Magic Slays

Chapter 7

IT TOOK US FOUR HOURS TO PROCESS THE SCENE. WE dusted the workshop for fingerprints and lifted enough partials to use up a whole roll of tape. Crawling on my hands and knees looking for evidence and taking samples of the urine stains did a number on me. My knee was a trouble magnet--first my aunt ripped it up, then the marathon of fights to the death that made me the Pack's alpha female had nearly done it in. I'd hobbled around with a cane for a month, a circumstance aggravated by the fact that I could only use said cane in my quarters, because doing it in plain view of the Pack telegraphed weakness. Now the knee had developed a steady annoying ache, and I had this absurd feeling that if only I could jam something sharp in there, the pain would go away.
We finished the workshop and walked the house. It was a spacious log cabin, all clean honey-colored wood and oversized windows. Adam led a simple life. I found enough clothes for a couple of weeks and a few dog-eared books, mostly engineering, physics, and magic theory. Andrea cataloged the groceries and reported lots of peanut butter and jam in the fridge. The Red Guardsmen's cabin came equipped with cooking utensils and an assortment of pots and pans hanging from the hooks in a wooden frame. The layer of dust on the pans told me they hadn't been touched in a while.
I found a picture of a young blond woman by Adam's bed. She was looking over the ocean, her face serious and tinted with resignation and sadness. Adam's wife. I bagged it and put it into our Jeep.
We took everyone's statements, made everyone sign everything, and drove back through Sibley's twisted roads onto Johnson Ferry. The traffic mess at the bridge had dissolved. An MSDU Humvee painted in blotches of slate gray and charcoal sat on the shoulder. Next to it a short, stocky man with dark brown hair packed an m-scanner into a van with PAD written on the side. The man's red hoodie read WIZARD AT LARGE.
I pulled over to the shoulder.
"Do you know him?" Andrea asked.
"Luther Dillon. He used to moonlight for the Guild a couple of years back. Hang on a second, I'll be right back."
I slipped out of the car and walked back along the shoulder, hands in plain view.
Luther saw me and sighed dramatically. "Stay away. At least three feet."
"Why?"
"The Order fired you for screwing up. Hence, you are besmirched. It might rub off on me." If Andrea wanted to kill Ted, she would have to stand in line. "I didn't get fired, I quit. And considering that I wrapped up your troll for you, I expected a warmer reception."
Luther bowed and clapped. "Bravo! Bravissimo! Encore, encore! Was that kind of what you were hoping for?"
"That will do."
From where I stood, I could see the path leading down the slope and under the bridge to the troll's bunker. "How did it go?"
"He's sleeping like a baby." Luther shut the van's door and leaned against the vehicle. "Ate two hours out of yours truly's already-busy schedule, too."
"The least you can do since your wards failed."
Luther pushed from the car. "My wards don't fail. They're gone." He made a fist and snapped his fingers open. "Poof! No residue, no trace, nothing. Never seen anything like it. It's as if ..."
"They had never been there," I finished. D?j? vu.
Luther focused on me like a pointer on a pheasant. "You know something."
When in trouble, stall. "Me?"
"You. Tell me."
"Can't." First, the wards around Adam's workshop. Then here. Crossing the bridge was the fastest way out of Sibley.
"Kate, stop screwing around. If someone is going around the city yanking wards out of the ground, I need to know about it."
"I can't, Luther. Client confidentiality."
"You want me to haul you in for questioning?" Luther said. "Because I'll do it. I'll do it right now. Watch me. I know people who will gently persuade you to be forthcoming."
I looked at him. "You really need to work on your threats. I can't tell if you're threatening me or inviting me for tea."
"The two aren't mutually exclusive. One cup of the tea at the station and you will tell me everything you know out of sheer self-preservation." He held his hand out and bent his fingers back and forth in the universal "bring it on" gesture. "Out with it. Or else."
Andrea stepped out of the Jeep and leaned against the bumper. Apparently she felt I needed backup. If we were lucky, Grendel wouldn't tear through plastic and devour de Harven's corpse in Hector's back. "Luther, to haul someone in, you have to have probable cause, which you don't."
A faint scrape of a foot against dirt came from behind the van. I leaned to glance around Luther and saw a man walking up the path from the water. He wore black pants, black boots, a gray shirt, and a black tactical vest over it. Black aviator shades hid his eyes. Add dark blond hair cropped short and a clean-shaven jaw, and you had yourself a genuine Agent of Law Enforcement. Shane Andersen, knight of the Order.
Luther sighed.
"You think he's got `government badass' tattooed on his chest?" I murmured.
A faint grimace skewed Luther's mouth. "And `I'd tell you but I'd have to kill you' on his ass."
Luther wasn't hard to irritate, but there was some genuine hate there. "What did he do?"
Luther glanced at me. "He called me `support.' I'm not support; I'm the damn primary on this case. Without me, they'd still be trying to mince the troll into a meat pie."
