The spotted feline, easily three times the size of a normal leopard, wandered to the river’s edge and sniffed the air. I wasn’t moving, but I stood even stiller. The charm should mask my scent and hide me from view, as well as camouflage my aura, but it was always possible someone would see through it someday. I was encouraged that it had worked on Zav that day we’d first met in the wyvern cave, but there were all sorts of magical tools and trinkets scattered across the realms. I might one day run into someone carrying one that nullified stealth magic.
The leopard scanned the trail, eyeing a couple ambling along and pushing a stroller. They were oblivious to the potential threat across the river.
I dropped a hand to Fezzik, ready to attack if the shifter decided it would be worth getting wet to prey on a couple of humans. I wished he would. Then I would be justified in attacking him, in whittling away the brothers’ houseguests one by one, until I only had to face them.
The leopard crept closer to the bank, eyes focused on his potential prey.
Do it, I thought, as if I could telepathically send the message. I pulled Fezzik from its holster.
The leopard’s tail swished and he crouched, preparing to spring. He was in the shadow of a tree. The couple didn’t see him. But I did. I leveled my gun at his eyes.
Someone called from inside the house—it sounded like Kurt’s voice. The leopard’s tail stopped swishing and he glanced back. He looked torn, his gaze turning back to the couple.
My sights were focused on his head. It would be easy to shoot, to take him out before he could return to the house. If I were to tell the authorities that he’d been in the middle of attacking the couple, who would know the difference? A clean shot could end his ability to tell anyone otherwise.
The leopard, no doubt communicating telepathically with Kurt, rose from his crouch and walked across the lawn toward the house.
Reluctantly, I lowered my gun. Even though I wanted to take out the brothers’ allies, I couldn’t kill someone who hadn’t committed a clear-cut crime. Maybe the leopard had killed humans numerous times, but maybe he hadn’t.
The spotted feline disappeared back inside. Nobody else came out.
I walked back to my car, planning to check the fence company next. Maybe the person who’d been making bullets for the shifters would have some good intelligence. And maybe it would give me ideas for how to lure away members of the Pride—or even lure the Pardus brothers out by themselves—so I wouldn’t have to deal with so many enemies at once.
The Sepes Fencing Company was located near the river in Woodinville, on the industrial side opposite the trail. I entered through a door in the front of the corrugated metal building after checking out the fenced side yard full of vinyl posts and rolls of chain link. Everything inside registered as completely normal to my senses. I could, however, detect something magical inside the building. Maybe that was where the enhanced fence bits were kept. So long as the worker who made them was also kept back there.
A petite, bronze-skinned woman with a knitting needle stuck through her loose gray bun was manning the front desk. The door didn’t ring or buzz, and I walked up and leaned over the high counter before she noticed me. Two more knitting needles were fast at work in her hands, crafting a scarf that proclaimed her, or some future gift recipient, a Ravenclaw.
“Can I help you?” She looked up without pausing her knitting. “Are you interested in a fence?”
“Home security is a concern for me,” I said without lying. “I’ve had a few break-ins, and a friend of mine just had an arsonist take out her most prized possession.” Never mind that a fence would be useless to either of us.
“That’s awful. Where do you live?”
“Ballard.”
“I hadn’t realized any parts of Ballard were still that rough.”
Mostly just my apartment. “I live in a transitional neighborhood. I’m particularly interested in your enhanced fences. Is the person who makes them available for a consultation?”
“That’s not quite how it works. We come out to your house or business, take some measurements, talk about what you hope to achieve, and then give a quote.”
“I’d like to see if your fences are truly enhanced before going through all that hassle. And talk to the person who does it.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she set aside the knitting. “The people who do our in-house builds aren’t the ones who interact with customers. You’ll be working with the installers and a supervisor. I can see if Timothy can come out and talk to you, but I’d rather get your information and set up a time for a consult at your house. Ballard is a little out of our usual service area, but we can probably accommodate you.”
“How about a tour of the facility first?” I waved to the closed door behind her. The grinding of metal being cut emanated from the back.
“We don’t give tours.”
“Can you make an exception?” I pulled out a fifty and laid it on the counter. I would prefer to bribe the woman before resorting to threats, especially since she was my mom’s age, or breaking into the facility and risking being caught by a security camera.
“It’s not typical.”
I laid another fifty on top of the first. “Are you sure? I hear good yarn is expensive.”
She slid the bills off the desk and stuffed them into her bra. The blue dress she wore must not have had pockets. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to show you around. No recording allowed though. We create some custom fencing materials that our competitors would love to know about. We can’t have the videos getting up on the internet.”
“I understand completely.”
The three people who would watch a video about fences could ruin the company.
“This way. What’s your name?”
“Val.”
“I’m Martina.” She glanced at me—up at me—as I rounded the desk to join her. “You’ve got great height. Are you in the market for a scarf? I know it’s only June, but this is the time to order.”
“Not really.”
“I can customize it. I have an Etsy shop.” She handed me a card. “Please look at my reviews. People are very satisfied.”
Everyone was an entrepreneur these days.
