Shatter the Earth

by Karen Chance

  Since masters have enemies, that was a dangerous proposition, and explained why so many ended up being taken out by a rival. It wasn’t that they didn’t see the signs; they just didn’t care about them. They didn’t care about anything except for their obsession.

  And Mircea’s obsession was Elena.

  “You’re the pretty little blonde, aren’t you?” Horatiu asked suddenly, jolting me out of my thoughts.

  “I—well, I’m blonde,” I said, tucking a strand of the evidence behind my ear.

  The other part of his question was debatable at the moment. I could hear a shower running farther back in the suite, where Mircea was probably cleaning up. I needed to do that, too, as well as get a move on, before I had to cheat again by time shifting in order to meet all my obligations.

  But for some reason, I just sat there.

  Until a gnarled old face poked within an inch of mine, and vague blue eyes squinted at me. “Hm, yes. Pretty,” he decided, looking me over. “But sad, too. Why are ye sad, girl?”

  “I . . . I’m not,” I said, caught off guard, and then again when he laughed literally in my face.

  “Liar.” He slowly sat down on the hearth, feeling around behind him for the bricks before he did so, and then tapped my knee. “Trouble between you and the master, is there?”

  “No,” I said reflexively.

  Horatiu acted like he hadn’t heard. Although in his case, maybe he really hadn’t. “He’s been in a temper lately,” he mused. “One of the worst I’ve ever seen. But what are ye going to do? Loving two people is always difficult.”

  I blinked at him, not sure I understood. “Mircea and I aren’t together—"

  He gave me a look. And despite the rheumy old eyes, it managed to be fairly shrewd. “You risked your life to help him today, taking him back there, to that terrible time. But since you haven’t slept together in a while, you don’t love him anymore?”

  “I didn’t say that—”

  “Oh, good. My hearing isn’t what it used to be. I thought that was what you said.”

  I looked at him suspiciously, but all I got back was sweet old man face. The kind that probably let him get away with anything. Or maybe that was because he was basically untouchable as the master’s favorite.

  Horatiu did whatever he wanted, and it seemed, said it, too.

  “Of course, I still love Mircea,” I said, about to change the subject.

  “Then why is it difficult to understand that he can love you as well as Elena? The human heart is not so narrow as to only hold room for one person at a time. I don’t know if you will or won’t ever be together again; I’m not a seer. But you will always love him, and he you. You should probably get used to it.”

  I looked at him in exasperation. “That doesn’t help the current situation!”

  “Doesn’t it? Ah, well, I thought love always helped. Having someone to listen, to care . . . but perhaps I’m too old to understand such things anymore.” He looked at me sternly. “You should stop scaring the servants, however, while you two work it out.”

  “What servants?” I asked, and then I remembered the tea carrier.

  “That boy the cook sent up,” Horatiu confirmed. “He’s downstairs now, gibbering on about glowing eyes and churning power that burned like fire. Quite traumatized, he is.”

  “He lives here,” I pointed out. “He should know how Mircea is in a temper.”

  “He wasn’t talking ‘bout the master,” Horatiu said. “He was talking about you.”

  I frowned. “My eyes don’t glow.”

  “Don’t they?” It was his turn to frown, and then to lean in again, squinting at me. Before sitting back and fumbling around until he came up with the brass tray that he’d used to carry his supplies. He dusted some wooden fragments off it, and polished it up on his sleeve. Then he handed it to me—

  And, shit.

  Now what?

  “My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be,” he said, in the understatement of the century. “But even I can see that.”

  Yeah, so could I. My usually pale blue, very human eyes were lit up like candles were behind them. It was nothing compared to Mircea’s bonfire blaze when his power was surging, but that wasn’t the point. It shouldn’t have been happening at all!

  “I take it that’s new?” Horatiu asked.

  “Yeah.” I bit my lip.

  This couldn’t be good.

  Horatiu patted my shoulder, after several missed attempts to find it. “Don’t let it bother you,” he told me kindly. “Young vampires often have that reaction when their power starts to grow.”