Shane hero-swaggered his way to the top of the path and stopped before us. "Hello, Kate."
"Hi."
He glanced at Luther. "Is she bothering you?"
"No."
"Mm-hm." Shane lowered his glasses on his nose and gave me his version of a severe stare.
I leaned a little toward Luther. "Is this the part where I faint in fear?"
Luther bit his lip. "He might also accept falling to your knees and holding your hands in humble supplication. Makes it easier for him to slap the cuffs on."
"Your presence here is a distraction," Shane said, obviously savoring every word. "You're keeping a PAD officer from his duties. Move along, Kate. There is nothing to see here."
Asshole. Let's see, two MSDU vehicles, cops down by the river. Too many witnesses. My brain served up a headline: BEAST LORD'S MATE PUNCHES KNIGHT OF THE ORDER IN MOUTH, KNOCKS OUT FOUR TEETH. Yeah, not today.
"Sorry, Luther, I've been told to move along." I shrugged. "Got to go. I'll call you if anything. Oh, and, Andersen, if you're still having trouble with that bug up your ass, let me know. I know a guy--he'll pull it right out."
I turned to the Jeep. Just in time, too--Andrea started walking toward me, focused on Shane like a bird of prey. Time to get the hell out of here. "It's a shame about your being kicked out of the Order, Daniels," Shane called. "Losing your home like that, too. I always thought you were capable. I know people who could've helped. If you'd just come to me, I could've made things easier on you. Life is tough, but at least you wouldn't have to prostitute yourself to that creature."
"Dude," Luther exhaled.
Andrea picked up speed, her eyes furious. I had to get her out of here now. She was barely holding on to the edge of reason as it was. If she pulled her gun on him, she'd go to jail, and not even the Pack lawyers would get her out.
"Being in the Order doesn't make you untouchable, Shane." I kept walking.
"Women sell themselves because they're starving, because they've got kids to feed, because they are addicted," Shane said. "I don't condone it, but I understand it. You sold yourself for four walls on Jeremiah Street. Was it worth climbing into bed with an animal every night?"
I ran into Andrea. She tried to push past me and I blocked her. "No."
"Step aside."
"Not now, not here."
"Hello, Nash," Shane called. "You want me to box your guns and send them to your apartment? Save you the shame of coming to the chapter?"
Andrea gripped my arm.
"Later," I told her. "Too many people now."
Andrea clenched her teeth.
"Later."
She turned on her heel and we went back to the Jeep. I slid Hector back into the traffic.
"That bastard," Andrea squeezed out.
"He's a loudmouth who likes talking shit. There is no law against being an asshole. Let him hide behind his shield for now. That's all he can do."
Andrea squeezed her hand into a hard fist. "If I still had my ID ..."
"You would be the best of friends."
She glared at me.
"It's true," I told her. She didn't answer.
The first ten years of her life, Andrea was the punching bag of her bouda clan. She'd spent the last sixteen making sure she would not feel powerless again. She had never walked the street without the added weight of the Order's ID. She was used to being a good guy, respected and even admired for what she did and who she was. She was never pushed around by anyone with a badge, because she carried one. But every choice had consequences, and now these consequences were hitting her right in the face.
"We can't even do anything to that worm," she ground out.
"Not now."
She turned to me. "I don't think I can do this."
"You can," I told her. "You're a survivor."
"You don't know what it's like."
I laughed. It sounded cold. "You're right, I have no idea what it's like to take shit from people I could kill with my eyes closed."
Andrea exhaled. "Okay. Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say. I just ... Argh."
"In the end, Shane doesn't matter," I said. "As long as you avoid him and don't give him an opportunity to hurt you, he's powerless to do anything except lather up some spit. However, if someone were to do something stupid, like shoot at him from some roof one night, we'd have real problems."
"I was a knight," Andrea said. "I'm not just going to start shooting every dickhead who mouths off to me."
"Just making sure."
"Besides, if I shot him, I'd do it so nobody could trace it back to me. I'd shoot him somewhere remote, his head would explode like a melon, and they would never find his body. He would just vanish."
This would be a long climb uphill, I just knew it.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER WE MADE IT TO THE OFFICE and met Teddy Jo, who was waiting with the freezer in the parking lot. I gave Teddy his down payment, we wrestled the freezer into the back room, and then I spent an hour chanting preservation spells and laying down wards just in case de Harven decided to rise in the middle of the night and have himself another ant party.
It was eight o'clock by the time I turned off the highway to the narrow dirt road leading to the Keep. I was tired and dirty, my leg hurt like a sonovabitch, and I hadn't eaten all day. You'd almost think I was back to working for the Order or something. Except I was working for myself. I could relate to Andrea. My life had been much easier with the Order ID, too; I could bully people into answering my questions, I had access to criminal records, and if I did end up with a body full of ants, the Order would take care of it for me.
