Magic Rises kd-6 Page 37

  The Rush turned, picked up speed, and slid out of the harbor. The mountains receded.

  I looked at the gathering of metal drums that sat near the nose of the ship, secured by ropes. At least we had done it. At least we got the panacea. Maddie wouldn’t have to die. Aunt B would never see her grandchildren, but at least, if Raphael and Andrea had any babies, they wouldn’t—

  “Look!” Raphael called, pointing north.

  A fleet of ships anchored behind the curve of the harbor. Six large vessels, the biggest longer than the Rush. They flew the Iron Dog banner.

  “Hold your breath,” Saiman murmured next to me.

  The Rush glided across the sea.

  A minute passed. Another. The air grew thick with tension.

  We turned again and sped across the blue waves. Hugh’s fleet disappeared from view. They’d let us go. They must not have known what happened.

  Doolittle rolled into view. He sat in an old wheelchair. Did Saiman actually get it for him? How unlike him.

  Doolittle cleared his throat. “Someone tampered with the drums.”

  Curran set up. “What?”

  “Someone tampered with the panacea drums,” Doolittle said. “The seals are broken.”

  Barabas jerked the lid off the nearest drum, thrust his hand in, and recoiled. “Powdered silver.”

  “And arsenic,” Doolittle said.

  “All of it?” Curran asked.

  Doolittle’s eyes were ashen. “Every barrel.”

  God damn it, Hugh.

  “How?” Andrea asked. “How did they get on board? I thought you had checked the barrels after they were loaded.”

  “I did,” Doolittle said. “And I had personally sealed each one. Saiman had posted guards.”

  Saiman. Of course.

  Curran surged to his feet, grabbed Saiman by the throat, and jerked him up. Saiman’s feet left the deck.

  “You!” Curran snarled. “You let d’Ambray poison it.”

  Saiman made no move to resist.

  Curran hurled him across the deck. Saiman hit the cabin with his back and stood up. “Rage all you want,” he said. “I didn’t have a choice. The contract we signed obligates me to do everything in my power to maintain your safety. It was made abundantly clear to me that sacrificing the panacea was the only way to ensure your survival. Those ships would’ve never let us go. I did what I had to do so we could all go home.”

  Curran swayed on his feet, his eyes pure gold.

  “Let it go,” I said. “Let it go, honey. It’s over.”

  Curran closed his eyes and lay back down. He didn’t bother with threats and promises. They would do no good now.

  “So it’s all for nothing?” Andrea said, her voice too high. “Aunt B died for nothing?”

  Raphael smashed his fist into the drum, denting it. Eduardo swore. Keira screamed, a sound of pure frustration.

  I couldn’t take it. I covered my face.

  All for nothing. Aunt B would never see her grandchildren for nothing. Doolittle’s paralysis, George’s arm, Curran’s legs, all for nothing.

  Tears wet my fingers. I realized I finally was crying.

  “Mistress?” Cold fingers touched my hands, gently. “Mistress?”

  I forced my hands from my face. I couldn’t even talk.

  Christopher was looking at me, his face concerned. “Please don’t cry. Please.”

  I couldn’t help it. The tears just kept rolling.

  “Please don’t cry. Here.” He pulled the chalk from my spare belt hugging his waist and began drawing a complicated glyph on the deck. “I will make more. I will make more panacea right now.” He started pulling herbs out of the pouches. “I will make as much as you want. Just please don’t cry.”

  Two hours later we had our first batch of panacea. Doolittle tested it and said it was the strongest he had ever seen.

  EPILOGUE

  The October night was warm, but the balcony from our living room at the top floor of the Keep was high enough for a nice cool breeze. I hid on the balcony. It’d been a long day. The new greenhouse was finally finished, and I’d spent the day digging in the dirt and planting the herbs required for panacea. It was cheaper than trying to buy them in large quantities. Learning to make it had proved to be a lot harder than expected. I had finally managed some passable results, but the two medmages Christopher was training had a hard time. We would get it. It just took time and practice.

