No Kitten Around

by R. J. Blain

  Perfect. I liked her honesty, which supported my thought she would be just the right person to talk to. While I wasn’t surprised, I faked a disappointed sigh. “All right. Maybe you can start me off figuring out what sort of sword is suitable for me, and I’ll buy one to learn while I look for someone who might be able to make one for me?”

  “Now that I can do. Are you busy tonight?”

  “I’m free. I was about to leave work.”

  “Do you have the address of my forge?”

  I relayed the address I had found on the internet. “That the place?”

  “It is. How long will it take for you to get here?”

  “Probably thirty minutes if traffic isn’t bad. Call it forty to be on the safe side.”

  “I’ll be waiting, Mr. Matthews.”

  “Reed, please. Thanks for your help.” I hung up. Maybe Hamhock couldn’t forge the sword I wanted, but I wasn’t against spending some money to better my plan of getting a sword that would make Luna think twice about future meddling. I trusted she wouldn’t break her vow to me, but I wasn’t stupid enough to believe she wouldn’t meddle elsewhere.

  It took five minutes to catch my kitten, who insisted on zipping between my feet, climbing places she shouldn’t, and otherwise doing her best to drive me insane. When I got my hands on her, she mewed, nuzzled me, and purred, thus dodging the scolding she rightfully deserved.

  Damned cat.

  Once I had her harnessed, I shrugged into her favorite coat and dumped her on my shoulder, her leash secured around my wrist in case she decided to attempt an escape. She’d tried it once but hadn’t gotten far before I’d stepped on the line and brought her to a rather sudden stop.

  “You’re supposed to be a therapy kitten, not the reason I finally take a dive off the deep end,” I muttered, scratching her chin on my way down to the garage to my junker. “This Hamhock lady is going to laugh in my face when I bring you over. I’d lock you in your carrier, but I expect you’d try to wreck it and cost me even more money, you evil little beast.”

  The evil little beast in question pounced my hand and mouthed at my knuckles.

  At least Kitten, Destroyer of Worlds didn’t mind being leashed so she couldn’t bother me while I was driving. Once certain she had adopted her habit of looking out the passenger window, I headed for Hamhock’s Forge to learn if the centaur would laugh in my face or at least have the common courtesy to wait until I left.

  Thirty-six minutes later, in the battered heart of Indianapolis’s industrial sector, I parked in the only free spot in front of a former warehouse. The building had seen better days, but instead of more traditional repairs, Hamhock had patched the worn siding with broken weapons of all shapes and sizes, creating what might count as art to someone with an interest in the aftermaths of battle.

  Kitten, Destroyer of Worlds hissed and hid in my hood.

  The front door, decorated with a fan of swords, opened. When I thought of centaurs, I thought of horses, felines, or wolves with the heads and torsos of humans; it varied between species. Most centaurs avoided the places I went.

  The woman who trotted out barely came up to my shoulders, was coal black from head to hoof, and she held her chin high so she could look me in the eyes. “You Reed?”

  Too late to flinch away, the jolt of connection slammed through me, and the chest-tightening I associated with yearning tore at me. In most cases, my sight manifested as a mixture of images and feelings. With Hamhock, it came as a rush of emotion, the longing for the thrill of battle, one she believed outside of her reach.

  That was new. Normally, I only saw the desire and not the obstruction.

  Hamhock believed herself too small and too weak to battle alongside the others of her kind, a weakness rather than an asset. She fought in the only way she knew how, with the weapons she forged for her kin. No matter the size, no matter the shape, she would provide. She lived through the work of her hands without ever satisfying her weary heart.

  To mask my discomfort, I held out my hand while diverting my gaze to the relative safety of her forehead. “I’m Reed. You’re Hamhock?”

  She gripped my hand so hard my knuckles turned white. The pigheaded man in me wanted me to accept her challenge, but I settled with a firm squeeze. “That’s me. Are you aware there is a cat in your coat?”