Still, I wouldn't trade my small office for anything in the world.
We had a lot of evidence, and none of it made much sense. De Harven had dropped the sleep bomb. That much we knew. The kava kava residue on his hands confirmed it, and we found a gas mask in the corner of the workshop.
He'd deployed the sleep bomb and gone into the workshop. Then something had happened that concluded with his death and Kamen and the device disappearing. Perhaps de Harven had tried to steal the device or harm Adam, and Adam had retaliated by killing him. Except Adam Kamen looked like he would have a hard time baiting a fishhook, while de Harven was a trained killer.
Suppose Adam did somehow best de Harven. Why take the time to sacrifice him? Besides, Adam's r?sum? had `magical theorist' written all over it. Guys like him built complex devices. They wouldn't urinate on the walls, turn the flesh of their attacker into ants, and then disappear into the night with a device weighing upward of three hundred pounds. Pulling off that kind of magic meant complete dedication to the deity to which the sacrifice had been offered. Devotion meant constant worship, and worship required ritual. The guards had never even seen Adam pray.
The cut on de Harven's stomach bothered me. An inverted crow's foot. It had to be a rune. There was no anatomical reason to cut the body that way, and runes were associated with neo-pagan cults and often employed in shamanistic rituals, which was consistent with the magic at the scene. Runes predated the Latin alphabet. Ancient Germanic and Nordic tribes used them for everything, from writing down their sagas and foretelling the future to bringing the dead back to life.
Runology wasn't my strongest suit, but this particular rune I knew very well. Algiz, one of the oldest runes, associated with sedge grass, and Thor, and Heimdall, and a number of other things depending on who you asked and which runic alphabet you used. Algiz had a universal meaning: protection. As a ward, it was completely reactive. It served as a warning or provided a defense, but in any case, Algiz wasn't going to do anything to you until you messed with it. It was the most responsible way for a runic magic user to protect his property, because Algiz would never attack first.
Why put it on a body? It didn't protect the body; it didn't warn anyone of anything. I'd been breaking my brain against it since I had seen it, and I'd come up with nothing. Zip, zilch, zero. And none of the gods from the Norse pantheon were strongly associated with ants.
Something was going on here, something bigger and uglier than it appeared. The fear in Rene's eyes bothered me. It started as a mild concern when I first saw it, getting worse and worse as the day progressed, and now it had matured into a full-blown anxiety. You have a lot of friends, Kate. You have a lot to lose.
Voron's voice surfaced from the depths of my memory. "I told you so." I took a deep breath and tried to exhale my worry. Too late for warnings now. I was Curran's mate and the female alpha of the Pack. The welfare of fifteen hundred shapeshifters was now my responsibility. Whatever storm was brewing in Atlanta, I'd find it and fight it. If it was the price of being with Curran, then I would pay it.
He was worth it.
The Jeep rolled over the huge roots. The road needed clearing again--the thick trees crowded it, like soldiers trying to bar passage to intruders. Magic hated all things technology and gnawed its monuments down to nubs, turning concrete and mortar to dust. Skyscrapers, tall bridges, massive stadiums--the bigger they were, the quicker they fell. The same force that had turned the Georgia Dome to rubble also nourished the forests. Trees sprouted here and there, growing at record speed, as nature scrambled to reclaim the crumbling ruins that were once proud achievements of technological civilization. Underbrush spread, vines stretched, and before you knew it, a fifty-year-old forest rose where ten years ago were only thin saplings, roads, and gas stations. It made life difficult for most people, but the shapeshifters loved it.
The Pack's humble abode really deserved a better name. "Keep" didn't do it justice. It sat in the clearing among the new forest, northeast of the city, rising against the massive trees like a foreboding gray tower of doom. The tower went down for many levels underground. Not satisfied, the shapeshifters kept building on to the Keep, adding walls, new wings, and smaller towers, turning it into a full-fledged citadel of Pack supremacy. As I maneuvered the Pack Jeep to it, I couldn't help but note that the structure was beginning to resemble a castle. Maybe we needed a neon sign to brighten things up. MONSTER LAIR, WIPE YOUR PAWS AND CHECK YOUR SILVER AT THE DOOR.
I drove the Jeep through the massive gates, parked in the inner yard, went inside through a small door, and walked down the narrow claustrophobic hallway. The narrow passages were one of Curran's defensive measures. If you tried to storm the Keep and broke through the gate and the reinforced doors, you would have to fight through a hallway just like this one--three, four men at a time. A single shapeshifter could hold off an army here for hours.
The hallway led me to the stairway of a million steps. My leg screamed in protest. I sighed and started climbing. I just had to keep from limping. Limping showed weakness, and I didn't need any enterprising, career-motivated shapeshifters trying to challenge me for dominance right about now.
