Magic Strikes kd-3 Page 9

  The daggers fell from his hands. I swiped one and sliced his throat. The razor-sharp blade nearly took his head off. Blood fountained, drenching me. I whirled to check on Cesare, but found only empty space. The Reaper had vanished.

  The snake-tongued corpse lay limp and pale in a puddle of its own blood. I looked at Saiman and raised one red-stained finger. “Definitely not human.”

  Saiman’s face shook with fury. “This is an outrage. I own a seventh of the House.”

  The ward on Saiman’s car had been broken. “You mind popping the locks?”

  He found the remote with a trembling hand and pushed the button. Nothing happened.

  “The magic’s up,” I told him.

  He swore, produced the keys, and unlocked the door. I grasped Slayer’s hilt and instantly felt better.

  Saiman dragged his hand through his hair. “I need you to come back to the Arena with me.”

  “No. I have a prior engagement.”

  “You’re my witness!”

  I tried to speak slowly and clearly. “I have somewhere to be.”

  “We’re in the middle of nowhere. You have no vehicle.”

  “I have two legs.”

  “If you come with me and tell the House what happened, I’ll drive you anywhere you want.”

  I shook my head. It would take too long before he was done.

  “I’ll get you a horse!”

  I stopped in midstep. A horse would cut my traveling time by a third. I turned. “A quick statement, Saiman. Very quick. Then you give me a horse, and I leave.”

  “Done!”

  As we marched back to the Arena, he said, “I thought you said those weren’t blades in your hair.”

  “They aren’t. They’re spikes. Breathe deep, Saiman. Your hands are still shaking.”

  RENE’S EYES WERE CLEAR AND COLD LIKE THE crystalline depths of a mountain lake. Saiman’s indignant outbursts shattered against her glacial composure.

  “How long does it take to retrieve one corpse?”

  “The body will be here in a moment.”

  I perched against a desk. We stood in one of security’s rooms. Precious seconds ticked by. There was nothing I could do about it. Rene was doing her job and I had to let her do it.

  Rene glanced at me. “Did you cut out the heart?”

  I shook my head. “Didn’t see the need. I scrambled the brain and cut his head off. I never had one regenerate a head on me.”

  “True.” Rene nodded in agreement.

  Saiman picked up a coffee mug, stared at it, and hurled it against the wall. It shattered into a dozen pieces. We looked at him.

  “Your date appears to be hysterical,” Rene told me.

  “You think I should slap some man into him?”

  Saiman stared at me, speechless. I had to give it to Rene—she didn’t laugh. But she really wanted to.

  A squad of Red Guards came through, carrying the snake man on a stretcher. Two guards and an older man followed. The man handed Rene a large book bound in leather and spoke softly. She gave him a crisp nod.

  “We take the safety of our guests and especially of our House members very seriously. However.” She raised her hand and counted off on her fingers. “First, this incident took place outside of our jurisdiction. Our responsibility for you ends at the white line. Second, this creature isn’t registered as a part of the Reaper team or their crew. Nobody recognizes him. The fact that a member of the Reaper team watched the incident doesn’t indicate the team’s complicity in the assault. He’s under no obligation to assist you and he may have simply enjoyed the spectacle. Third, the entire Reaper crew and team, with the exception of Mart and two crew members, left the premises as soon as the first bout began, nearly three hours ago . . .”

  A shot of cold pulsed through me. “Is that normal?”

  Rene started at the interruption.

  “Is that normal?” I insisted.

  “No,” she said slowly. “Typically they stay to watch.”

  Derek never did anything without preparation. He would arrive at the rendezvous point hours in advance. The Reapers would have had a three-hour window to interact with him, while I was busy playing scorekeeper for Saiman’s amusement. I spun to him. “I need that horse now.”

  Saiman hesitated.

  “A horse, Saiman! Or I swear I’ll finish what he started.”

  THE RED ROOF INN LOOMED ON THE EDGE OF A ruined plaza, flanked on both sides by heaps of rubble that had been buildings in their previous life. Two stories tall, its top floor sagging to the side under a crooked roof painted a garish crimson, the inn resembled a stooped old man in a red ball cap huddling under a blanket of kudzu.

