Magic Strikes

by Ilona Andrews

  I guess the spell was a bust.

  A spark of bright magenta shone above the lamia’s head. It flared into glowing red jaws with demonic needle-teeth. The jaws chomped the lamia—neck, elbows, waist—and vanished. There was a loud crunch and the lamia twisted: her head turned backward, snapping her neck, her elbows protruded from the front of her arms, and she bent to the side like a flower with a broken stem.

  I turned slowly and stared at Dali. She shrugged. “I guess it worked. What?”

  The crowd went wild.

  Jim waited for us at the Gold Gate. His teeth were bared. “What happened to barely winning?”

  “You said sloppy! Look, I didn’t even use my sword; I hit him with my head, like a moron.”

  “A man with a sword attacked you and you disarmed him and knocked him out cold in under two seconds.” He turned to Curran.

  The Beast Lord shrugged. “It’s not my fault that he didn’t know how to fall.”

  Jim’s gaze slid from Curran to Dali. “What the hell was that?”

  “Crimson Jaws of Death.”

  “And were you planning on letting me know that you can turn people’s elbows backward?”

  “I told you I did curses.”

  “You said they don’t work!”

  “I said they don’t always work. This one worked apparently.” Dali wrinkled her forehead. “It’s not like I ever get to use them against live opponents anyway. It was an accident.”

  Jim looked at us. The clipboard snapped in his hands. He turned around and very deliberately walked away.

  “I think we hurt his feelings.” Dali looked at his retreating back, sighed, and went after him.

  Curran looked at me. “What the hell was I supposed to do, catch the werebison as he was falling?”

  BACK IN THE ROOM I GRABBED A CHANGE OF clothes and showered. When I returned, dinner had been brought in by the Red Guard: beef stew with fresh bread. Raphael had vanished right after dinner, and the shapeshifters invited me to play poker.

  They killed me. Apparently I was made of tells: they could hear my heartbeat and smelled the changes in my sweat, and counted the number of times I blinked, and knew what cards I had before I looked at them. If it had been strip poker, I would’ve had to give them the skin off my back. I finally gave up and went back to my bed to read one of Doolittle’s paperbacks, since he was otherwise occupied. The good doctor turned out to be a card fiend. Once in a while, I glanced at them. The six shapeshifters sat like statues, faces showing nothing, barely lifting their cards to steal supernaturally fast glances. It felt weird to fall asleep with someone else there, but there was something almost hypnotic about their absolute stillness that lulled me into sleep.

  I dreamed that Curran and I killed a dinosaur and then had sex in the dirt.

  AT ABOUT NINE, CURRAN, DALI, AND I MADE OUR way to the Gold Gate to see Andrea, Raphael, Jim, and Derek take on the Killers.

  The magic was up. Andrea grinned as she passed me by. She carried her SIG-Sauers in hip holsters and a crossbow in her hands. With the magic up, the guns wouldn’t fire, but she must’ve wanted to be prepared for the shift.

  Jim and Derek carried nothing and wore identical gray sweatpants. Raphael carried two tactical knives, both with oxide finish that made the blades Teflon-black. The knife in his left was shaped like a tanto. The blade in his right was double-edged and slightly leaf-shaped: narrow at the handle, it widened before coming to a razor-sharp point. Raphael wore black boots, fitted black leather pants that molded to him with heart-shattering results, and nothing else.

  As he passed me, he leaned to Curran and handed him a paper fan folded from some sort of flyer.

  Curran looked at the fan. “What?”

  “An emergency precaution, Your Majesty. In case the lady faints.”

  Curran just stared at him.

  Raphael strode toward the Pit, turned, flexed a bit, and winked at me.

  “Give me that,” I told Curran. “I need to fan myself.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  We took off to the stairs for the better view. When the three of us settled on the staircase, Andrea was drawing her crossbow in a businesslike fashion. The three shapeshifters spread out in front of her.

  Across the expanse of sand, the Killers waited in a two-by-two formation.

  The Killers gave off a distinctly Japanese flair. Their Stone, a huge, towering monstrosity, had to weigh close to four hundred pounds. Dark indigo, he stood eight feet tall, with arms like tree trunks. A big, round gut protruded above his kilt, as though he’d swallowed a cannon ball. Two horns curved from the coarse mane of dark hair dripping from his skull, and two matching sabertooth-like tusks protruded from his lower jaw. His brutish, thick-featured face communicated simple rage, and the huge iron club in his hand signified his willingness to let it loose. An oni, a Japanese ogre.

  Next to him crouched a beast bearing a striking resemblance to the stone statues guarding the entrances to Chinese temples. Thick and powerfully muscled, it stared at the crowd with bulging eyes brimming with intelligence. Its flanks were dark red, its mane short and curled in ruby ringlets. It sniffed the air and shook its disproportionately huge head. Its maw gaped open, wide, wider, until its head split nearly in half. Lights glinted from brilliant white fangs. A Fu Lion.

  Behind him a thin-lipped redheaded woman in a white shirt and flaring black pants held a yumi, a two-meter-tall, slender, traditional Japanese bow. By her side stood an Asian man with striking, pale green eyes.