I had once mentioned my desire for an elevator, and His Majesty asked me if I would like a flock of doves to carry me up to my quarters so my feet wouldn't have to touch the ground. We were sparring at the time and I kicked him in the kidney in retaliation.
Eight o'clock equaled about two p.m. in shapeshifter terms. The Keep was full. People bobbed their heads at me as I passed. Most of them I didn't know. The Pack counted fifteen hundred shapeshifters. I was learning the names but it took time. By the second flight of stairs, something started grinding in my knee. I had a choice: either I had it fixed now or it would fail me the next time I had a serious fight. My imagination painted a lovely picture of me lunging into battle and my leg snapping like a toothpick. Great.
I stopped on the third floor and not-limped my way to Doolittle's medical ward. The woman in the front room took one look at me and ran back to get the doctor. I landed in the chair and exhaled. Sitting was good.
The double doors opened and Doolittle emerged from the depths of the hospital, looking fussy. In his fifties, dark-skinned, his hair cut short, Doolittle radiated kind patience. Even if you were near death, the moment you looked into his eyes, you knew that he would take care of you and somehow everything was going to be all right. In the past year I had been near death quite a few times, and every time Doolittle had fixed me. He was hands down the best medmage I'd ever encountered.
He also carried on like a frazzled mother hen. That was why normally I avoided him at all costs.
Doolittle looked me over, probably searching for signs of bleeding and shards of broken bones poking through my skin. "What's the problem?"
"Nothing major. My knee is hurting a little."
Doolittle peered at me. "The very fact that you are here means that you're on the verge of fainting."
"It's really not that bad."
Doolittle's fingers probed my knee. Pain shot into my leg. I clenched my teeth.
"Heaven help me." The good doctor heaved a sigh. "What did you do?"
"Nothing."
Doolittle took my hand, turned it palm up, and sniffed my fingers. "Crawling around on all fours is very bad for you. Not to mention undignified."
I leaned toward him. "I've got a client."
"Congratulations. Now, I'm just a simple Southern doctor ..."
Here we go. Behind Doolittle the nurse rolled her eyes.
". . . but it seems to me that it would be much more prudent to have a working leg. However, since you have no major bleeding, no concussion, and no broken bones, I shall count my blessings."
I clamped my mouth shut. Any discourse with Doolittle when he was in this mood would just result in an hour-long lecture. The Pack medic whispered. His voice built to a low murmur, a measured chant spilling from his lips. The pain in my knee receded, dulled by medmagic. Doolittle straightened. "I'll mix you a solution and send it up to your quarters. Will you be needing a stretcher?"
"I'll make it on my own power." I pushed to my feet. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
I left the hospital and continued my climb. The knee screamed but held. Eventually the stairs ended, bringing me to a narrow landing before a large reinforced door. During business hours, eleven a.m. to eight p.m., the door stood open. I walked through it and nodded to the guard behind the desk on the left.
"Hey, Seraphine."
Seraphine tore herself away from the bag of popcorn long enough to duck her head, sending her nest of braids into a shiver, and went back to her food. Being a wererat, she had the metabolism of a shrew. The rats ate constantly or they got the shakes.
Derek stepped out of the side office and nodded at me.
"Your nods keep getting deeper and deeper." Pretty soon it would be a bow, and we'd had words about that. The only things I disliked more than being bowed to was being called Mate.
He shrugged. "Maybe I'm just growing taller."
I surveyed him. Derek used to be embarrassingly pretty. Beautiful even. Then terrible things had happened, and now nobody would call him pretty, not even in weak light. No sane person would dare to even bring up the subject of his face. The boy wonder wasn't disfigured, although he thought he was and nobody could tell him different. His face had hardened and lost its perfect beauty. He looked dangerous and vicious, and his eyes, once brown and soft, were now almost black and had no give in them. If I met him in a dark alley, I'd think very hard about stepping aside. Luckily, he'd once played Robin to my Batman, and whatever happened, he was on my side.
We headed down the hallway. Derek took a deep breath, the way shapeshifters did when they sampled the air for scents. "I see Andrea is back."
"She is. And how is His Great Fussiness today?"
Derek's eyes sparked a bit. "His Majesty is in an ill humor. Rumors are flying that his mate almost got herself shot."
Derek worshipped the ground Curran walked on, but he was still a nineteen-year-old boy and occasionally he came out of his shell for a quip. His humor was dry and hidden deep. I was grateful it had survived at all. "Where are my boudas?" Before I became a Beast Lady, Aunt B, the alpha of the boudas, and I struck a bargain. I'd help Clan Bouda when they got in trouble--and they got in trouble a lot--and in return Aunt B gave me two of her finest, Barabas and Jezebel, who'd help me navigate the murky swamp of the Pack politics. They referred to themselves as my advisors. In reality they were my nannies.
"Barabas is asleep in the guardroom and Jezebel went downstairs to get some food."
"Any messages for me?"
