Shadow's Bane (Dorina Basarab)

by Karen Chance

  “I’m not trying to—”

  “You never try, but it always happens! You went to the theatre and now there’s no theatre!”

  I started to say that wasn’t my fault, but . . . it was a little my fault. “I’m not trying to crash your damned party! I just need to tell you—”

  “If I see one glimpse or get so much as a single whiff—”

  “Like you know what I smell like!” I was trying to keep my temper—I really was—but Marlowe was like nails on a chalkboard. “And it’s Mircea’s apartment. I’ll come any time I damned well—”

  “You’ll be escorted off the property! In pieces!”

  I actually laughed at that one. “By you and whose army?”

  “I don’t need an army.” He somehow managed to hiss it, despite it not having any s’s. “I’m warning you—stay away!”

  He hung up.

  Goddamn it.

  I started to call him back, but then realized I already had a call waiting.

  “Hello?”

  “Don’t you dare hang up on me again!”

  I sighed.

  James.

  “I didn’t hang up before; I had another call. And why are we talking about this? I have immunity, and that aside, you were almost finished—”

  “You don’t get to decide when we’re finished with a crime scene! You don’t get to decide anything! Particularly when you use your shiny new immunity to aid and abet the escape of a dozen felons!”

  “A dozen?” I frowned. “Ten of them were slaves. They didn’t do any—”

  “They hid the troll who caused all this! They deliberately used their bodies to hide his signal and that of the woman he’s working with—”

  “They didn’t hide anything. Sitting on a floor is hardly—”

  “—and as a result, I have a warrant in my hand for their arrest—”

  “Don’t be a dick, James! This is on me. They had nothing to do with it!”

  “—and another for your friend Fin, who does not, in fact, have immunity.”

  “James—”

  “I’m not bluffing, Dory. I want the big guy. Now.”

  “I don’t have him!”

  “Don’t lie. You do it badly.”

  “I do it perfectly, but I’m not doing it now.” It was the truth. The freaked-out trucker had returned with a skeptical-looking cop just as I was leaving, and I’d nervously looked back at the waterline—to see exactly nothing.

  Big as he was, Blue moved like smoke.

  “If you think that’s going to work,” James said ominously.

  “I don’t have him!”

  “Then your friend is going to enjoy our hospitality until you do.”

  “James!”

  “I want the selkies, too,” he went on ruthlessly. “No one even had a chance to question them. You bring me the dozen you cost me, and your friend goes free. Otherwise, I’m sure there’s plenty of—”

  “You’re not going to lock him up!”

  “—counts I can dig up on one of the biggest bookies in this city. He could go away for years. Or even be deported, if we rack up enough charges.”

  I didn’t answer that time.

  I just sat there for a moment, holding my phone.

  Every war mage I knew was a giant asshole. Every single one, except for James. The last time I’d seen him, other than tonight, had been a month or so ago, on one of his days off. He’d been painting his dad’s shop, while his wife cooked burgers in the small courtyard out back, and his youngest daughter wove a wreath out of centaury and feverfew, which he proudly wore while we ate.

  I’d dropped in to pick up an order, and they’d invited me to share their meal because that’s the kind of people they were: James; his wife, Jean; and their two little girls, Janis—because James loved classic rock, and had wanted to keep the J thing going—and Lakshmi, because that had been the name of their grandmother, and some things are more important than alliteration.

  Rufus’ wife had been gone six years now, and I strongly suspected that was why James and family visited so often. It was less about chores that needed doing and more about giving the old man voices around the place other than his own. And because that’s who James was, at least on his days off.

  He couldn’t be that different at work.

  So he was bluffing.

  I knew he was.

  But Fin . . . I didn’t think James understood about Fin. The forest trolls didn’t have a forest anymore. It had been burned out from under them, and the land used for new farms by the goddamned Svarestri, who didn’t have enough evil points racked up yet, so they’d had to steal the little guys’ home, too. And then kill anybody who didn’t get the hint.

  Fin didn’t have anywhere to go back to.

  But the law didn’t care about that, like it didn’t care about him.

  But I did, and I couldn’t risk it.

  Goddamn it.

  “I don’t have him, but I’ll get him,” I told James roughly. “If I have Fin out to help me.”

  “Dory—”

  “He has more contacts in that world than I’ll ever have. He’s how I found him this time, remember? And he won’t help you, no matter what you threaten him with. He won’t rat out a fellow troll.”

  James was silent for a long moment. “Forty-eight hours. Then I’m bringing him in. And I’m not bluffing.”

  Fuck.

  Chapter Forty

  A short time later, I was facing the door to a sleek Manhattan apartment, feeling more than a little out of place. I had no makeup, my coiffure was a style I like to call drove-with-the-top-down, and I still had on the rumpled old sweats. Now paired with muddy gardening sandals because I’d swapped with Claire so she wouldn’t slip on the rocks.

  None of which should have mattered, since Horatiu is blind as a bat.

  But it wasn’t Horatiu who answered the door.

  And promptly slammed it in my face.

  Or, to be more precise, tried to. But while Kit Marlowe is fast, so am I. And I got a muddy Croc in the door before he could shut it entirely.