  The archer began drawing her yumi bow. She stood with her feet wide apart, the left side of her body facing the target—Raphael. She raised the bow above her head and lowered it slowly, drawing as it came down, wider and wider, until the straight line of the arrow crossed just under her cheekbone.

  A silver spark ignited at the tip of the arrow and ran down the shaft, flaring into white lightning.

  Across the sand Andrea waited, with her crossbow down at her side. Raphael casually twirled the knife in his right hand, turning it into a metal blur.

  I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, hands braided into a single fist.

  “They aren’t children,” Curran said to me. “They know what they’re doing.”

  It made no difference to me. I would rather walk a hundred times into the Pit than see one of them die in there.

  The gong struck.

  The archer fired.

  Andrea snapped the crossbow up and fired without aiming. In the same blink Raphael slid out of the way of the fiery arrow, as fluidly as if his joints were made of water, and struck it down with his knife. Pieces of the arrow fell to the sand, sizzling with magic.

  The archer’s head snapped. The crossbow bolt sprouted precisely between her eyes. Her mouth gaped open in a black O and she toppled back like a log.

  The man next to her closed his eyes and fell back. His body never touched the sand. Thin strands of magic caught and cloaked him, knitting into a gossamer web, cradling his body like a hammock. His face turned placid. He appeared asleep.

  The Fu Lion roared, sounding more like a pissed-off wolverine than a feline. Plumes of reddish smoke billowed from its mouth. It charged.

  It covered the distance to our line in three great bounds, each strike of its clawed feet shaking the sand like the blow of a huge sledgehammer. Derek lunged into its path, ripping the sweatpants from his body. Skin split on his back, spilling fur. Muscle and bone boiled and a seven-foot-tall werewolf grasped the Fu Lion’s head. The nightmare and the lion collided, raising a spray of sand into the air. The impact pushed Derek across the sand. Derek dug his lupine feet into the sand, grinding the lion’s charge to a dead halt. Sinewy muscle played along his long back under the patchy fur.

  The Fu Lion jerked his head, trying to shake off the half-beast, half-man. Derek thrust his claws into the creature’s massive neck. To the left Jim became a jaguar in an explosion of flesh and golden fur.

  The Fu Lion reared, trying to claw. The moment it exposed its gu
t, Raphael and the werejaguar darted to it. Knives and claws flashed and the slippery clumps of the beast’s innards tumbled out in a whoosh of blood. Derek tore his claws free and leapt aside. The Fu Lion swayed and fell.

  The shapeshifters rose from his corpse, silent. Derek’s eyes glowed amber, while Jim’s were pools of green.

  “Jim improved his warrior form,” Curran said. “Interesting.”

  Behind the shapeshifters Andrea loaded the crossbow and fired. The crossbow spat bolts, one after another. Three shafts punctured the oni’s chest, but the ogre just bellowed and brushed them off the massive shield of flesh he called his torso.

  Andrea landed a shot to the forehead. The bolt bounced off the ogre’s skull.

  Magic grew behind the oni, blooming like a flower around the sleeping man. Long, translucent strands snaked past the oni’s legs, like pale ribbons.

  “Bad,” Dali murmured behind me. “Bad, bad, bad . . .”

  The strands knotted together. Light flashed and a creature spilled forth. Ten feet tall, it resembled a human crouching on frog legs. It squatted in the sand, leaning on abnormally long forelimbs, the magic ribbons binding its back and legs to the sleeping mage. A second set of forearms sprouted from its elbows, terminating in long, slender fingers tipped with narrow claws. A huge maw gaped where its face would have been, a black funnel turned inward. Its hide shimmered with a metallic sheen, as if the creature were spun from silver wool.

  The Arena fell silent.

  The shapeshifters backed up. Andrea reloaded and sent a bolt into the creature’s maw. It vanished and emerged from the aberration’s back. The oni danced behind it, stomping the sand.

  The creature reared slightly, its sallow chest expanded, and it belched a glittering, silvery cloud.

  Fine metal needles rained into the sand. One grazed Jim and he snarled. Silver.

  The shapeshifters retreated. The monster kept a steady stream of metal vomit, and began crawling forward, slowly, ponderously, chasing them back to the fence.

  The cloud caught Derek, slicing through his torso. He jerked as if burned, and leapt away.

  “Take out the sleeper,” I murmured.

  Jim barked a short order, barely audible behind the hiss of needles slicing the sand. Derek ducked left, while Raphael darted right, trying to flank the creature. A second mouth bloomed in the side of the creature’s chest and the new flood of needles cut Raphael short.

  I clenched my sword. Curran watched with no expression, like a rock.

  Another command. Raphael and Jim fell back, while Derek backed away slowly, just out of the monster’s reach. The two shapeshifters grasped Andrea’s legs and heaved. She flew straight up, squeezing off a single shot.