"The Temple called."
This ought to be interesting. I'd gone to the Temple trying to restore a Jewish parchment to figure out my aunt's identity. She took exception to that and the Temple had suffered some damage. The rabbis had chased me off the Temple grounds, but not before one of them healed my wounds. I hadn't handled the entire situation very well, so when the storm was over, I'd packed the parchment's fragment and sent it to the Temple as a gift, with my apologies.
"Rabbi Peter sends his regards. He's very happy with the parchment. It has some sort of historical value. You've been forgiven and you may visit the Temple, provided you give them twenty-four hours' notice."
To mobilize their forces, no doubt, and lay out an adequate supply of paper and pens to counteract whatever trouble I unleashed. Jewish mysticism was difficult to study, but it gave its practitioners great rewards. When rabbis said that the pen was mightier than the sword, they meant it.
Derek's lips curved into a slight smile. "Also, Ascanio Ferara got himself arrested again."
"Again?"
"Yes."
Ascanio was quickly turning into the bane of my existence. A fifteen-year-old bouda, he was 125 pounds of batshit-crazy hormones and had no sense to go with them. The kid had never met a law he didn't want to break. The Pack was very much aware that outsiders viewed them as monsters, and they made a point of cracking down on any criminal activity with steel claws. The same deal that brought me Barabas and Jezebel compelled me to ask for lenience on Ascanio's behalf. Unfortunately, Ascanio seemed bound and determined to earn himself some hard labor.
"What did he do now?"
"He was caught having group sex on the morgue steps."
I stopped and looked at him. "Define `group.' "
"Two women."
It could have been worse. "For a fifteen-year-old kid he's doing well for himself," Derek said, his face completely deadpan.
"Don't even go there."
Derek chuckled.
That was the problem with teenage werewolves--they had no appreciation for other people's pain.
He gave me a half bow, half nod, turned back to his office, and stopped. "Kate?"
"Yes?"
"You said once you didn't care for bodyguard detail. Why?"
Where was he going with this? "Two reasons. First, no matter how great you are, you account for only about fifty percent of the chance of success. The other fifty is riding on the body you're guarding. I've seen brilliant guards utterly fail, because the owner of that body couldn't follow a simple directive like `Stand here and don't move.' "
"And second?"
"Bodyguarding is reactive by definition. You'll get some people who'll argue this point with you, but ultimately, you are in defense mode for most of the job. I don't have the mind-set for constant defense. I pick fights, I get aggressive, and I end up focusing on killing the target rather than keeping my client alive. I don't like to sit and wait. I can do it, because I was trained to do it, but it's not in my nature."
Derek gave me an odd look. "So you get bored."
"Yep. I guess that's it in a nutshell. Why do you ask?"
He shrugged. "No reason."
"Aha." We'd been down this road before, and then he got some molten metal poured on his face. "Don't get yourself into something you can't handle."
He grinned, a quick flash of teeth. "I won't."
"I mean it."
"Scout's honor."
"You're not that kind of scout."
The grin got wider. "You worry too much."
"If you get yourself killed, don't come crying to me."
Derek laughed and went back to the guard office. He was up to something. If I slammed a lid on it now, he would never forgive me for treating him like a child. If I didn't, he might get his face bashed in again. Either way, total fail.
Friends made life entirely too complicated.
I kept walking, not caring if I limped. Nobody would see me here.
On the right, Julie's black door came up. A dagger gleamed in the middle of it--Julie got the idea from the Order. A skull and crossbones drawn in fluorescent paint shone above the dagger. Under it assorted signs screamed warnings: DON'T COME IN, ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK, DANGER, MY ROOM NOT YOURS, ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER HERE, CAUTION, STAY OUT, KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING.
Staying in that school might have been the right thing for her, but I missed her. She was happy in the Keep. And she had Maddie for a friend, which was great because Maddie was sensible. Normally Julie and sensible couldn't fit into the same building. She had gotten her wish--she was coming home. Except it would be on my terms and she didn't have to like it.
I HAD PEELED OFF THE LAST SHRED OF CLOTHES FROM my body when Curran walked through the door of our rooms. Some men were handsome. Some were powerful. Curran was ... dangerous. Muscular and athletic, he moved with an easy, confident grace, perfectly balanced, and you knew just by watching him that he was strong and fast. He could stalk like a hungry tiger, moving across the floor in absolute silence. I'd spent a lifetime listening for faint noises of danger and he would sneak up on me just to see me jump, because he thought it was funny. But his physical power alone didn't make him special--many men were strong and fast and could walk quietly.