  “I’ve been informed she’s my therapy kitten and should go everywhere with me. Mostly, she gets into trouble and makes me question my sanity, but she’s too cute to kill. Her name is Kitten, Destroyer of Worlds. I picked her up as a rescue, but I’ve been told it would do me some good to take care of another living thing for some reason. She’s grown on me. I can put her in her carrier in the car if she’ll be a problem.”

  “Interesting. She’s no problem. Come on in, then. You won’t be running into battle with a two-hander, but I think I might be able to work with you. What sort of tricks are you packing?”

  Since I doubted she’d be happy if I told her what I’d seen, I settled with a half-truth. “Nothing of use. I’ve been told I should avoid guns.”

  “Why?”

  With my luck, Luna would spill my secrets anyway, and since I was putting my weapon selection in Hamhock’s hooves, I figured being upfront would serve me better than secrecy “I’m only about a third human, and the rest of my genetics seem to favor getting up close and personal with people.”

  “Angel spawn?”

  “No, but both of my parents are.”

  Hamhock looked me over head to toe, and she flashed me a predatory smile. “Now that’s interesting. Come on in, watch your step, and point at the first weapon to catch your eye. We’ll start there.”

  I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but a minefield of blades scattered over the floor wasn’t it. Small paths, barely enough for Hamhock to navigate, meandered through the selection. Hundreds of weapons of all shapes and sizes waited, from daggers no longer than my finger to swords taller than I was.

  “Holy shit,” I spluttered, freezing in the doorway to gawk.

  “I may have gone slightly overboard laying everything out. I’m not the best smith on the block, but I’m versatile. If it’s a weapon, I can forge it. And if I can forge it, I know someone who can make one beautiful and lethal enough to make even angels cry.” Easing her way through the room, which was easily fifty feet across, Hamhock stood by a set of battered steel doors, scarred by what I suspected were hoof scuffs. “So, have a look. Tell me what you like.”

  It only took one look around the room to realize I knew nothing at all about swords. When I thought I recognized a katana, there were four other blades similar to it of varying lengths. Picking my way through the weapons, I wondered how anyone could learn to forge so many different types.

  The first one to make me stop and stare wasn’t a sword at all, not exactly, but a staff with a curved blade on its end. I pointed at it. “What is that thing?”

  “That is a naginata, a Japanese weapon similar to the European glaive. It’s used in several forms of martial arts and is good on both the offense and defense. It’s traditionally used by women, but you’re no Hercules, Reed Matthews. I’d go so far to say you’re rather scrawny. While there are heavier naginata better suited for warrior men, perhaps one meant for a woman’s hand might better service you. You are not too tall, you are not broad in the shoulder. You are not manly like the men they give the monsters of swords to.”

  “Ask the trees in my back yard. I’m mean with an axe.”

  The centaur chuckled and picked her way across to the naginata, which she grabbed and swished through the air. “Now this would prove a challenge for a master to craft a piece worthy of making an angel cry. This weapon fell out of favor before the Edo period in Japan. Firearms and the subsequent shift in warfare spelled the weapon’s demise—of sorts. Its purpose changed. It became a woman’s weapon. Later, it became a symbol and a part of a woman’s spiritual growth. Now, it is a hobby, changed far from its roots on the battlefield. It has been a long time s
ince anyone has used a naginata in the old way. To bring someone into a lost art so old? Yes, I know the perfect woman to inflict you upon. It will be an honor watching her weep.”

  “I’m sensing a theme, and it involves tears.”

  “Of which you will contribute many.”

  “Delightful.”

  Hamhock smirked and thumped the butt of the naginata on the ground. “Tell me why you pointed this weapon out to me over all the others.”

  I turned to the weapons similar to a katana, gesturing towards them. “I thought I recognized a katana, but saw there were several weapons similar to it. At that point, I figured I really had no idea what I was looking at. So, I looked around.” Shrugging, I pivoted to face the centaur.

  The naginata’s blade brushed against my throat, and had its edge been sharpened, I would have bled. “What do you see now?”