  Angry brown eyes glared at me through the minuscule opening. “Go. Away.”

  “Fuck. You.” I gave a little push.

  And was gratified to note that Marlowe had to exert effort to keep me out. I also noticed that he was in a tux, which was unusual because he had almost as much fashion sense as me. But somebody, probably his long-suffering family, had wrangled him into a sleek black number anyway, trimmed the Elizabethan-era goatee he’d had since it was originally fashionable, and tried to do something with the dark brown ratty-looking curls.

  The latter had been slicked down with some sort of pomade, but they didn’t behave any better than their master, and had sprung back up again. The result was wet ratty-looking curls, which wasn’t an improvement, but I couldn’t talk at the moment. Or do much of anything else, because he was really determined that I not get through that door.

  Which was ridiculous, since I had more reason to be here than he did!

  “This is my father’s apartment,” I reminded him. It was Mircea’s condo in the city, originally purchased, I suspected, for times when he couldn’t deal with the consul anymore. Being a diplomat includes knowing when to get away so you don’t strangle somebody to death, like Marlowe looked like he wanted to do to me.

  “He isn’t here!”

  “I’m not looking for him. I’m looking for Louis-Cesare—”

  “He isn’t here, either.”

  “You haven’t heard from him?”

  I didn’t get an answer that time, probably because Marlowe was busy.

  “Stop slamming the damned door on my damned foot!”

  “Then leave.” He glared at me furiously. “We’re having a soiree, and you aren’t attending like that!”

/>   “A soiree?”

  “A gathering! A party! A do!”

  “I know what the word means! And I’m not attending. I just need—”

  Marlowe kicked my Croc like it was a football and he was trying for a field goal from the fifty-yard line. It sent my leg shooting out backward, and would have resulted in me face-planting painfully if I hadn’t twisted at the last second. I landed on my shoulder instead, and it wasn’t happy about it.

  Son of a bitch!

  I got up and glared at the now-closed door. I could have kicked it down, but my toe hurt. So I jabbed the bell a few more times, and then leaned on it when the door stayed stubbornly shut.

  Until it was flung open in my face. “Damn it, go away!”

  “Damn it, answer the question!”

  I guess Marlowe decided it was the quickest way to get rid of me, because for once, he actually did. “Louis-Cesare isn’t here, I haven’t heard from him and I’m not going to! He’s in a meeting—”

  “What?” That stopped me. “What kind of meeting?”

  “A Senate meeting. What else?” The eyes now looked impatient as well as angry. “An emergency one was called for tonight. Now will you—”

  “Why wasn’t I informed? I’m on the Senate.”

  As usual, that reminder had Marlowe looking apoplectic.

  “But not that committee! The whole Senate doesn’t meet for every issue, or we’d never do anything else. But that’s where he is, so go plague the consul and leave me alone!”

  The door slammed again, probably because I wasn’t opposing it anymore.

  I was just standing there in my smelly sweats, wondering why I’d just driven over here like a bat out of hell. Had I really thought Louis-Cesare was going to beat up another senator over me? Risk his new position by taking on the consul’s favorite shortly after being appointed? Throw away an opportunity that most would kill for, and over what? A damned dhampir?

  Yeah.

  Judging by the pang in my gut, I guess I had.

  And that was stupid. We were broken up, and Claire was right. He hadn’t even bothered to argue about it, had he? Just turned around and walked away. He hadn’t made any declarations while on the phone with her, either. He just told her to mind her own business and essentially hung up.

  And he’d never even called me back.

  I rang the doorbell again.

  But not because of Louis-Cesare. I needed to get my head back on straight, and that meant some kind of communication with my other half. And that meant talking to Horatiu. With Big Blue to find, God knew when I’d get another chance.

  And fuck Marlowe if he didn’t like it!

  And I guess he didn’t. Because he didn’t answer. And the doorknob shocked the shit out of me when I dared to grab it.

  I jerked my hand back, and looked at the faint red mark the newly engaged ward had left.

  Okay, now I was pissed.

  Fortunately, Mircea’s condo isn’t in a sleek new building with slick glass fronts, but in a turn-of-the-century limestone beauty that he owns half of. A half filled with windows. Windows with curly-haired assholes in them.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Marlowe demanded, sticking his neck out, as I edged along an ornate ledge.

  I punched him in his stupid face. “What does it look like?”

  “Get out!”

  I let him eat fist again, and he turned the ward on over the window, which blew me off the side of the building and into some bushes. It also blew my Croc onto a nearby BMW, which was apparently a touchy little bitch. Because the car alarm started screaming its head off.

  I looked at it for a moment, while I got my breath back. Mircea hadn’t skimped on the wards. Even on the lowest setting, they packed a wallop.

  And then I gazed up at Marlowe, who was still glaring down at me from the window, and I slowly took off my other shoe.

  “Don’t you dare!”

  I skipped the Croc down the row of cars, like a stone on a pond, setting off multiple alarms and disturbing the genteel neighbors. Until I was snatched off the BMW and smacked against the side of the building, still grinning. I’d badly needed to let off some steam, and that had been fun.