It wasn't his body that set Curran apart. It was his eyes. When you looked into them, you saw chained violence baring teeth and claws back at you, and your instinct told you that if he ever let himself off that chain, you would not survive. He was terrifying on some deep, primordial level, and he wielded that fear like a weapon, using it to inspire panic or confidence. He walked into each room as if he owned it. I used to think it was arrogance--and it was; His Overbearance had a rather high opinion of himself--but egotism accounted for only a fraction of it. Curran radiated a supreme confidence. He would handle any problem he encountered efficiently and decisively, and if you stood in his way, he didn't have even the slightest hint of doubt that he could kick your ass. People sensed it and rallied behind him. He could walk into a room of hysterical strangers, and in seconds they would calm down and look to him for leadership.
He was dangerous. And difficult. And he was all mine.
Sometimes in the morning, when he worked in the gym one floor below, I'd stand by the gym's glass wall for a few minutes before I came in to spar. I'd watch him lift dumbbells or do dips with the weights attached to his belt, powerful muscles bulging and relaxing with controlled exertion, while the bars creaked under his weight and sweat slicked his short blond hair and skin until it glowed. Watching him never failed to send a slow insistent heat through me. He wasn't working out now. He was standing there in sweatpants and a blue T-shirt, carrying some sort of bottle, and I was ready to jump his bones. I could picture him above me in the bed.
At least it didn't show on my face. I had to have some dignity left.
I'd missed him so much, it almost hurt. It started the moment I left the Keep and nagged at me all day. Every day I had to fight with myself to keep from making up bullshit reasons to call the Keep so I could hear his voice. My only saving grace was that Curran wasn't handling this whole mating thing any better. Yesterday he'd called me at the office claiming that he couldn't find his socks. We talked for two hours.
I've faced many things in my life. But this emotion scared the living daylights out of me. I had no idea how to handle it.
Curran smiled at me. "I was told you got in and went to see Doolittle."
The Keep had no secrets.
"So I stopped there to check on your diagnosis." Curran lifted the bottle. "You're supposed to take a hot bath with this in it. And I have to watch you very closely from a very short distance to make sure your knee doesn't fall off."
Aha. I'm sure Doolittle said it just like that, especially the watching from the very short distance part. "Would you like to sit in my nasty medicated bath with me?" And why did that just come out of my mouth?
Curran's eyes sparked. "Yes, I would."
I arched my eyebrow. "Are you trustworthy enough to be let into the tub?"
He grinned. "Let?"
"Let."
"I own this tub." Curran leaned toward me. "I don't know if you heard, but I kind of run this place. Not only am I totally trustworthy, but my behavior is beyond contestation."
I lost it and went into the bathroom, laughing under my breath.
Being the Beast Lord's main squeeze had its perks, one of which was the enormous bathtub and a walk-in shower with water that was always hot, no matter if magic or tech had the upper hand. Most things in Curran's quarters were oversized. His bathtub was the deepest I'd ever seen, his sofa could seat eight, and his criminally soft bed, custom made to be extra wide to accommodate his beast form, rose four feet off the floor. At heart, Curran was a cat. He liked soft things, high places, and enough room to stretch out. I took a quick shower to wash off most of the blood and dirt and climbed into the tub. Sinking into near-boiling hot water smelling of herbs and vinegar hurt for a split second, and then the burn inside my knee eased.
Curran came back from the kitchen, carrying two beers. He set them on the tub's edge and stripped, peeling the clothes off his muscular torso. I watched the fabric slide off Curran's back. All mine.
Oh boy.
He stepped into the tub and sat across from me, presenting me with a view of the world's best male chest up close.
Seducing him in the tub smelling of vinegar was out of the question. There had to be boundaries.
Curran leaned over to hand me a beer. I reached for it and then his arm was around me. His face was too close. He laid a trap and I totally fell for it. He dipped his head and kissed me.
On the other hand, we could do it in the tub. Why not?
Curran's gray eyes looked into mine. "Pupils don't seem to be dilated. You aren't high, you aren't drunk. What the hell possessed you to run out of a nice safe office into a gunfight?"
And he just shot his chance for sex into outer space. "I told you, there was a girl. The PAD opened fire and cut her leg almost completely off. She might have been twenty, tops. She almost bled to death in my office."
"It was her choice. If she wanted to stay safe, she could've joined the Girl Scouts. She isn't out selling cookies, she's piloting diseased corpses for a living."
I took my beer out of his hand and drank. "So you would've stood by and let the PAD kill four people?"
Curran leaned back, sprawling against the tub wall. "Four of the People. Not only that, but I can take a shot from an M24. You can't."
"When you offered me this business, did you think I would stay in the office all day baking cookies?"
"Nobody ever died of being shot by a cookie."
He had me there. I groped about my brain for a snappy comeback. "There is always a first time."
Oh, now that was a brilliant response. No doubt he'd collapse at my feet in awe at my intellectual magnificence.
"If anybody could manage being shot by a cookie, it would be you." Curran shrugged. "We agreed you wouldn't take chances."