  The bolt punched through the sleeper’s chest, emerging through his back. He awoke with a startled scream and clawed at the shaft. The threads of translucent magic ribbons ripped and he crashed into the sand. The ribbons shrank, breaking from the monster’s skin, leaving deep black gaps as they tore. The gaps grew, and the creature began to melt. It whipped about and backhanded the oni out of the way. The blue brute crashed into the fence. The silver aberration crawled to the sleeper, dragging itself faster and faster across the sand. Its back and hips were gone, melted into nothing, and yet it continued to crawl. In a moment it loomed above the flailing human, bent down, and gulped him in a single swallow. The mage’s screeches died and the beast vanished.

  The crowd exploded. A hundred mouths screamed at once. To the left some hoarse male voice yelled, “Gooooooal!” at the top of his lungs.

  The oni stumbled to his feet and met three shapeshifters. It was short and brutal.

  I opened the door and took off down to the gate. Curran and Dali caught up with me.

  A few moments later the four trotted to us, covered in blood and caked with sand. Andrea ran through the gates and hugged me. “Did you see that?”

  “That was a hell of a shot.”

  “Into the infirmary,” Doolittle ordered briskly. “Quickly, before the silver sets in.”

  They passed us. Jim glanced at Curran. The Beast Lord nodded very slightly.

  Derek and Raphael were the last through the door. The boy wonder limped badly. He looked up at Curran, stiff.

  “Good,” Curran said.

  Derek drew himself straight. A small, proud light played in his eyes. He limped past us, trying not to lean on Raphael.

  FIVE FEET FROM THE DOORS, ANDREA FELL. ONE moment she was smiling and the next she dropped like a log. Raphael released Derek and I caught him just as Raphael scooped Andrea off the floor.

  “Silver poisoning,” Doolittle snapped. “Bring her in.”

  Andrea gasped. “It burns.”

  I had dealt with shapeshifters damaged by silver before. It was an ugly, terrible thing. And I had gotten Andrea into it.

  Raphael carried Andrea to the side room, where Doolittle had set up shop, and slid her onto a metal table.

  Andrea shuddered. Spots appeared on her skin like a developing photograph. Her fingers elongated, growing claws.

  “Hold on.” Raphael reached for her leather vest.

  “No.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snarled.

  She clamped his hands. “No!” Her eyes went wild.

  “Now young lady . . .” Doolittle said soothingly.

  “No!”

  Her back arched. She convulsed and yelped, her voice vibrating with pain. She was changing and she didn’t want anyone to see.

  “We need privacy,” I said. “Please.”

  “Let’s go.” Suddenly Derek’s weight was gone from me. Curran picked him up and strode to the back room. Dali and Jim followed. Raphael remained, pale as a sheet, holding Andrea in his arms.

  She snarled in a hoarse voice.

  “It’s all right,” I told her. “Just me, the doctor, and Raphael. They are gone.”

  “I want him to go,” she gasped. “Please.”

  “You’re convulsing. I can’t hold you still because you’re too strong, and the doctor will be too busy.”

  “Cut her clothes,” Doolittle ordered briskly.

  “No. No, no . . .” Andrea began to cry.

  Raphael pulled her to him, his arms around her, her back to his chest. “It’s all right,” he whispered. “It’s all right. It will be fine.”

  In less than a minute I had her nude. Ugly spots of gray peppered her torso. She must’ve gotten a head-on blast of the needles. Andrea shuddered again, tremors spreading from her chest to her legs. She yelped in pain.

  “Don’t fight the change,” Doolittle said softly, opening a leather case with gleaming instruments. “Let it take you.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Of course you can,” I told her.

  “No!” she snarled through clenched teeth.

  “You aren’t going to die because you’re too embarrassed by your hyena freckles. I’ve already seen you in your natural form and Doolittle doesn’t care. He’s seen it all before. Right, Doctor?”

  “Oh, the stories I could tell.” Doolittle chuckled. “This is nothing. A minor thing.” His face said otherwise, but Andrea couldn’t see it. “We’ll have you up and running in no time.”

  “And Raphael thinks you’re sexy in your true form. He’s a pervert, remember? Come on, Andrea. You can do it.”

  Raphael cradled her. “Change, sweetheart. You can do it. Just let the body take over.”

  The gray spots widened. She clenched my hand in hers, nearly crushing my fingers.

  “Change, Andrea. You still owe me lunch, you know.”

  “No, I don’t,” she ground out.

  “Yes, you do. You and Raphael ran out on me and I had to pick up the tab. If you die on me, it will be hard to collect and I’m too cheap to get stuck with the bill. Let’s go.”

  Andrea’s head jerked back, slamming into Raphael’s chest. She cried out. Flesh flowed along her frame, reshaping, molding into a new body, a lean, long-legged creature covered in short fur. Her fa
ce flowed into a mix of human and hyena. Unlike the bouda shapeshifters, whose form too often was a horrific mishmash of mismatched parts, Andrea was a proportional, beautiful, elegant being. Too bad she didn’t see herself that way.

  Doolittle probed her abdomen with the fingers of his left hand, a scalpel in his right. “Now when I cut, you push. Nice and easy, just like you trained.”

  “Trained?” Andrea choked.

  “The silver-extraction training,” Doolittle told her.