“Do you know what house you’re in?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
“You know, for Harry Potter. Those are my most popular scarves.”
“Oh. Gryffindor.” I didn’t know if it was weirder that I had taken the online test and could answer this or that she nodded sagely, as if she now knew everything about me. “I stand up for injustice.”
By shooting people who caused it. Had the original books mentioned assassins? I couldn’t remember.
“I would have guessed Slytherin, but I don’t judge. I just knit scarves. In your preferred colors. You would look fabulous in a vibrant red.”
“Good to know.”
Slytherin. That was what I got for bribing her.
The grinding noise was much louder inside. Martina headed toward the man making it—he was cutting wrought iron rods to uniform length—but my gaze went to a tall, stout woman in the back who looked like the female version of Dimitri.
There was a hint of the magical about her, and I guessed her a half- or quarter-blood. But of what species? Dwarf? Like Dimitri? Her short white-blonde hair had a frizzy kink to it that looked untamable, and with those shoulders, she could have defended a hockey goal without need of pads or a stick. She reminded me more of a troll.
All around her, stacks of stakes and artistically bent pieces of iron rose, most of them oozing a faint magic. Nothing was as strong as my weapons, but for passive protection, they could work to convince thieves to wander off and try another target.
Martina tried to introduce me to the metalsmith, who looked at my ass and gave her a thumbs-up—maybe this meant I was an acceptable client—but after a hurried hello, I went straight to the big lady.
“Hi, I’m Val.” I stuck out a hand.
The woman had been hunc
hed over a worktable, her hand resting on an ornamental disk that looked like it would be welded to a gate. She looked at me and straightened, towering six inches taller than my six feet. Definitely troll blood. That was interesting because they weren’t known for being natural enchanters or craftsmen, though their shamans put together some legendary potions that Zoltan would know all about.
“Inga.” Her deep voice matched her barrel chest. She started to lift a hand to shake mine but paused and dropped it. “I know who you are.”
That sounded ominous.
Martina had caught up to me. “Inga, this is Val. She’s a Gryffindor.”
Inga’s blonde eyebrows twitched. “Is that right.” It wasn’t a question.
“So the internet test told me.” I lowered my hand.
Inga eyed Fezzik and Chopper, clearly having no trouble seeing the weapons that were invisible to most.
“Do you have a couple of minutes?” I asked. “I’d love to talk to you about your work.”
“I can’t believe the Mythic Murderer is in the market for a fence.”
Usually, only full-blooded members of the magical community knew my nicknames—and held a grudge against me. Inga must have had ties to her kin.
“I’m in the market for information, and I’m willing to pay.”
Martina’s forehead furrowed as she looked back and forth between us.
I put a hand on her shoulder. “If I buy a scarf, will you leave us alone for ten minutes?”
“I will for another fifty dollars.”
And Willard wondered why I insisted on being paid in cash and could only afford a one-bedroom apartment with a view of a brick wall.
“Easier money than knitting, huh?” I pulled out another bill and gave it to her.
“It doesn’t require me buying yarn or paying the Etsy fees.” Martina winked and slid it into her bra with the others.
Inga looked disgusted.
“Be careful,” Martina whispered to her before leaving. “I think she’s really a Slytherin.”
“No doubt,” Inga grumbled.
Bribing her might not be effective. I would have to figure out what I could offer her that she wanted. Information rarely came free, especially from someone who knew my reputation and didn’t like it.
“I believe I’ve seen your work in the ammo boxes of a couple of werepanthers,” I said, getting straight to the point. “They’re trying to run my friend, Nin, out of the magical-weapons-crafting business, and I object to that. Any chance you’d like to give up your side gig working for them if I can help find you something more profitable?”
“I wouldn’t take a gig from you even if it paid three times what I get working here.”
“What about if it paid better than you get working for the Northern Pride?”
“I don’t work for them anymore. Any ammo you saw was old.”
“Oh?” I hoped that didn’t mean I was wasting my time.
Inga bent over the disc again, crimping a pattern into it with a tool as palpable magic flowed from her fingers and into the iron. She seemed to be saying the conversation was over.
“Were they not agreeable to work for?” Maybe if she had left in disgruntlement, she might be tempted to rant. Rant and share valuable information.
“They’re assholes.”
“I agree, but they must have paid you decently, or you wouldn’t have started working for them, right?”
“It was a side job. It didn’t matter that it didn’t pay that well. I just wanted enough for a house. Not even a house. A little condo here, something with decent ceiling height, so you can take a shower without bending in half.”
“That is annoying.”
“You’re short. You wouldn’t know.”
“Even at six feet, I’ve cracked my skull on some showerheads.”
“Showerheads, doorways, car roofs…” Inga thunked her tool down and gave me an exasperated look. “They didn’t even pay me for the last batch. They just ended our deal, said they’d found someone else who would make ammo for them and modify their guns cheaper. As if any sane person would work for less than what they paid me. It sucks to be a woman in a man’s business. The bastards are always trying to lowball you, treat you like some commodity rather than the skilled craftsperson you are.” She turned a scathing expression on the man manipulating the grinder, but he’d gone back to work and wasn’t paying attention.