"We agreed you would let me do my job as I see fit." He drank his beer. "And I'm holding up my end of that agreement. I didn't drop everything and charge over there to shield you from bullets, shove guns up the PAD's asses, and slap the People around until they could come up with a good reason for this clusterfuck. I knew you could handle it."
"Then why are you chewing me out?"
Little wicked lights sparked in his eyes. "Despite showing superhuman restraint, I was still worried about you. I was emotionally compromised."
"Really? You don't say. Emotionally compromised?"
"Aunt B used that phrase today to explain to me why I shouldn't punish a fifteen-year-old idiot for having a threesome in front of the morgue."
Aunt B had jumped the gun. Should've let me handle it first.
Curran pondered his beer. "Never would've thought to use that to describe the kid's problem."
"Well, how would you describe it?"
"Young, dumb, and full of cum."
That pretty much summed it up. "You missed your calling. You should've been a poet."
Curran drained half of his beer and moved over to sit by me. "Don't take stupid risks. That's all I ask. You're important to me. I wish you were that important to you."
Trying to distract Curran was like trying to turn a train: difficult and ultimately futile. "If I kiss you, will you let it go?"
"Depends."
"Never mind. The offer is withdrawn." I leaned my head on his biceps. It was warm in the lion's embrace, as long as you didn't mind the huge claws. "I've got a client."
"Congratulations." Curran raised his beer. We clinked our bottles and drank.
"Who is it?"
"Remember the chick in charge of security at the Midnight Games?"
He nodded. "Tall, reddish hair, green rapier."
"She works for the Red Guard."
I brought him up to speed on everything, including Teddy Jo's freezer.
"Sounds like the Red Guard wants you to save their ass, and if it blows up in their faces, they'll blame you for it." I leaned back. "I have to start rebuilding my reputation at some point. This would go a long way toward fixing it."
A fierce gold light backlit Curran's eyes. Suddenly he looked predatory. If I weren't one hundred percent sure he loved me, I would've gotten the hell out of that tub. Instead I leaned over and stroked the light stubble on his jaw.
"Picturing killing Ted Moynohan in your head again?"
"Mrm."
"Not worth it."
He slid his hand along my arm and I almost shivered. His voice was like velvet, hiding a hoarse growl just beneath the surface. "You thought about it."
I drank my beer. "I did." Actually right now I would've liked to punch Shane even more. It would be good for me. Therapeutic even. "Still not worth it."
"If you need more money, all you have to do is dial accounting," Curran said.
"The budget we set up is fair. I'd like to stick to it. Anyway, I told you mine, will you tell me yours? What's bugging you?"
Curran's fingers trailed along my arm, up to my shoulder, and over to my side. Mmm.
"A render went off the reservation," he said.
Renders were specialized warriors. All Pack members were trained to fight as soon as they could walk, but rank-and-file shapeshifters had other jobs: they were bakers, tailors, teachers. Warriors had no other job. In battle, they specialized according to their beast. Bears functioned as tanks--they took a lot of damage before they went down and cleared paths when they charged. Wolves and jackals were jacks of all trades, while cats and boudas were renders. Drop a render in the middle of a fight and thirty seconds later they would be panting in a ring of corpses.
"What sort of render?"
"A female lynx. Name's Leslie Wren."
My memory served up a fit woman with honey-brown hair and a sprinkling of freckles on her nose, followed by a six-foot-tall, muscled shapeshifter in a warrior form. I knew Leslie Wren. A few months ago, when we battled a demonic horde during the flare, she fought beside me. She had killed dozens and enjoyed the hell out of it. But I had seen her again, and recently, too ... "What happened?"
Curran grimaced. "She failed to report in. We cleared her house--all her weapons are gone. Boyfriend is shocked; he thinks she must be in trouble." "What do you think?"
Curran's frown deepened. "Jim's people tracked her scent down to the Honeycomb. They got a hundred feet in and hit wolfsbane."
The Honeycomb was a screwed-up place, full of wild magic and riddled with paths that went nowhere. It changed all the time, like some mutated cancerous growth, and it stank to high heaven. Add wolfsbane to it, which guaranteed an instant severe allergy attack for the weretrackers, and you had a clean getaway.
"No other scent trails with her?"
Curran shook his head. So nobody had held a gun to her head. She went into the Honeycomb on her own and used wolfsbane, because she didn't want to be found. Leslie Wren had gone rogue. Shapeshifters went rogue for any number of reasons. Best-case scenario, she had a problem with someone in the Pack, couldn't resolve it, and decided to cut and run. Worst-case scenario, she went loup. A regular shapeshifter going loup meant a killing spree. A render going loup meant a massacre.
"I have to go hunting tomorrow," Curran said.
Hunting Leslie Wren before anyone got hurt. I finally remembered where I'd seen her last--she let Julie and Maddie come with her to hunt a deer in the woods near the Keep. It made perfect sense for Curran to go. A render would wipe the floor with an average shapeshifter. Curran would be able to take her down with minimal damage. I understood it, but I didn't like it.