  “I’m not a vampire,” I said automatically, and then stopped. And slumped back against the fireplace in relief, because of course. Of course!

  I wasn’t a vamp, but Mircea was. And we were currently in a spell that allowed us to share abilities. All kinds of them, apparently.

  Which was a problem, considering my next appointment.

  I grabbed my overnight bag with my spare clothes, which I’d left at Mircea’s before we departed, and pulled out my purse. The little card I’d shoved into a pocket in my wallet a few weeks ago was still there, along with the list of services on the back. Yeah, that might work.

  “Said it was like seeing two of the old gods, battlin’ it out,” Horatiu rambled on, as if I hadn’t spoken.

  “I’m not a god, either,” I told him briefly, and shifted.

  Chapter Four

  “Number six,” I told the shopkeeper, and he obligingly slid an elongated, jewel shaped, faintly purple bottle out of a display case. “This is one of the good ones?” I added, because I needed to be sure.

  He looked offended. “Madam, everything we stock is “one of the good ones.”

  And, yeah, I guessed so. Magical glamouries came in a thousand different varieties, everything from the cheapies you found at the supernatural equivalent of a convenience store, to super expensive models at places like this. Good thing I had the Pythian Court’s credit line, I thought, and plunked down a card.

  The man—tuxedo clad, dark haired and distinctly posh sounding—looked pained. I didn’t know why. How else was I supposed to pay for the thing?

  “We will put it on your account,” he assured me solemnly.

  “I have an account?” I looked around the shop, which was situated on a discreet side street in London’s Chelsea neighborhood. Outside, it was attractive if bland, designed to look like one of the chic row houses in the area. Inside, it was basically an overpriced day spa for the magical community.

  Not that there was anything particularly magical to be seen at the moment, except for the perfume-like bottle of potion, standing all by itself on its little point on the counter, as steady as a newly spun top.

  Its gold lettering and what looked like a solid gold cap went with the glittering chandeliers, soft carpets, and comfy sofas in the room next door, where more salesmen were chatting up potential clientele. They were all women, but unlike me their hair was perfectly coifed, their outfits couture, and their scents something other than blood and horse. I wondered what they needed with a glamourie.

  Only to have VampVision kick in and show me. I reared back slightly, a little shocked to see the genteel group on the sofas suddenly change to . . . something else. Something that, in many cases, wasn’t even human.

  “The Pythian Court has an account,” the salesman said discreetly, pulling my attention back to him. “Perhaps you would care for one of our technicians to assist?”

  “Uh, assist with what?” I asked, a little distracted.

  He looked pained again.

  I was pretty sure he just wanted to get me off the floor, considering that I was kind of a reverse ad right now. But I went with it, not having much time. He pressed a discreet button, and while we waited, a large troll came out of a hallway, a collection of tiny bags in her hands, all with a golden lotus embossed on the front.

  That was the name of this place: The Golden Lotus. It offered the usual day spa
type of stuff—manicures, facials, deep tissue massage—as well as some more esoteric offerings that I hadn’t understood until now: hoof trimming, horn polishing, and tusk rejuvenation. And, of course, glamouries of all possible varieties, a house specialty.

  I’d gotten the recommendation from Rhea, my chief acolyte, who used to live in London. Her mother, the former Pythia, had frequented the place in the last years of her life, when the office—and some discreet poisoning by an heir who wanted to inherit early—had taken a toll. Magical cosmetics could do wonders, but when you really needed to change your whole outlook, you went with a glamourie.

  Which was why, I supposed, that the troll woman, who must have topped eight feet and had pierced tusks with little jeweled earrings—tusk rings? —on them, suddenly transformed into a sylph-like redhead in a snazzy blue suit as she passed through the outer doors.

  “Glamourie on demand is one of our best sellers,” a woman’s voice said.

  I turned from the door to see a technician waiting by the desk. She looked human enough, in a dark, skirted suit and a pristine white blouse, her black hair scraped away from a lovely café au lait forehead. But her eyes were a vivid purple.