  We still didn’t know exactly what Christopher had done for Hugh or how he’d ended up there. He maintained that he took care of Hugh’s books, but I’d seen him in a lab, and the way he handled herbs and equipment telegraphed years of practice. If he wasn’t in the lab, he was somewhere outside, usually high up. We finally persuaded him that he couldn’t fly, but he loved sitting on the walls in some sunny, hidden spot, reading a book.

  Below me in the Keep’s courtyard, music played and the teenage members of the Pack were doing their best to follow the beat. Somewhere in the crowd Maddie and Julie danced. Or rather Maddie danced and Julie played along, waiting to catch her friend if she fell down. The forced coma had wreaked havoc on Maddie’s musculature. It took two weeks after we administered the panacea before she could move. She still used a wheelchair on occasion. The other day I caught her and Doolittle holding brooms and ramming each other with their wheelchairs in the hallways. Apparently they were having a joust.

  Doolittle was probably down there too, listening to the music and complaining about the noise. Being in a chair didn’t seem to slow him down. George had fared worse. Her arm reattachment didn’t take. For whatever reason, her body rejected the limb, even after Doolittle reattached it for the second time aboard the Rush. The arm was gone now. George had to learn how to use her left hand for everything, and it drove her up the wall. Desandra was helping her. She had adapted well. Eventually the fact that one of her children was a lamassu would have to be dealt with, but for now everyone was ignoring it. There was some friction in the Wolf Clan as to where she would fit into the Clan hierarchy, and when Jennifer attempted to chastise Desandra in her very formal way, Desandra told her to cool her tits. Every time I thought about it, I laughed.

  We buried Aunt B on a sunny hill behind the Bouda House. There was no body in the grave, just the things she had taken with her on the trip. I came to visit her every other week. The left tower of the Keep was named after her. That was where the kids stayed when they had to be treated with panacea. I never thought I would miss her, but I did.

  Curran stepped out on the balcony and sat next to me. I leaned against him, and he put his arm around me.

  “Are you okay?” he asked me.

  “Yes. Sometimes it doesn’t seem real that we made it.” I leaned closer against him.

  “Kate?” he asked.

  “Mm-hm.”

  “I am an ass. And an arrogant egomaniac. And a selfish bastard.”

  “The first two, yes. But you’re not selfish.” I stroked his arm, feeling the muscle underneath the skin. “You are the way you are, Curran. You have your valid reasons. I am the way I am and I have my reasons, too.”

  He kissed my hand. “I love you,” he said. “I’m glad you’re with me.”

  “I love you, too.” I looked into his face. “What’s wrong?”

  He took out a small wooden box and handed it to me. What the hell could be so important about a wooden box for that kind of speech?

  “What’s in here?”

  “Just open it,” he growled.

  “I’m not going to open it after you said all that. It might blow up.”

  “Kate. Open the box,” he said quietly.

  I opened it. A ring looked back at me from black velvet, a pale band with a large brilliant stone with a pale yellow tint. I knew that tint. He’d given me a ring set with a piece of the Wolf Diamond.

  “Are you going to say psych?”

  “No,” Curran said.

  Oh boy.

  AUTHORS’ NOTE

  Readers o
ften ask why we cut what seem to be perfectly good scenes. The bigger the book, the better, right? It doesn’t always turn out that way. A novel is more than just a collection of scenes. It’s a story, a cohesive whole, and when we edit, we try to make sure that every scene included fits into the narrative and serves some sort of purpose. We really wanted to show Saiman’s rescue, but there just wasn’t a way to include it in the novel. No matter where we put it, it stuck out. So instead we’re offering it to you here as a bonus. Because these are deleted scenes, you will see some identical phrasing and things that tie back to the original manuscript. We hope you’ll like it.

  AN ILL-ADVISED RESCUE

  ILONA ANDREWS

  Knock-knock.

  My eyes snapped open. Darkness filled the bedroom. I reached over and touched the covers next to me. Empty. Curran must’ve gotten out of bed. Usually I woke up when anything in the vicinity moved, but Curran could be very quiet when he wanted to be, and he had taken it as a personal challenge to sneak in and out of our bed without disturbing me.

  Knock-knock.