  Not as much as making Marlowe eat concrete, though.

  I twisted in his grip, danced away, spun, and belted him. I put everything I had into it, all the pent-up emotion of a very bad day, and was gratified to see him actually go down. And then spring back up, almost before he hit the sidewalk, because the guy was flexible. As he proved when dodging half a dozen more blows in quick succession, before grabbing my fist.

  It was the same maneuver Dorina had used on the fey, and it hurt like a bitch. Until I used my other hand for a gut shot that had him letting go with an annoyed “tchaa!” And then I ended up slammed against the building again.

  Face-first, this time.

  I turned to the side to get my lips free. “I can do this all night.”

  “Or you could just leave!”

  “Or you could just let me in.”

  “I’m not letting you in!”

  “Then we have a problem,” I said, broke his hold, spun around, and kneed him in the groin.

  I took off again, hoping the happy, burbling vamp from the phone would answer the door, but I got stopped with a flying tackle. Which was less of a problem for me than for Marlowe, because I was in ancient sweats. Ancient, muddy sweats, because it had been raining at some point earlier in the day, and the section of tastefully planted greenery I ploughed up was basically a mud pit.

  “You’re gonna ruin that nice suit,” I said, through a dirt facial.

  And, for some reason, that did what nothing else had, and stopped him. I flipped over to see Marlowe suddenly back on his feet, looking with concern at the patches of mud adhering to his formerly sleek, James Bond getup. Which was followed by him whipping out a pocket square and worriedly daubing at the mess.

  “Will water take it out, do you think?” he asked me, bizarrely.

  I slowly got back up, but he just kept trying to wipe himself clean. It wasn’t working; if anything, it was just smearing the mess around. Something that seemed to be causing him real distress, which made him rub it harder, which only made a bad matter worse.

  “Give me that,” I finally said, and he actually did, passing over the by-now-sadly-soiled pocket square, and looking . . . weird. Marlowe basically had two emotions where I was concerned: pissed off and seriously pissed off. Which was why it was so strange to see him standing there in his muddy tux, biting his lip, and staring at me hopefully.

  Because I was a woman, and we magically made these kind of things okay, right?

  I sighed.

  “Come on.”

  “Where?”

  “You’re not getting that out. But Mircea has plenty more suits in his bedroom. One will probably fit you.”

  “There’s a party in the main room! An important one! I can’t just—”

  I sighed again, impatiently this time. “You can climb, right?”

  We climbed.

  Thankfully, he hadn’t bothered to ward every window in the place, and one of the ones in Mircea’s bedroom slid open easily. I ducked inside, Marlowe on my heels, and padded barefoot over to the big wardrobe I’d been told to stay out of. I decided that, since I wasn’t here for me, it didn’t count, and threw open the double doors.

  “Oh,” Marlowe said, ’cause I guess he’d never gotten the tour.

  I’d been known to borrow Mircea’s shirts as emergency dresses on occasion, so I knew what was in there. Basically, the pick of the great fashion houses of Europe, with a choice few American designers thrown in for good measure. And enough of it to stock a small men’s store.

  Self-denial has never really been Daddy’s thing.

  “Okay, strip,” I told Marlowe, flicking thro
ugh the couture. “And tell me what your problem is.”

  “You!”

  I glanced over my shoulder, to see him looking around, as if wondering where to put his muddy coat. “Just leave it in the bathroom.” I nodded at the adjoining room. “And that’s not an answer.”

  Marlowe went grumbling off, and I went back to trying to decide what might work as a substitute. It wasn’t as easy as it looked. Because, sure, there was plenty to draw from, but Marlowe had the same issue I did, only not to the same degree. I could wear Mircea’s shirts as dresses because he was six feet tall in his socks.

  Marlowe wasn’t.

  “How bad are your trousers?” I asked, as Marlowe came out of the bathroom wearing nothing else. Because I guess his shirt had gotten muddy, too. I sized him up.

  The coats and shirts would probably fit okay—he was built well enough under the scowl—but the pants weren’t just gonna draw up on their own. He was definitely too short. “You’re too short,” I told him, while he continued trying to clean them, this time with a washcloth.

  “Well, what the hell am I supposed to do about that?”

  “I don’t know, but that’s not gonna work.” It really wasn’t. The mud had splattered everywhere when we hit down, and some of the flakes had already dried into little cement nodules. A good dry cleaner might be able to salvage the outfit, but not in time for Marlowe to return to his guests.

  I went to the phone.

  Burbles picked up, and he was happy to help. No, he was thrilled. He’d never had a request in his entire, long life that pleased him so much, oh my God.

  “Great.” I put a hand over the phone, and looked at Marlowe. “What size are you?”

  “What?”

  “Stop trying to clean those things. They aren’t cleanable. Just tell me your size.”

  “I don’t know my size.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know your size? You don’t buy pants?”

  “Of course not. I have staff for that.”

  “You have staff for buying pants?”

  “Trousers.” He looked pained. “Pants are underwear.”

  “Thought that was knickers.”

  “Those are for women! And yes, my staff buys my clothes!”