  I stopped on the edge of the plaza. Under me a pale gelding snorted, breathing hard after the fifteen-minute canter through the dark streets.

  Blood smears stained the crumbling asphalt. In the silver gauze of moonlight, they looked thick, black, and glossy, like molten tar.

  I dismounted and walked into the plaza. The magic had fallen while I rode. Technology once again gained an upper hand and I sensed nothing. No residual magic, no trace of a spell, no enchanted observer. Just dusty asphalt and blood. So much blood. It was everywhere, spread in long, feathered smudges and cast about in a fine spray of splatter.

  I crouched by one of the puddles and dipped my fingers into it. Cooled. Whatever happened here had finished a while ago.

  A fist clamped my heart and squeezed it tight into a painful ball. Dread choked me. Suddenly there wasn’t enough air. I should have read the note sooner.

  I took the ball of guilt and fear that threatened to engulf me and stuffed it away, deep into the recesses of my mind. The task at hand required only my brain. I would deal with the pain later, but now I had to concentrate on the scene and think.

  Violence had occurred here, but the plaza didn’t look as though combat with a werewolf had taken place. All shapeshifters had two forms: human and animal. Gifted shapeshifters could maintain a warrior form, an in-between beast man, huge, humanoid, and armed with a monster’s claws and nightmarish fangs. Most had trouble maintaining it, and few could speak in it, but despite these drawbacks, the warrior form was the most effective weapon in a werewolf’s arsenal. Derek’s was one of the best. He would have assumed it the moment the fight began.

  If Derek had fought in this plaza, there would be scratches on the asphalt. A few clumps of wolf fur here and there. Shredded flesh—he tended to rip into his targets. I saw none. Maybe he didn’t fight here after all. Maybe he came upon it and took off . . . I stuffed the hope into the same place I had packed the guilt. Later.

  A fine spray of pale, smooth droplets stained the asphalt to the left. I moved over, carefully stepping between the blood smears, and knelt. What meager hope I had shattered. I would’ve recognized the color of those pale patches anywhere. They were drops of melted silver, cooled into globules by the night. I pried a couple from the asphalt and slid them into my pocket. There was no way to melt silver in the middle of the parking lot without some sorcerous means. Either the Reapers had a strong magic user with them or . . .

  A sharp growl made me turn. Two wolves hovered on the edge of the plaza, their eyes glowing pale yellow like twin fiery moons. George and Brenna.

  George’s muzzle wrinkled. He planted his legs wide apart. His black lips parted, revealing a huge maw and pale fangs. A snarl ripped from his mouth.

  I rose very slowly and held my hands up. “I’m not a threat.”

  Brenna snapped at the air, flinging spit. Her shackles rose like a dense coat of needles.

  “I didn’t cause the bloodbath. You know me. I’m a Friend of the Pack. Take me to Jim.” As long as I didn’t touch Slayer, I had a chance at a peaceful resolution. If they jumped me while I held my saber, I would damage them. I was trained to kill, I was good at it, and in the adrenaline rush of a fight with two 200-pound animals, I would kill and then regret it for the rest of my life.

  Two growls drowned out my voice. They le
aned forward, emanating bloodlust, exuding it like a lethal perfume. My sword arm itched.

  “Don’t do this. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  A high-pitched coyote yowl cut through the snarls. The night parted and a lean shadow sailed over the wolves. A tall, shaggy body charged me—a shapeshifter in a warrior form, flying over the asphalt, tree-trunk legs pumping, huge, muscular arms spread wide. I caught a flash of grotesque jaws armed with two-inch fangs that would rip my face off my skull in a single bite.

  The wolves charged. Shit.

  I ducked under the swipe of the shapeshifter’s sickle claws and rammed my elbow into the monster’s solar plexus. He jerked forward from the force of the blow and I sank two silver needles into his neck, behind the ear. He screamed and clawed at his head.

  Behind him the night belched two more nightmares.

  The wolves were almost on me.

  I rammed a quick kick to the shapeshifter’s knee. Bone crunched. Good-bye walking. I kicked him into George, popping another needle into my hand, spun about, and slammed right into Brenna. Damn. Teeth clamped onto my wrist guard, her mouth swallowing my arm, and I dropped a needle into her throat. Brenna dropped my arm and yelped, spinning in a circle, trying to spit out the silver burning her tongue.