  I dragged myself out of bed, slipped on a pair of sweatpants, and swung the door open. A tall, lean man stood on the other side. Barabas, a weremongoose and lawyer extraordinaire. Since I’d joined the Beast Lord and his fifteen hundred shapeshifter nutcases in the Keep, Barabas had helped me navigate the rough waters of Pack politics. Pack papers said he was my advisor. He ignored them and called himself my nanny.

  Barabas never did anything halfway, including his hair. Bright red in sharp contrast to his pale skin, it usually stood straight up on his head like a jagged flame. Today he must’ve done something special to it, because his hair didn’t just look spiky. It was shiny, almost fluorescent, and stiff. He looked electrocuted.

  I searched his eyes. No alarm. Whatever it was, it wasn’t urgent. I made some sniffing sounds.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Checking the air for smoke.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you know I dragged myself to bed less than two hours ago. You wouldn’t wake me up unless it was an emergency. I’m guessing you must’ve set the guard room on fire with your hair and now you want me to evacuate.” Kate one.

  “Ha-ha. You have a phone call, Alpha.”

  I hated to be called Alpha. Kate one, Barabas one. A draw. “Who is it?”

  Barabas looked disgusted, as if someone had just offered him some moldy bread. “The Clerk from the Guild. He says it’s about the pervert.”

  “Saiman?”

  “Yes. The Clerk says it’s an emergency.”

  Okay. “Lead on.”

  Saiman was an information broker who happened to also be an expert on all things magic. He’d also made a small fortune in shipping and other ventures. He charged exorbitant prices for his services, but because I had amused him, he had offered me a discount in the past. I had consulted him a few times, but he kept trying to entice me into his bed to prove a philosophical point. I’d put up with it until he’d had the stupidity to parade our connection in front of Curran. The Beast Lord and I had been in a rough spot in our relationship, and Curran didn’t take that exhibition well, a fact that he expressed by turning a warehouse full of luxury cars Saiman had slipped past customs into crushed Coke cans. Since then, Saiman lived in mortal fear of Curran. He avoided me and all things shapeshifter like we were a plague.

  Saiman feared physical pain, so he maintained a VIP account at the Mercenary Guild for times when he needed to use brute force. Unfortunately for him, the Pack now owned twenty percent of the Guild and I was in charge of it. I’d flagged his account, making sure I was notified about his activities. Saiman wasn’t exactly vindictive, but he had a long memory, and I wanted to make sure he didn’t spring any surprises on us.

  Anything involving Saiman would make Curran lose his temper. A pissy werelion was rather difficult to live with. He wasn’t in a great mood today anyway. We’d had some trouble with a small pack in Florida. With the Pack’s headquarters located in Atlanta, they must’ve felt far enough away and safe, so they’d made excursions into our territory and raided a Pack business. We could quash them, but it would be bloody.

  “Do you know where Curran is?”

  “He went out to talk to the Lonescos.”

  Figured. The Lonescos ran the rat clan within the Pack. The rival Florida pack consisted mostly of rats, and Curran must’ve still hoped for a peaceful resolution. Peaceful in post-Shift Atlanta was a rare luxury. “Did he seem optimistic?”

  Barabas shook his head. “No.”

  We arrived at the guardroom and Janice offered me the phone. A seasoned guard, Janice was a werejackal, about ten years older than me, with blond hair and a big smile. She looked like a soccer mom on steroids.

  I took the phone and pressed the speaker button. “Yes?”

  “Kate?” the Clerk’s familiar voice asked. The Clerk had a name, but nobody among the mercs used it. He was simply the Clerk and he didn’t seem to mind the name.

  “Yep. What can I do for you?”

  “Saiman’s been kidnapped.”

  “Aha.” Aha was an excellent word. Neither a question nor a statement.

  Janice scribbled on a piece of paper, transcribing the conversation.

  “They’re holding him for ransom. They dropped the note off at his accountant, who called us.”

  “How much do they want?”

  “A big one.”

  “A million?”

  “That’s right.”

  Barabas’s eyes went wide. Janice clamped her hand over her mouth for a second. The Guild charged ten percent of ransom for rescuing kidnapped victims. That was quite a chunk of change.