  Kitten, Destroyer of Worlds scrambled onto my shoulder, hissed, and smacked her paw against the weapon. She paddled it, her tail lashing as her strikes proved rather ineffective. “My decapitation if I’m not really careful.”

  “A good answer. Let me ask you a new question.” Hamhock eased the naginata away from my throat and tapped its butt against the floor. “Why do you want a sword?”

  “I have an angel who keeps meddling in my affairs, so I think I’m going to need it along with a crash course in not dying.” I grimaced. My pride wouldn’t like my next words, but if I was going to trust Hamhock to help me pick a weapon, then she needed to know my suspicions. “While I have limited faith said angel will stop directly meddling, I think she gave up too easily. Considering she was willing to make an agreement with me about buying a fiendishly expensive sword and provide the training to use it, something tells me I’m going to need it.”

  “Self-defense, then.”

  I nodded. “It’s just me and my cat. There’s no one else in my life.”

  It seemed strange without the past haunting me quite so much, leaving me more alone than I’d been before the day Kennedy Young had crashed back into my life. Our paths had led different places, and I hoped she found whatever it was her heart desired, grateful I’d dodged finding out. I’d done so well avoiding eye contact with people until Hamhock.

  The centaur’s desire would bother me for a long time. It always did, when I slipped and caught a glimpse without being prepared. When I went hopping through bars, I readied myself for the inevitable, then I basked in the glow of their contentment.

  I doubted their satisfaction would last long, but I’d savored the respite.

  “Might I recommend a Carolingian sword?” After returning the naginata to its place leaning against the wall, Hamhock crossed the room, stretched out her front legs, and picked up a sword with a blade a little over two feet in length and a short hilt with a rounded pommel. “It’s versatile enough, and I think it could send an interesting message.”

  “Message? What message?”

  “‘Don’t fuck with Vikings’ comes to mind.”

  “Vikings?” I narrowed my eyes and regarded the blade with a healthy mix of doubt and caution. “That’s a Viking sword?”

  “It sure is. Best of all, it’s meant to be used with a shield, and nothing is quite as much fun as bashing someone’s face in with a shield. Not only do you get to protect yourself, but you’ll look stylish while doing so.”

  My brows took a hike. “Vikings were stylish?”

  Hamhock shot a glare at me. “I’ll have you know the Carolingian is the forefather of many a great sword, including the arming sword.”

  “Arming sword?”

  With a long-suffering sigh, the centaur bowed her head. “Think Excalibur.”

  “Wasn’t Excalibur supposedly fairly plain as far as mystical lost swords went?”

  “It was. But Excalibur came from an era of knights and chivalry and twisted ethics. No, for you, I think a beautiful but brutal weapon is best. Your foes will look at you and see a pretty man, a modern-day elf without the pointy ears. All willowy and lovely. Then they’ll underestimate you. It’ll be too late for them, for by then, you’ll have whipped out your sword and taught them a thing or two before lopping off their head and using it as a weapon, too. It’s always important to use both hands in battle.”

  It took gargantuan effort, but I somehow managed not to laugh. “So basically, my mantra should be something along the lines of ‘pretty as elf, vicious as Viking?’ The actual Vikings are probably rolling in their graves. I don’t even want to ask about the elves.” While I’d heard of elves, I’d never met one, nor did I have any interest in meeting one.

  “I think you misunderstand,” the centaur replied in a grave tone. “There is nothing more vicious than an elf, and fewer still more beautiful than one. My father always warned me to steer clear of the elves on the battlefield. They sometimes forget they’re supposed to kill their dinner before they eat it.”

  That startled me enough I gaped at the centaur, so surprised I hardly noticed when I met her gaze and held it. “Say what?”

  “Never underestimate an elf. It would be the last thing you do. Yes, a Carolingian blade is perfect for you. But can it be done? Now that’s the real question.”

  “Can what be done?” I asked, although I feared the answer.

  “Transforming you into a modern-day elf, of course. How else can we mere mortals make an angel weep?” Hamhock pranced in place. “Yes, this is perfect, and I know just the woman to make your sword.”