  Fire raked my back. I whirled, rammed the attacker’s furry orange arm, exposing the armpit, and forced a needle into the shoulder joint. The shapeshifter howled. The arm went limp.

  They swarmed me. Claws clamped my shoulders. Teeth bit my left thigh. I kicked and punched and stabbed, popping silver needles from my wrist guard and sinking them into furry bodies. Bones snapped under my kick. I twisted, snapped a quick punch, crunching someone’s muzzle, and then my room to move shrank to nonexistent. A furry ginger-red arm crushed my windpipe and pressed the side of my neck, cutting the blood flow to the brain. Classic choke hold. I leaned back and kicked with both legs, but there wasn’t enough space. I couldn’t breathe. My chest constricted as if a red-hot iron band had caught my lungs and squeezed and squeezed until the light shrank. Huge fangs closed over my face, bathing my skin in a cloud of fetid breath. A stray thought dashed through my head—what sort of animal makes an orange shapeshifter? The world went dark and I slipped under.

  CHAPTER 12

  MY THROAT HURT. MY THIGH BURNED—EITHER someone had scalded me with boiling grease while I was out or a werewolf had bitten me. The rest of me felt broken, like I’d been passed through a laundry wringer. I opened my eyes and saw Jim sitting in a chair.

  “Fuck you,” I said and sat up.

  Jim rubbed his face with his hand, as if trying to wipe away what bothered him.

  My whole body ached, but nothing seemed permanently out of commission. My mouth tasted of blood. I ran my tongue along my teeth. All there.

  “Did I kill anybody?”

  “No. But two of my people are out until their bones heal.”

  We looked at each other.

  “I stood there with my hands up, Jim. Like this.” I raised my hands. “I didn’t pull my sword. I didn’t make any threats. I just stood there like a submissive bitch and asked them to please let me speak to you. And this is what I got?”

  Jim said nothing. Asshole.

  “Show me an Atlanta shapeshifter who doesn’t know me. Your crew, they recognized me. They know who I am, they know what I do, and they still fucked me up. You’ve worked with me for four years, Jim. I fought with the Pack and for the Pack. I fought with you. I’m an ally, who should have earned the trust by now. And you and yours treat me like an enemy.”

  Jim’s eyes went ice-cold. “Here you have trust when you grow fur.”

  “I see. So if a loup bites me tomorrow, it will mean more to you than everything I’ve done up to this point.” I rose. Fire laced my thigh. “Is Derek okay?”

  Stone wall.

  “God fucking damn it, Jim, is the kid okay?”

  Nothing. After all the shit we’d gone through together, he shut me out. Just like that. The loyalty that bound me to Derek meant nothing. The years I’d spent looking out for Jim while he looked out for me as we teamed up on Guild gigs meant nothing. With one executive decision, Jim had cast aside the slender standing I had clawed and fought for with the Pack for the last six months. He just sat there, silent and cold, a complete stranger.

  The words dropped from Jim’s lips like a brick. “You should go.”

  I had had just about enough. “Fine. You won’t tell me why your crew worked me over. You won’t let me see Derek. That’s your prerogative. We’ll do it your way. James Damael Shrapshire, in your capacity as the Pack’s chief security officer, you have permitted Pack members under your command to deliberately injure an employee of the Order. At least three individuals involved in the assault wore the shapeshifter warrior form. Under the Georgia Code, a shapeshifter in a warrior form is equivalent to being armed with a deadly weapon. Therefore, your actions fall under O.C.G.A. Section 16-5-21(c), aggravated assault on a peace officer engaged in the performance of her duties, which is punishable by mandatory imprisonment of no less than five and no more than twenty years. A formal complaint will be filed with the Order within twenty-four hours. I advise you to seek the assistance of counsel.”

  Jim stared at me. The hardness drained from his eyes, and in their depths I saw astonishment.

  I held his stare for a long moment. “Don’t call; don’t stop by. You need something done, go through official channels. And the next time you meet me, mind your p’s and q’s, because I’ll fuck you over in a heartbeat the second you step over the line. Now return my sword, because I’m walking out of here, and I dare any of your idiots to try and stop me.”