  “On demand?” I repeated.

  “Instead of wearing it all the time, it comes and goes as needed,” she explained. “In human areas, the glamourie switches on, so that you blend in with the crowd. In magically warded ones, it automatically goes off, without the cumbersome need to remove it.”

  “Like glasses that turn into shades in the sunlight,” I said.

  She smiled, showing somewhat pointed incisors. “Exactly. This way madam.”

  She led me down the same hallway the troll woman had come out of, and into a room that looked like a cross between a dressing room and a doctor’s office. It was all white, with mirrors on three sides, but instead of benches or a clothing rack, it had a reclining, white leather dentist-type chair in the center. I felt my tongue run over my teeth, wondering if I’d remembered to floss.

  “Would madam be needing a change of attire, as well?” she asked discreetly, without so much as a glance at my blood stained, medieval peasant attire.

  I thought about the jeans and ruffled blouse in my overnight bag, the latter of which was probably all creased up by now. And decided what the hell. Go for it.

  “Yes, madam would. I mean, I would. Thank you.”

  “Type?”

  “Dressy casual.”

  She nodded, but instead of going to fetch it herself, she merely pressed a spot on one of the mirrors, and it began reflecting a rotating selection of garments, most of them way too ladies-who-lunch for me. Until it reached a cute little sundress in a white spotted, crinkly yellow fabric with a short white jacket over it. I fell in love with it immediately.

  “That one.”

  “As madam wishes.”

  And then she reached through the mirror and snagged it out.

  One of these days, that sort of thing is going to stop bothering me, I thought.

  “Shall I have it sized while madam showers?” she asked, with another smile. Which was the most genteel way of saying “you reek” that I thought I’d ever heard.

  “There’s a shower?”

  She indicated another mirror which, sure enough, allowed me to step right through. It felt a little weird against my skin, too cool and vaguely liquid-y, but the bathroom on the other side was a marvel of golden marble, plush gold towels, and no fewer than nine shower heads in a massive shower that pummeled me from all directions like a Turkish masseur. Damn, I needed one of these!

  I stepped out, dried off, and found that the little sundress had been left in place of my other clothing, which had been whisked away somewhere. There were no underthings provided, but I had those with me except for stockings, and I’d waxed my legs a couple of days ago. Shoes, on the other hand were a problem, with my only options being peasant boots or an old pair of Keds.

  But when I stepped back into the dressing room, I found the attendant holding some white sandals in what looked like my size.

  “I can change them for closed toed shoes if you’d prefer,” she told me.

  “No, these are perfect.” I put them on and checked out my reflection. From the neck down everything was fine, even cute. The skirt was swingy and hit the sweet spot between respectable and cha-cha, and the sandals and jacket set it off perfectly. But from the neck up . . . was a tragedy.

  As well as the persistently glowing eyes, I had a large scrape down my left cheekbone—probably from the damned tree limbs hitting me in the face—a bruise on my right jaw, and what appeared to be . . .

  Yeah. I scratched something that had imbedded itself near my hairline, and a couple bits of rubble fell out and hit the white tiled floor, making little clattering sounds. The attendant didn’t say anything, so I didn’t, either. I guessed we were both going to agree that hadn’t happened.

  “The glamourie will cover the entire head,” she informed me deadpan, and I felt my spine relax.

  “Okay, let’s do this.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I was two inches away from one of the mirrors, checking out my eyes. Pale blue, a little bloodshot, and with a swipe of slightly gunked-up mascara, because I’d told her not to make me look too perfect. The guy I was going to see was never going to be fooled by perfect.

  But, damn, this thing would fool me, I thought, checking out the slightly messy hair and half assed makeup from every side. The technician hadn’t asked why I wanted to look like I’d been up half the night and just rolled out of bed. She’d just accommodated.

  Rhea had been right—this place was great. Particularly for Pythias who couldn’t go home to change, because there were too many people there who might ask questions! And too many vamp noses that might detect scents I couldn’t easily explain.