“If I get a chance to pummel them mercilessly in the near future, I’ll let you know.”
“If you do, take pictures and send them to me, so I can blow them up and throw axes at them.”
I laughed. Who would have thought I’d find someone who shared my interest in hurling weapons at posters of obnoxious magical enemies?
“I will definitely do that. I should have done it the last time I visited. Otto looks good wearing a broken TV on his head.”
“That the one that can never put a shirt on?”
“He did seem to have that proclivity. Do you know who is working for them now, by chance?”
I still thought that if I could convince their bullet-maker—and it sounded like Inga had also enchanted their guns—to sever her relationship with the brothers, then that would help convince them to take their business elsewhere. If they suddenly couldn’t supply their customers with their promised goods, competing with Nin would be the last of their worries.
“No idea. Like I said, it has to be someone slaving away for nearly free, because my work was good and way underpriced. Maybe they’ve got someone tied up in their garage and they’re forcing him to work.”
I rocked back. “It’s the basement.”
“What?”
“I sensed a magical being in the basement when I was there. A full-blood, I’m sure.”
Her thick brows rose. “I was joking. Besides, even shifters couldn’t keep a full-blood enchanter imprisoned. It would be easy for him or her to use magic to escape.”
She laid her hand next to an iron bar on the table, and I sensed magic flowing again. The metal turned liquid and flowed over her wrist, re-forming into a shackle and locking itself. A second later, it unformed and returned to its original shape on the table.
“So whoever is in the basement is an ally and being paid?” I asked skeptically. I remembered that telepathic request for help.
“That’s my guess, even if it’s hard to imagine those two with allies. Still, they’ve got all those other cat shifters that visit their place. They must have some mysterious allure that’s unfathomable to me.”
“Maybe it’s their sex parties.” I grimaced, remembering the brothers’ suggestions.
“I can’t talk to that. I don’t get invited to a lot of those.” She sounded more wistful than happy about that.
“I don’t think those are parties that any sane woman would want to be invited to. All right, Inga. Thanks for the information.” I wasn’t sure how she would react, but I laid a hundred and fifty dollars on the table. It didn’t seem right that the receptionist should make more than the person I’d come to talk to.
“I don’t want your money, Mythic Murderer.”
“It’s the government’s money.” Technically, it wasn’t anymore, since this was part of my combat bonus from the wyvern job, but I had a feeling Inga would be more likely to accept it if she didn’t think it came out of my purse.
She snorted and stuffed it in a pocket. “You’re definitely Slytherin.”
I shook my head and walked out. I needed to work on my reputation.
18
Tuesday morning found me in a grumpy mood as I sat in Mary’s waiting room with the magazine-tidier I’d met before and another patient who was wearing running shoes, a hoodie, and spandex shorts that left little to the imagination. His leg hair would have put Chewbacca to shame.
Google had promised me that normal people went to therapy, but I hadn’t seen evidence of it yet. What did that say about me?
But I’d long ago given up any notion that I was normal. Normal women d
idn’t spend their nights battling pyromaniacs in food-truck parking lots or having nightmares about all the people they’d killed coming back to life and mauling their family members.
I rubbed my gritty eyes, wondering what it was like to sleep well and through the night. My joints ached, and my lungs were tight. I hadn’t had to use the “rescue” inhaler—how I loathed that term for it—much since starting on a new steroid one, but my body was telling me I hadn’t managed to do anything to address those elevated inflammatory markers my doctor kept talking about. How was I supposed to de-stress my life and lower inflammation when my attempts to do so ended up in yoga studios being bombed?
Ironically, the place on my hip where I’d been shot didn’t ache. Dragon healing magic had to be the best in the galaxy. I wondered if it could work on chronic conditions. Even if it could, there was no way I’d admit to Zav that my lungs were anything but sublime. Nor would I ask him for help.
My phone buzzed, and Mom’s name came up. Worry flashed through me. There wasn’t any reason she should be in danger, but I couldn’t help but imagine the worst.
“Hi, Mom,” I answered. “What’s up? Everything okay?”
“Yes.” She sounded puzzled that I’d asked. Her dog barked in the background, and she added, “Rocket misses Maggie.”
“I think you misread that bark. Nobody except Willard could possibly miss that cat.”
“He keeps looking up at the loft, expecting her to throw something down to him.”
“To him or at him?”
“He may not know the difference. He can catch anything. Are you going to Idaho?”
The abrupt topic switch surprised me. “Idaho? No, what for?”
Then I remembered Thad’s Facebook message announcing the vacation he and Amber would take next month.
“Thad and Amber are going to get a cabin on Lake Coeur d'Alene in July. They invited me.”
“Oh.” I should have said something more articulate, but I felt a numb disappointment that was completely illogical. They hadn’t invited me, but of course they hadn’t invited me. I hadn’t spoken to either of them in years. They probably didn’t even know I lived and worked in the state—or that I’d gone to several of Amber’s swim meets and her sixth- and eighth-grade graduations, always standing too far back to be noticed.
Battle Bond: An Urban Fantasy Dragon Series (Death Before Dragons Book 2) Page 16