  I went to the door.

  Jim stood up. “On behalf of the Pack, I extend an apology . . .”

  “No. The Pack didn’t do that. You did that.” I reached for the door. “I’m so mad at you, I can’t even speak.”

  “Kate . . . wait.”

  Jim walked to me, took the door, and held it open. Outside three shapeshifters sat on the floor in a hallway: a petite woman with short dark hair, one of the Latino men, and the older bodybuilder who had stopped me at the first murder scene. A short, dark gray line marked the woman’s neck, where Lyc-V had died from the contact with silver. Hello, Brenna. They probably had to cut her throat to get the needle out. The cut had sealed but it would take the body a couple of days to absorb the gray discoloration—the evidence of dead virus. Shapeshifters had trouble with all coinage metals—that was why most of their jewelry was steel or platinum—but when it came to toxicity to Lyc-V, silver beat out gold and copper by a mile.

  The shapeshifters looked at Jim.

  Muscles played along his jaw. His shoulders tensed under the black T-shirt. He was pushing against a wall only he could see. “My bad.”

  “My bad?” That was all he had? That was it?

  He thought about it for a second and nodded. “My bad. I owe you one.”

  “Your attempt at damage control is duly noted.” I shook my head and headed out.

  “Kate, I’m sorry. I fucked up. It didn’t go down right.”

  He finally sounded like he meant it. Part of me wanted to kick him in the head, walk away, and just keep walking until I got the hell out of there. I considered the situation: Jim had apologized in front of his crew. That was all I would get. He wouldn’t get down on his knees and beg my forgiveness. In the end it wasn’t about Jim and me. It was about the kid.

  Jim must’ve sensed what I was thinking. “I’ll take you to him.”

  That cinched it. As we walked past the shapeshifters, he paused, looked at them, and said, “She’s in.”

  I followed him along the gloomy hallway and down a rickety flight of stairs. The air smelled musty. The stairs accepted our weight with shrill creaks of protest. This wasn’t one of the Pack’s regular offices, or at least I didn’t recognize it. It was hard to forget a place plastered with panda wallpaper. Jim’s face grew grimmer with each step.

  I was st
ill pissed. “What kind of shapeshifter has orange fur anyway?”

  “Weredingo.”

  Now I’d seen everything. Well, at least he didn’t steal my baby.

  The stairs terminated in a heavy door. Jim halted. His gaze bored into the door with hate reserved for mortal enemies.

  “They broke him,” Jim said suddenly, a barely contained growl clawing at his words. “They broke the boy. Even if he survives, he’ll never be the same.”

  THE ROOM WAS DIM. A SMALL FLOOR LAMP spilled light onto the rectangular glass box filled with swamp-green fluid. The box was shallow—only two feet tall, and at first, I mistook it for a casket.

  I’d seen it before. The shapeshifters called it the tank. A restorative device, invented by Dr. Doolittle, self-proclaimed physician to all things Pack and wild.

  A nude body rested in the green liquid, connected to life-support equipment by thin capillaries of IV tubes.

  In all my twenty-five years I had never seen a shapeshifter on life support.

  I knelt by the box. Breath caught in my throat.

  Derek lay encaged in wire. An angry band of magenta swelling marked the flesh over his broken bones, where the abused muscle refused to heal. His right leg was shattered beneath the knee, the shin one continuous misshapen mess of purple ringed with bands of dark gray. Another purple stain marked his left thigh—the femur, the toughest bone in the body, broken right in the middle, snapped like a toothpick.

  Two fractures scarred Derek’s right arm, above the elbow and at the wrist. Identical breaks marked his left arm. The inhuman precision of the mind that would conceive the need for breaking both arms in exactly the same places made me grind my teeth.

  My heartbeat slowed. My head grew hot, my fingertips cold. Breath rolled around my lungs like a clump of ice. This wasn’t just a beating. This was an exhibition. A purposeful demonstration of cruelty and hate. They had mangled him, broken him so completely, as if they sought to obliterate what he was. It made me furious and I clenched my hands until my nails dug into my palms.