. The man held his hand out. The woman placed her fingers on his. He led her forward. They bowed.

  Magic shifted. The shapeshifters sat, oblivious. This wouldn’t be a normal dance.

  “What are you up to?” I squeezed through my teeth.

  “You’ve been sleepwalking for so long, you forgot who you are,” he said “This is your wakeup call.”

  “What’s going on?” Curran asked.

  “Magic,” I told him.

  “Yours isn’t the only ancient family,” Hugh said.

  Drums joined the reed pipes in a quick rhythm. Suliko and her partner backed up—he moving on his toes in tall leather boots, she gliding as if she had wheels—and split, moving to the far ends of the room. The woman stood, her arms raised, so graceful it was almost painful to watch. The man approached her, drawing a big circle with his feet, one arm bent at the elbow and pressed to the top of his chest, the other extended straight to the side. He stopped, dignified, waiting for the woman to accept the invitation. She did and they glided across the floor, their arms raised, in sync but never touching, a black raven and a white swan.

  Magic wound about them in invisible currents. It tugged on me. It was impossible not to watch them.

  The dancers split again.

  The music quieted, the wild quick notes of the pipes slowing, careful rather than fast. The woman moved with breathtaking grace, gliding backward, turning . . . So beautiful. I couldn’t look away. The magic held me spellbound.

  Desandra began crying quietly. At the side tables, closest to the dancers, the people wept.

  The music was now a mere breath of sound, delicate and intricate, pulling me in. Suliko turned . . .

  Hugh picked up a knife and cut across my hand. Magic tore from my blood straight into the complex twisting currents surrounding the woman, like a lit match thrown into a room filled with gasoline fumes. The magic exploded.

  Curran moved. I grabbed his arm before he could lunge at Hugh in full view of a dozen vampires and the Iron Dogs. “No!”

  The currents spun, sparking with gold and purple, and a transparent scene unfolded, stretching the entire length of the room, hanging feet above the floor. A bloody battle raged on a vast field. Fire and lightning streaked. A machine gun spat glowing green bullets. Fighters tore at each other, shapeshifters disemboweled their opponents, vampires ripped into bodies in tactical armor. Carnage reigned, the roar, bellows, and moans of the dying blending into a terrible din.

  A body fell aside, cleaved in two, and my aunt swung onto the scene. She wore the crimson blood armor and carried two swords. Blood stained her face, her hair flaring, loose. Fighters locked their ranks. She opened her mouth and screamed. The word of power burst from her. The magic cleaved through the fighters, mangling the bodies, straight as an arrow. My aunt tore into the gap, cutting like a dervish in a familiar lightning-fast pattern, severing limbs and spraying blood, unstoppable, without mercy.

  “That’s my girl.” Hugh grinned.

  She carved a shaggy ursine shapeshifter in half, disemboweling him with a precise stroke, and I saw her sword.

  She carried Slayer.

  The hair on the back of my neck rose. It wasn’t my aunt. My aunt was dead.

  I watched myself slaughter, reaping a harvest of lives, spitting magic and bringing death. On the left a clump of bodies exploded, and Hugh roared, covered in blood, a bloody axe in his hand. They connected, the blood armor–wearing Kate and Hugh, back to back. For a brief moment they stood alone in the carnage, and then they broke apart and charged back into battle.

  The vision vanished. Suliko stood, her face shocked.

  “What the hell is this?” Jarek Kral snarled.

  “The future,” Hugh said.

  Hell no. No, this wouldn’t be my future. Not if I had anything to say about it.

  “No
!” Suliko waved her arms. “A future!” Her accented voice vibrated with urgency. “Do not always to be this way. One possibility!”

  She yelled something at Hugh in a language I didn’t understand. The man moved between her and Hugh, shielding her.

  “You lied!” Suliko screamed.

  Her partner ushered her out. The musicians fled.

  “No matter how much you fight, you are what you are,” Hugh said to me. “Your boy knows it too, don’t you, Lennart?”

  “Enough.” Curran growled. “Enough bullshit, d’Ambray. Let’s go. You and me.”

  Lorelei got up and walked over to our table.

  “Big talk,” Hugh said. “Can you back it up?”

  I stood up and held my arms out. “Ladies, you’re both pretty. We still have a job to do. Last I checked, we were still guaranteeing Desandra’s safety.”

  The two men glared at each other. They obviously didn’t give a rat’s ass about Desandra.