  But I didn’t think anyone would detect them now. The glamourie had a really distinct odor, not unpleasant—quite the contrary—but a little overpowering. Sort of like I’d been hit in the face by a field of flowers.

  “The scent will fade, over time,” the attendant assured me, probably noticing my nose twitching.

  “Is there any way to speed that up?” I asked. I was having lunch with a guy who brewed potions on the regular. I didn’t need him figuring out that I was wearing a glamourie, much less why.

  “I am afraid not,” she looked suitably regretful. “The scent is impossible to mask, being a byproduct of the fey flora used in the mixture.”

  “Fey flora?”

  “Only the best for our clients.” She smiled again.

  I kind of wished she’d stop doing that, since it flashed the fangs, but it wasn’t the sort of thing I could ask.

  “However, the scent is very similar to our perfumes, which use some of the same ingredients as a base. If madam would like to see?”

  I was beginning to understand how the troll woman ended up with all those packages. “Thanks.”

  More fang. Damn, they were distracting, probably because they were longer and thicker than a vamp’s, which was the kind I was used to. But vamps could retract theirs for perfect, Hollywood teeth whenever they chose. It didn’t look like she could.

  Of course, maybe that was normal for wherever she was from. A lot of fey refugees, from all over their world, had been coming into ours for a while, to escape the constant fighting there. And with the war about to escalate into a new phase, the steady trickle had turned into a flood. I bet places like this were doing a bang-up business.

  They certainly were with me.

  I ended up with two new perfumes, as well as the glamourie, which I checked out in a mirror before I left. “And this will last how long?”

  “Two weeks guaranteed. Most of our clientele discover that they receive something more like a month of coverage, however the spell may begin to flicker before then.”

  “Good to know.” Hopefully, I’d have this whole thing with Mircea settled in way less time than that!

  The attendant handed me a lovely
white and gold bag which turned out to contain my perfume, and my nasty, peasant clothes. I dumped the latter in a skip a few blocks down, while rain spotted the nice, yellow and white umbrella that I’d gotten free with purchase. And which I didn’t need, because I shifted to my lunch date a moment later, only a little late.

  ~~~

  The Stratford Headquarters of the Silver Circle, the world’s chief magical organization, looked like hell. For one thing, it was underground—this part, anyway—and I don’t mean just in location. There was actual dirt over my head, because the place was a rabbit warren of interconnecting tunnels, purposefully built to be claustrophobic and confusing by the designers, in order to discourage attacks.

  Not that that had worked lately. As evidenced by the blackened roots sticking out of the soil, like grasping hands. And by the strange striations on the walls that had been sand before a dark mage spell tore through them and turned them into glass. And by the remains of cave-ins piled along the walls. There were no actual flames—at the moment—although the scent of old fires lingered, remnants of the recent attack.

  Well, sort of recent. It had taken place over a month ago, but with the war raging, clean-up had been pretty far down the priority list. Meaning that the farther flung areas like this one had been left to fend for self.

  They hadn’t fended much, I thought, stepping over a pile of loose dirt. And then freezing in place. Because a little landslide had revealed something else that the clean-up crew had missed.

  The stench of rotting flesh hit my nostrils, mixing sickeningly with the expensive perfume of the spa’s glamourie. There was no gleam of white; instead, an ugly yellow bone stuck out of what appeared to be a ragged sleeve, or maybe a trouser leg. I wasn’t sure, like I didn’t know if the grisly remains were part of a Corpsman, fallen while defending his home base, or a dark mage stopped in the middle of his attack.

  It was funny how you couldn’t tell now, I thought, staring. Like you couldn’t tell if a lot of the bodies around Vlad’s city of the dead were male or female, after a while. They just turned into corpses, blackened and split open, with ropes of trailing entrails festooned with maggots and dripping with unknown liquids. Mothers, fathers, lovers, friends; they were all the same in death, rotting under a cheerful blue sky . . .