Magic Strikes

by Ilona Andrews

  “Ah.” He took a slice, broke the fruit in half, and tossed it into his mouth. “Who clued you in? Raphael?”

  “Does it matter?”

  His eyes flashed with gold sparks. “No.”

  Liar. The last thing I wanted was to cause Raphael difficulties because he’d ruined Curran’s private joke. “I read it in Greg’s notes.” I took a couple of bucks out of my pocket, folded them, and stuck the bills between the salt and pepper shakers.

  “Leaving?” he asked.

  Your powers of deduction are truly marvelous, Mr. Holmes. “Since you have no need of my professional persona, I’m going to return to my duties.”

  “You’re off today.”

  And how did he know that?

  He ate another peach. “The Order has a sixteen-hour shift limit when the magic is down. One of our rats saw you late last night getting an old lady off of a telephone pole. Apparently it was a hilarious affair all around.”

  “I live to amuse.” I rose.

  Curran struck at my wrist. His fingers were cat-quick, but I had spent my life honing my reflexes, and he missed.

  “Well, look at that.” I studied my free wrist. “Denied. Good-bye, Your Majesty. Please pass my condolences to the family.”

  I headed to the door.

  “Kate?” His sudden change of tone made me turn. All humor had drained from Curran’s face. “Whose family?”

  CHAPTER 6

  BEFORE THE SHIFT, THE STREET OF PONCE DE LEON had channeled the massive flow of traffic from Stone Mountain through Decatur and Druid Hills past City Hall East all the way to the skyscrapers of Midtown. The Bell-South Tower, Bank of America, and the Renaissance Hotel were little more than heaps of rubble now, but City Hall East still stood. It might have held on because it wasn’t all that tall—only nine stories high. Its age probably played a part. Steeped in history, the building had evolved through the years, from the 1926 Sears depot to a government hub to a community of condos, shops, and restaurants sheltering a couple of acres of green. But there was a third, much more compelling reason for its continued existence. About twenty years ago Atlanta’s University of Arcane Arts had purchased the massive two-million-square-foot monster. It now housed faculty, students, libraries, laboratories, research facilities . . . If anybody could keep a building standing, four hundred mages ought to be it.

  The presence of mages—and mage students who, like all college students, were rather impulsive in their purchases— had revived Ponce de Leon. It was a bustling street now, full of shops, stalls, and eateries.

  Dead Cat Street was a sorry narrow affair by comparison. It wound its way between the newly rebuilt two- and three-story apartment buildings to a small plaza containing a convenience store and a grocery. Curran and I stood on the edge of the narrow sidewalk, looking at Dead Cat Street, as the horse carts and passersby traversed Ponce de Leon to our right. The body had been found a couple dozen yards from the corner. The scene was clean. No smudges of blood on the pavement. No signs of struggle. No nothing. If I hadn’t come through here last night, I wouldn’t have known anything untoward had taken place.

  Curran stood very still, breathing deeply. Minutes stretched into the past. Suddenly his upper lip rose, baring his teeth. A precursor of a growl shivered just beneath his teeth. His eyes flashed with gold.

  “Curran?”

  A lion glared at me though gray human eyes and vanished, replaced by Curran’s neutral face. “Nice, thorough job.”

  I arched my eyebrows at him.

  “They salted the scene with wolfsbane. The stems are dried out, ground into powder, and mixed with some base. Dry detergent works well. Borax. Baking soda. Not as effective as a wolfsbane paste, but enough of it will overwhelm the scent trail. Jim’s crew dumped about a gallon of it here.”

  I filed that tidbit away for future reference. “So the sniff test is a bust?”

  Curran smiled. “You can’t salt the air. Even here, with all the traffic and draft, the scents linger above the ground. Tell me what you saw and we’ll compare notes.”

  I hesitated. Talking to Curran was like walking through a minefield. You never knew when something would set him off, and Jim, screwed-up asshole though he might be, was my former partner. “Why don’t you ask Jim instead? He would probably want a chance to tell you himself.”

  Curran shook his head. His face was grim. “When one of ours dies, I get a call. No matter the hour. I was in the Keep last night and didn’t get one. I saw Jim this morning and he said nothing to me about this.”

  “He must have a compelling reason for withholding the information.”

  “Kate, did you extend an offer of cooperation to the Pack on behalf of the Order?”

  Oh, bite me. “Yes, I did. It was declined.”

  “As Beast Lord, I now accept your offer.”

  Damn it. The Mutual Aid Agreement bound me to disclose all knowledge of the incident.

  I stared at him helplessly. “How do you always do that? How do you always maneuver me into doing something I don’t want to do?”

  Curran’s face lightened a little. “I’ve had a lot of practice. The Pack contains thirty-two species in seven tribes, each with their own hang-up. Jackals and coyotes pick fights with wolves, because they have an inferiority complex and think they’ve got something to prove. Wolves believe themselves to be superior, marry the wrong people, and then refuse to divorce them because they cling to their ‘mating for life’ idiocy. Hyenas listen to nobody, screw everything, and break out in berserk rages at some perceived slight against one of their own. Cats randomly refuse to follow orders to prove they can. That’s my life. I’ve been at this for fifteen years now. You’re easy by comparison.”