  “I challenge you.” Lorelei pointed at me.

  I put my hand over my eyes.

  “Sit the fuck down,” Hugh told her.

  “She’ll kill you,” Curran said. “Go sit down.”

  Lorelei opened her mouth.

  “Sit down!” Curran roared.

  Lorelei’s face turned red. She shrank away. She must’ve rehearsed this, and being ordered back to her seat wasn’t part of the fantasy.

  A second Lorelei walked through the entrance.

  Hugh swore. The first Lorelei gasped.

  The second Lorelei winked at Curran and walked toward us. Her body flowed like molten wax, reshaping itself, and twisted into a new body, male, lean, and bald. Saiman held up a document and placed it in front of Curran.

  “As requested. What did I miss?”

  Curran took the document and scanned it. “George?”

  George stepped toward him and examined the document. “Yes. Signed and notarized. It’s legally binding.”

  “Show it to him.”

  George walked over and placed the paper in front of Jarek Kral. His eyes bulged. “What is this?”

  “This is a contract between you and Lorelei Wilson, in which you promise her you will kill the Consort so Lorelei can take her place,” Curran said. “In exchange she’s supposed to provide you with one of our future children.”

  Everyone spoke at once.

  “You bastard!” Desandra jumped to her feet. A mix of foreign words and English spilled out of her. “You sonovabitch. You would take his child over mine?”

  “He’s a First,” Jarek roared. “It will be a child fit to rule. Not dirt like you.”

  Desandra’s dress tore. Shreds of fabric fluttered to the ground and a huge werewolf in a warrior form dashed over the table toward Jarek. Damn it.

  “No!” Doolittle yelled. “Not the half-form!”

  Desandra leaped forward, landing in a crouch on the table. Jarek stood up, his face disgusted. His body expanded, fur sheathing his limbs. “You wouldn’t dare—”

  She swiped, huge claws like scythes. A chunk of Jarek’s throat went airborne. I caught a glimpse of his spine, bloody and torn. Blood gushed. The enormous werewolf that was Jarek Kral leaped over the table at his daughter.

  George’s voice rang out. “Challenge accepted!”

  Renok and the bald-headed guy jumped to their feet. I leaped onto the table and pulled Slayer out. Oh no, you don’t.

  “Interfere and die,” Curran said.

  Jarek’s people halted.

  The two werewolves rolled across the floor, snarling and biting. Jarek bit Desandra’s left arm. She hammered a vicious punch into his face and rolled on top of him. Jarek tried to rear. Desandra raised her hand and smashed it into his chest. Ribs snapped like toothpicks. Desandra thrust her hand into her father’s chest, tore out his heart, and threw it on the floor.

  Everyone stopped.

  “Rot in hell, you bastard.” Desandra straightened, her monstrous clawed hands bloody. “Anybody else want to take my children? Anybody? Come on!”

  She spun, pointing her hand at the Belve Ravennati, Volkodavi, and Jarek’s people. “I’m waiting!”

  Nobody moved.

  Desandra’s monstrous face jerked. She fell back, changing in midair, and landed on her back. Bulges slid across her stomach. “The babies!”

  “She’s going into labor,” Doolittle said in a clipped voice. “I need access.”

  Renok jerked a sword off the wall and jumped, aiming for Desandra. As I cleared the table, I knew I was too far.

  Andrea’s bolt sprouted from Renok’s neck. He ignored it, swinging at Desandra.

  I sprinted, trying to squeeze speed out of every fraction of a second.

  The sword rose in a gleaming metal arc and came down like an executioner’s axe. George thrust herself between Renok and Desandra. I saw it in slow motion, as if time froze: the glint of the metal blade as it traveled down, the angle of the strike, and the precise moment the razor edge cut into George’s right shoulder. Crimson blood washed the blade. It cleaved through the shoulder joint, passing through muscle and bone with ridiculous ease.

  George’s arm slid off her body and fell down.

  I stabbed Slayer into Renok’s chest and cut a hole in his heart.

  George grabbed Renok’s neck with her left hand, squeezed, and pushed him back. He flew and crashed into the table. George slid on her own blood and fell next to me.

  Mahon roared. His face twisted, his eyes mad, and the massive Kodiak charged the fallen werewolf, almost mowing me down.