"Need help?" I asked.
"No. Is your knee still hurting?"
"No, why?"
"Just wondering if you need any distraction from the pain."
Mmm. "What sort of distraction did you have in mind?"
Curran leaned down, his eyes dark and full of golden sparks. His lips closed on mine. The shock of his tongue against mine was electrifying. I slid my arms around his neck, molding myself against him. My nipples pressed against his chest. The hard muscle of his back bunched under my fingers, and I kissed him, his lips, the corner of his mouth, the sensitive point under his jaw, tasting his sweat and the sharp touch of stubble on my lips. He made a quiet masculine noise, halfway between a deep growling rumble and a purr.
Oh my God.
His hands slid over my back and down, caressing, shifting me closer, until I felt the hard length of his erection press against me. Oh yes. "We should move out of the tub." I nipped his lower lip.
He kissed my neck. "Why?"
"Because I want you to be on top and I don't have gills."
Curran rose, lifting me out of the water, and carried me to the living room.
WE LAY ON THE COUCH, TANGLED IN A BLANKET. "SO what are you going to do about Ascanio?" I asked him.
Curran sighed. "Most young guys have somebody to imitate: their father, their alpha, me. When I was younger, I had my father and then Mahon. Ascanio has nobody. His father is dead, his alpha is female, and he can't relate to me. He obeys me and he acknowledges that I have the right to punish him, but he doesn't feel the need to be like me."
"You mean he doesn't instantly hero-worship you? Perish the thought."
He scowled at me. "I think I'll make mouthing off to the Beast Lord a punishable offense."
"Punishable by what?
"Oh, I'll think of something. Anyway, I decided to give him to Raphael."
Raphael was handsome, he earned a good living, women fell over themselves to line his path, and he was vicious in a fight. I could see how a young male bouda might think that nobody on Earth was cooler.
"I'll ask Raphael to mentor him," Curran said. "As a personal favor. Before he steps in, I'll make that spoiled brat's life pure hell, so when Raphael takes him off our hands, Ascanio will think he walks on water."
That made total sense, except Curran and Raphael weren't on good terms. In fact, Curran had once referred to Raphael as B's precious peacock. "You're going to ask Raphael for a favor?" I stopped and made a big show of staring into Curran's eyes. "Pupils aren't dilated. You aren't high or drunk ..."
"He helped set up your business," Curran said. "And we have some things in common."
"Like what?"
"I know what he's going through. I've been there. Raphael is too much in his own head right now. The boy would be good for him. It will force him to think of something else."
I was pretty sure that nothing short of Andrea would get Raphael out of his head. "That would be great, except he is neck deep in his funk. Aunt B probably asked him already and he must've said no."
"I'm not Aunt B," Curran said. "I noticed."
He stroked my shoulder. "Your tattoo faded. I can barely see it."
I turned my head, trying to get a look at the raven. The black lines of the design had faded to pale gray; the sword, and the words , Raven's Gift, were almost gone.
"Doolittle says it's because of all the medmagic he's been subjecting me to over the last weeks. A lot of my scars faded, too. It's probably for the best. It was a cheesy tattoo anyway. Every time someone saw it, they'd ask what it said and why did I have Cyrillic letters on my shoulder ..." I clamped my mouth shut.
"What?"
The Cyrillic alphabet was created by two Greek monks around AD 900. Before the Cyrillic alphabet, the Slavs used Glagolitic script, which took root in strokes-and-incisions writing--Slavic runes.
The inventor's last name was Kamen. Kamen meant "stone" in Russian. Usually Russian names ended on "-ov" or "-ev," but it was possible his family had changed their last name to make it easier for an English speaker.
I dialed the guardroom. Barabas picked up the phone, his slightly ironic tenor amused before I even had a chance to say anything. "Yes, Consort?"
"Why is everyone calling me Consort?"
"Jim designated you as Consort in official papers. You don't want to be called Mate, calling you Alpha is confusing, and `Beast Lady' makes people laugh."
"Why is it necessary to attach a title to me at all?"
"Because you are attached to the Beast Lord."
Behind me Curran chuckled to himself. Apparently I amused everyone this evening. "I know it's late, but could you find a book for me? It's called The Slavs: Study of Pagan Tradition by Osvintsev."
Barabas sighed dramatically. "Kate, you make me despair. Let's try that again from the top, except this time pretend you are an alpha."
"I don't need a lecture. I just need the book."
"Much better. Little more growl in the voice?"
"Barabas!"
"And we're there. Congratulations! There is hope for you yet. I will look into the book."
I hung up the phone and glared at Curran. "What's so funny?" "You."
"Laugh while you can. You have to sleep eventually, and then I'll take my revenge."
"You're such a violent woman. Always with the threats. You should look into some meditation techniques ..."
I jumped on the couch and put the Beast Lord into an armlock.