  And here I thought I was a challenge. “Pardon me while my ego recovers.”

  He grinned. “It’s a benefit of having principles. Boxed into a corner, you will always strive to do what you think is right, especially when you don’t like it. Like right now.”

  “I suppose you have me all figured out.”

  “I understand why you do things, Kate. It’s how you do them that occasionally pisses me off.”

  Occasionally? “I want to assure you, Your Majesty, that I spend long nights lying awake in my bed worrying about your feelings.”

  “As well you should.” A half-laugh, half-growl reverberated in his throat. “Provoking me won’t work. Tell me what you saw. Or should I make a formal request in writing?”

  This was apparently a “let’s teach Kate humility” day. He had me by the throat.

  I thought back to the scene, reconstructing it in my head. “I came in by mule from Ponce de Leon. There were seven shapeshifters. Two in wolf form, scanning the scene for scents. One was here.” I walked over to indicate the right spot. “Male. Looked like a typical European wolf, Canis lupus lupus, coarse dark gray fur streaked with sandy brown, especially on the nose. The second one was here.” I crossed the street to approximate location. “Might have been a female, but I’m not sure. Brown, almost cinnamon fur, black or very dark chocolate muzzle and dark ears. Light yellow eyes. Looked like Cascade Mountain wolf to me.”

  “George and Brenna,” Curran supplied. He was watching me with intense interest. “Jim’s best trackers. Go on.”

  I crossed the street to the other side of Dead Cat. “Two shapeshifters here, sliding a corpse into a bag. Both female. The one on the right was average size, lightly built, ash-blond hair cut in a bob. Never saw her face.” I took a wide step to my left. “Native American, slightly plump, dark skin, early forties, long hair in a braid. Pretty.”

  Curran said nothing.

  “Perimeter guard here.” I pointed to my left. “And here.” I turned to indicate the second spot. “And one right there.” I stabbed my finger where the guard had stopped me. “The two in the back looked similar, dark-haired, Latino with a touch of Indian, possibly Mexican, young, male, short, compact, very quick, trouble in a fight. The guy who stopped me was in his midthirties, maybe early forties.
Military haircut, light brown hair, hazel eyes, muscle heavy, a dedicated bodybuilder. Not as quick as the other two but I got the impression he could carry me and my mule both. Spoke with a touch of an accent, Aussie or New Zealand. Favored his left arm a bit. Might have been hurt recently. You want me to describe the clothes?”

  Curran shook his head. “How long were you here?”

  “About a minute and a half, maybe two.” I crossed the street over to where I saw Brenna yelp. “Brenna found an arm right here. I think perhaps a female arm, because the sleeve was pale and shimmered a bit. Some kind of metallic fabric, an evening gown or blouse, not the type a man would typically wear unless he was very flamboyant.”

  “Tell me about Jim.”

  “He materialized out of thin air right here. Very dramatic.” I raised my head. “Ah. Probably jumped off this balcony.” I recounted the conversation. “That’s all I got. Didn’t see the body. Didn’t get any details.”

  Curran’s face took on this odd look. It looked almost like admiration. “Not bad. Natural recall or something the Order taught you?”

  I shrugged. “Not the Order. My father. And it’s not perfect. I typically forget the most important item on my shopping list. But I’m trained to evaluate the situation for possible dangers, and seven shapeshifters packing away a dead body in the middle of the night on a deserted road is a lot of danger. Your turn to share.”

  “A deal is a deal.” Curran stepped into the road with me. “She wasn’t killed here. The scent of blood is faint and the ground isn’t stained, but still dirty so nobody rinsed the pavement off. The body had been cut into at least six pieces. This is a dump site, chosen because one of our offices is only eight blocks away. That’s the closest they could get to our territory without being stopped by a patrol. There were at least three of them, and they don’t smell human. I don’t know what they are, but I don’t like their scent.”

  Better and better.

  “Can’t tell you much more than that, except that Jim had his best cleanup crew with him. I know every person you described. They’re very good at what they do.”

  And none of them had said anything to him about it. The million-dollar question was why?

  “Once accepted, the assistance of the Order can’t be declined,” I told him. “I’m now part of this investigation. That means I’ll have to come into your territory and ask uncomfortable questions.”

  “I have some questions to ask as well.” Liquid gold drowned Curran’s eyes. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood on their ends. I really didn’t want to be Jim right now.

  “I’ll contact you to schedule time for the interviews.” He turned and walked away, leaving me in the middle of the street. Beast Lord, a man beyond mundane niceties like good-bye and thank you.

  As I walked back to civilization, I realized that for the first time in the six months I had known Curran, we had managed to have a conversation and part ways without wanting to kill each other. I found that fact deeply troubling.