  Curran landed next to me, picked up Desandra, and jumped over the table, putting distance between us and the raging Kodiak. Derek swiped George and her arm off the floor and followed him. We ran to the back of the great hall.

  Mahon crushed Renok and ripped into another werewolf. Jarek’s people went furry in a flash of teeth and claws.

  “Damn it all to hell,” Hugh growled. “Do not engage.”

  The Iron Dogs backed away.

  “Form a perimeter!” I barked, and pulled my sword out. Andrea stood next to me on the right, Raphael next to her, Eduardo and Keira on my left. We became a semicircle, shielding Desandra. She screamed.

  Aunt B ripped a banner down and dropped it on the floor. Curran lowered Desandra onto it, turned, and jumped, changing in midleap. A moment and he tore into the werewolves next to Mahon. The remaining two packs moved away, hugging the wall to avoid being caught in the carnage.

  George moaned in Derek’s arms.

  “Hold on,” he told her.

  “I’m okay, I’m okay,” George said.

  “I need clean water,” Doolittle called out. “Beatrice . . .”

  “It’s under control,” Aunt B said. “Not my first time reattaching a limb.”

  “Can I be of assistance?” Saiman asked.

  “Have you ever delivered a child?” Doolittle asked.

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Good. We have to perform a C-section. One of her unborn is trying to kill the other.”

  “Fascinating,” Saiman said.

  A werewolf dashed our way. I sliced his legs, Raphael slit his throat, and Andrea shot him through the heart.

  Isabella marched to us, her sons in tow. “I will see—”

  “Don’t,” I warned.

  She opened her mouth. Eduardo shifted, gaining a foot in height and another across the shoulders, and bellowed at her. Isabella took a step back.

  Desandra howled, a sharp cry of pure pain.

  At the other wall Curran and Mahon raged, tearing werewolves apart. The last of the shaggy bodies stopped moving. Curran and the giant bear were the only two left standing. Mahon swung and hit Curran, huge claws raking a bloody trail along his gray side. Curran roared. Mahon rose on his hind legs. Curran lunged forward, locking his arms on the bear, and took him to the floor.

  “It’s me,” he said.

  Mahon snarled.

  “It’s me,” Curran repeated. “George is safe. It will be fine.”
>
  I held my breath. Sometimes werebears snapped and went berserk. That was how Curran had become the Beast Lord—he had killed a mad werebear. But Mahon was always calm. He was always in control—

  Mahon reared, tossing Curran aside like he weighed nothing. Curran landed on his side and rolled to his feet. The bear bellowed and ran straight into the door, taking it off its hinges. A moment and he vanished down the hallway.

  “Fucking animals,” Hugh said, disgust on his face.

  A deep voice rolled through the castle. “I’ve seen enough.”

  Everything stopped. Astamur stood in the doorway.

  Hugh turned. “Who are you?”

  Astamur opened his mouth. No sound came, but I heard him in my head, clear as if he stood right next to me.

  “I am the shepherd.”

  The rifle in his hands flowed, as if liquid, turning into a tall staff. Astamur looked at Hugh. “For twenty years I watched you. You’re bad for this land. You’re bad for my people. Tell your master he wasn’t welcome in the mountains when he was young. He is not welcome still.”

  “Cute,” Hugh said. “Kill him.”

  The nearest Iron Dog moved toward the shepherd.

  Astamur raised his staff. I felt a spark, a tiny hint of magic, like a glimpse of a titanic storm cloud in a flash of lightning. The butt of the staff hit the floor. A brilliant white light drowned us, as if a star had split open and swallowed us whole.

  * * *

  The floor shook. Thunder crashed, slapping my eardrums with an air fist. Next to me the shapeshifters clutched at their ears, screaming. The floor shuddered under my feet. I blinked, trying to clear my vision. Things swung into focus slowly: an empty space where Astamur used to be and a widening crack crawling upward through the wall. A gap sliced the floor to the right of me, fifteen feet wide and running all the way across the great hall and into the hallway. Bright blue flames shot out of the gap, cutting the great hall in two. We, the Volkodavi, and the vampires were on one side. Curran, Hugh, the Iron Dogs, and the Belve Ravennati were on the other.

  Astamur had split the castle in two. Holy shit.

  I turned to Curran. The flames burned between us.

  Curran took a running start.

  A vampire fell off the ceiling into the fire, bursting into flames. The fire seared undead flesh. He blazed bright like a sparkler and vanished into a cloud of ash.