  “Where do they want the money delivered?” I asked.

  “Mole Hole, in the crater. You know the place.”

  Everybody in Atlanta knew the place, but I knew it really well. That was where my insane aunt nearly killed the lot of us and almost burned the city to the ground. That was where I had killed her and almost lost Curran.

  “Any details?” I asked.

  “I’ve got the note. It says, ‘I’ve been kidnapped. I’m under heavy guard. Please draw one million dollars and deliver it to the Mole Hole before sunrise or my attackers will see red.’”

  “Odd note.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” the Clerk said. “We got one the other night that said if we didn’t come and get this guy, the kidnappers would feed him to a giant tortoise. Do you want me to do anything about this?”

  “I’ll take it,” I said.

  “Just so you know, you’re on record for that.”

  “That’s fine. Thank you for calling.”

  “Anytime.”

  I looked at Janice. “Did you get all that?”

  She passed me the paper. Under guard, seeing red. Interesting choice of words, atypical of Saiman. He spoke like a college intellectual. His philosophy was that if he couldn’t pack at least three syllables into a word, it wasn’t worth his attention.

  Saiman was a self-admitted sexual deviant and egomaniac. The last time he put me into a life-threatening situation, he’d jumped into his car and taken off so fast, the snow from his tires pelted my face. But if I saved him, he would owe me a favor. A very large million-dollar favor.

  “We’re not going to pay that ransom, are we?” Janice asked.

  “Hell no.” I looked at the paper again. “Is Jim still up?”

  “He’s in his spy rooms,” Janice said.

  Most shapeshifters were seminocturnal. Late to bed, late to rise. The Pack’s chief of security and my onetime Guild partner was no exception.

  “Oh good. If Curran comes through here, this whole thing never happened.”

  “Are you asking me to lie to the Beast Lord?” Janice’s eyes narrowed into slits. A subtle grin hid in the corners of her mouth.

  “No, I’m telling you not to volunteer information.” If Curran got involved, it would be all over. “What the Beast Lord doesn’t know can’t hu
rt him. Or me.”

  I went through the security checkpoint and down the wide staircase that ran the height of the Keep’s main tower. Luckily I didn’t have to go too far. Jim’s spy operation occupied rooms two floors below.

  I found Jim in the small kitchenette getting a cup of coffee. Tall, with muscle definition that made you wince, Jim prided himself on the ability to intimidate by simply being there. He was in his early thirties, with skin that matched the coffee in his cup and short hair, cut close to the scalp. Normally he didn’t stand, he loomed like a menacing shadow, but right now he was on his home turf, and the air of threat had dropped off to tolerable levels. He leaned against the wall with one arm, drinking coffee, looking relaxed, and when he saw me, he smiled without showing his teeth. Jim Shrapshire, a sweet and welcoming jaguar. Aha. Not buying it, buster.

  “Is there any coffee left?”

  Jim hefted the metal pot. “There is.”

  I grabbed a mug and watched him pour the nearly black liquid out. Back when we both worked for the Mercenary Guild, Jim preferred to take night jobs. The giant vat of coffee was made once, in the morning. By the end of the night, no sane soul would touch it. Jim drank it like water.

  Jim filled my mug. I sniffed it. So far, so good. I took a brave sip. The bitter scalding liquid slid a third of the way down my throat and got stuck. “Dear God.”

  He grinned.

  “Jim, if I turn the cup upside down, it will roll out slowly like molasses.”

  “That’s how you know it’s good. Drink it, it will put hair on your chest.”

  “My chest is fine as is, thanks. You’re in a good mood.”

  “I’m always in a good mood, Kate. What brings you to my lair?”

  “Saiman called.”

  Jim skewed his face. He hated Saiman the way cats hated water. “What does he want?”

  “He’s been kidnapped and he wants someone to bring his kidnappers a million dollars.”

  Jim blinked. For a second his face froze, slapped by surprise, and then the Pack chief of security leaned back and laughed.

  I sipped the horrible coffee. I’d known him for years and I could count on one hand the number of times I’d heard him laugh.