  CHAPTER 7

  A SMALL BROWN-PAPER PARCEL WAITED FOR ME by the door of my apartment. I stopped and pondered why in the world it hadn’t been stolen. The apartment, which I had inherited from Greg, wasn’t in the worst part of town but not in the best one either. My guardian hadn’t been concerned with security; he’d bought the apartment because it was close to the Order.

  I frowned at the parcel. It lay on the grimy landing before my new door—the old one had to be replaced when a demon burst through it. I’d built a bit of a reputation in the neighborhood as that crazy bitch with a sword who lives in 32B, an image I carefully cultivated, but even so, an unattended parcel should have been pilfered within seconds of hitting the ground.

  Maybe it was booby-trapped.

  I pulled out Slayer. The light filtering through the grimy window above me caught the opaque, nearly white metal of the saber, layering a nacre sheen along the blade. I nudged the package with the saber’s tip and dodged just in case.

  Nothing.

  The package lay quietly. Yes, yes, and as soon as I picked it up, it would sprout blades and slice my hands to ribbons.

  I crouched, cut across the cord securing the paper, and carefully slid the paper aside, revealing green silk and a little card. I picked up the card. Please call me. Saiman.

  I swore under my breath and took the parcel inside the apartment. My answering machine indicated no messages. Nothing from Derek.

  I tore the paper and dumped the contents of the parcel onto my bed. A pair of wide silk pants, light magenta in color, green slippers, and an ao dai: a long, flowing Vietnamese garment, half-tunic, half-dress. The clothes were exquisite, especially the ao dai, made of fern-green silk and embroidered with lighter green and tiny flecks of magenta.

  I got the phone and dialed Saiman’s number.

  “Hello, Kate.”

  “What part of ‘no date’ did you not understand?”

  A barely audible sigh filtered through the phone. “Unless you’ve been to the Games, it’s hard to describe the atmosphere. It’s a remarkably violent, brutal place. The normal boundaries of common sense don’t apply. Cooler heads do not prevail, and everyone’s burning to prove their physical prowess. You’re an attractive woman. If you come dressed as you were last night, we’ll be inundated with challengers. I think we’ll both agree that calling that much attention to ourselves is unnecessary.”

  He had a point.

  “I’ve chosen these items with great care,” he said. “They permit full freedom of movement. If you wear them, you’ll look less like a bodyguard and more like—”

  “Arm candy?”

  “A companion. Please, be reasonable, Kate. Play Emma Peel to my John Steed for one night.”

  I had no clue who Emma Peel or John Steed was.

  Saiman’s voice softened, gaining a warm velvet quality. “If you are uncomfortable, I understand. We can always renegotiate the terms of our bargain.”

  He sank enough innuendo into “renegotiate” to make a professional call girl blush.

  “A bargain is a bargain,” I said. Better to pay up here and now. Being in debt to Saiman didn’t appeal to me in the least, and he knew it. Outmaneuvered yet again.

  “Green is your color,” Saiman said in a conciliatory way. “I had the ao dai tailored to you. It should fit.”

  I had no doubt it would. He’d probably turned into me and tried it on. “I’ll give it a shot.”

  “I’ll pick you up at ten. And, Kate, perhaps a touch of makeup . . .”

  “Would you like to assist me with my choice of underwear as well?”

  My sarcasm whistled right over his head. “I would be delighted. While I’d love to see you in a balconette bra, I’m afraid for this particular occasion I would have to go with a foam-lined seamless due to the tight fit of the garment across your breasts . . . Perhaps I could come over and review what you have available . . .”

  I hung up. A panty party with Saiman. Not in his wildest dreams.

  EIGHT HOURS LATER, AS I STEPPED OUT OF SAIMAN’S car into the parking lot of the Arena, I reflected on the fact that he had proved right. Although the green silk hugged my chest, leaving absolutely no doubt that I was female, the dress widened below. Two slits sliced the ao dai on the sides, reaching an inch past the high waistband of the pants. The sleeves flared at the wrist, wide enough to mask my wrist guards, which I had filled with silver needles.

  Unfortunately, there was nowhere to put my sword. That was okay. I didn’t mind carrying it.

  Saiman held on to my passenger door. He chose to be tall and middle-aged tonight, a man past his prime but still trim and dapper in a sleek dark suit and a black turtleneck. His features were large and well-defined, with a patrician nose, powerful chin, wide forehead, and pale hazel eyes under forceful white eyebrows. Platinum-gray hair framed his face in a carefully trimmed mane. In his right hand he held a long black cane tipped by a silver dragon head.

  An aura of wealth radiated from him, enhancing hi
s looks like a layer of polish. He smelled of money and prestige. His voice was the auditory equivalent of expensive coffee, rich, smooth, and slightly bitter. “Kate, I’m afraid the sword has to stay.”

  “No.”

  “Weapons are forbidden everywhere but the Pit level. You won’t get through the door.”

  Shit.

  I sighed and put Slayer between the front seats. “Stay here. Guard the car.”

  Saiman shut the door. “Is the sword sentient?”

  “No. But I like to pretend it is.”

  A remote clicked in Saiman’s hand. The car answered with an odd chime.

  “What was that?”