  “Luna is supposed to pick the instructor. She said she only wanted the best to teach me.”

  “There is no better teacher, and should she tell you otherwise, it is a lie.” The centaur’s smile chilled me. “Do you know what happens should an angel lie?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Now that would be interesting. I do hope we get to find out.”

  I worried but kept my misgivings to myself. A sword was only part of the puzzle. The real trick was learning to use it, and I got the feeling my life would be turned upside down in a new and unusual way—one that would keep me busy outside of work for the first time since leaving Mississippi three years ago.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hamhock promised to call me in the next day or two with more information on how much my swords would cost along with an introduction to the woman who would forge them and teach me how to use them. I spent the drive home that night wondering how so much could change so fast.

  Bargaining with an angel meant trouble, especially when the angel was unhappy with her end of the deal. I’d either done something right or wrong by challenging her, but I had no idea which. Until I had a chance to speak with Lucavier, I would be blind to the full reality of my situation. In that, Luna had been right.

  Every action I made would have a consequence. Inaction also had consequences, if Luna was to be believed.

  However, I doubted. I doubted everything the angel said from the moment she’d warned me of the accident and subsequent kidnapping. None of it made sense. Why kidnap me and dump me in Mississippi? The why was almost as confusing as the how; a mystery to everyone, including me.

  The only mysteries I enjoyed were the ones I wasn’t involved with.

  Despite it being a work night, my anxiety and curiosity got the better of me. Why would anyone kidnap me? Was my inaction regarding the letter—an invitation of all things—the reason for it? If so, was Lucavier somehow involved?

  The more I thought about it, the more my suspicions turned in one direction: Luna’s.

  Immortals surpassed any magic humans could ever hope to possess, even the odder ones like myself. Then there were the truly magical races, like Hamhock and her centaur kin. In a lot of ways, humans were the ants of the sentient world, hiding in every nook and cranny, thriving despite adversity, stronger than their size would imply. I found it odd I still classified as a human. Then again, I couldn’t classify as an angel or demon, either.

  Even vanilla humans could tap into more practical magics than mine, although I had dabble
d as a practitioner enough that I could cause problems if I put my mind to it. Then again, maybe magic held the solution to my problems.

  It’d been months since I’d last dabbled, giving up the hope of blinding my angelic sight. If I turned my attentions to other forms of magic, a different sort of solution could be found. Angels weren’t the only beings capable of discerning the truth, and in my efforts to blind my cursed sight, I’d found ways to augment my hearing so I could tell if someone lied, too.

  Once I figured out what the spell did, I’d buried it, hiding it among my research. Seeing things was bad enough, but hearing the truths of someone’s words unnerved me almost as much as seeing the desires of their heart. However, unlike my sight, I could make it work no matter the distance.

  When I called Lucavier, I’d know the truth of his words, and I’d be able to learn a bit more about what was so important three angels would harass me about his invitation to speak with him. As far as spells went, the truth one was simple enough.

  It only took a little bit of water, a drop of my blood, and a rune drawn on paper to cast, although it came at a price. Until I burned the sheet, I couldn’t lie. Until the page ignited, destroying my blood, even omissions would prove difficult to contain.

  I would need to watch every word and choose them with care.

  Fortunately for me, it was a skill I’d mastered long ago, starting with the day I had willfully incarcerated myself for a young woman’s sake. With a grim smile, I went inside my home, released Kitten, Destroyer of Worlds, and headed for my bedroom.

  While I had told Kennedy my home lacked a basement, I hadn’t been entirely honest. Technically, the crawl space didn’t count as a basement, although it served the same purpose. It hid what I didn’t want the rest of the world to find.

  Most accepted practitioners as a part of society, a way to tap into magic the untalented couldn’t. Some excelled at it, capable of doing anything with enough research, practice, and supplies. I fell somewhere in between. Some things came as naturally as breathing, including the truth spell. Others, such as the art of breathing flame or dousing it, eluded me.