by Karen Chance
Pritkin hit him again.
I grabbed the bastard’s hair and forced his head back. Both because I wanted to, and to keep Pritkin from murdering him before we got anything useful out of him. Not that I was too confident of that, because the maiden’s drugs weren’t the only problem here.
Jonathan was one of those dark mages who had greatly extended his lifetime by stealing other people’s magic. That did not-so-good things to the brain, after a while. Which meant that he was not only high, he was crazy.
So, this should be fun.
“I want to know three things,” I said. “First, why didn’t my power warn me that I had a time traveler to worry about?”
It had screamed its head off about Mircea, but not a word about a dark mage jaunting around the timeline, attacking people? Thanks a lot, I told it. As usual, it said nothing back, just quietly glimmered at me.
“Two, how are you using the Pythian power?”
Because he hadn’t been fueled by one of the volatile spells that suicidal types sometimes employed to skip through time. That had been pure Pythian energy, something that dick-face here should never have had access to. Yet he’d used it as easily as an acolyte, at the very least.
“Third, why did you kill Emma Lantham?”
“Emma?” Jonas said, his head coming up. He’d been talking to a war mage, one of a half dozen scattered around the rock cut room, but at that he broke off and looked at me.
“One of your librarians,” I confirmed. “Jonathan murdered her, and it wasn’t random. He targeted her, and I want to know why.”
“And you saw that how?” Pritkin asked, waving off the medic who was trying to attend to his bruised knuckles.
Dark mage faces are hard.
“I didn’t. Her cat did.”
“What?”
“Later,” I said, which caused him to flush a darker shade of red, but he was basically a tomato already, so it didn’t really matter.
“I’m not telling you shit,” Jonathan said, grinning.
I smiled back.
“Billy,” I said, and my ghostly buddy and Pritkin’s unseen shadow, drifted over.
“Aww, Cass—”
“I need this. All three but especially the second.”
“But he’s all . . . nasty and shit. God knows what’s in there.”
“Billy—”
“Why can’t you need help interrogating a hot chick?” he complained. “But nooooo, I get Mr. Crazy Mage.”
He nonetheless did as I asked, and drifted inside the sweaty head. Billy had the ability to waft through someone’s brain, picking up on whatever they were thinking about at the moment. It wasn’t true mind reading—he couldn’t pick and choose what he saw—but it should be enough.
“How are you using the Pythian power?” I asked again, and Jonathan laughed.
“Mairzy doats and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey. A kiddley divey too, wouldn't you?”
He had a surprisingly nice tenor. One that cut off when Pritkin nailed him in the mouth again. I put a hand on my partner’s arm, because while I definitely echoed the sentiment, any more damage and the bastard wouldn’t be able to talk.
“If the words sound queer and funny to your ear, a little bit jumbled and jivey, sing mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat i-i-ivy.”
The voice was a little mushy that time, but nonetheless melodic. And useless. My borrowed suit took that moment to finally fritz out, and I stripped it off while being regaled with another few verses.
Great; so, on top of everything else, I was going to have that damned song stuck in my head all day.
I carefully folded Augustine’s outfit and placed it on a chair—I’d never get another loan if I tore his prototype—and brushed myself down. I was sweaty and rumpled, and the shorts and t-shirt I’d worn under the thing left me chilly. It was cold down here.
Pritkin silently handed me a coat, which I assumed was his. But instead of dragging the ground, it fit me perfectly. I looked up at him in surprise, and he scowled.
“Meant to give it to you under better circumstances.”
“You made me a war mage coat?”
I couldn’t believe it.
“That’s not authorized,” one of the other mages began, when Jonas shot him a look.
“You bring in the most wanted man on our roster, and you may give her instruction,” he said, and the mage shut up.
I stroked the arm of my coat, which was brown leather with a brown lining, and had all kinds of little pockets—for weapons, I assumed. I didn’t have many weapons, but I could think of other things that could go in there. I wouldn’t have to carry a purse!
And then something suddenly made sense. “You had this in your room,” I said, looking up at Pritkin. “That’s why it responded when I came in. You spelled it for me.”
He nodded tersely. “Made a smaller clone of own, but added some additional protection.” The scowl intensified. “I never know what you’re going to be up to.”
I hugged it; it felt warm. It also did look just like his, down to a scuff on one arm. War mage coats were spelled to be self-healing, but I guess that depends on the damage, and Pritkin’s got damaged a lot.
“Thank you,” I said, wanting to spin around and watch it twirl out, I didn’t know why.
I felt like I’d just gotten a ring.
But we had company, so I refrained.
One of the other war mages cleared his throat, and when I looked up, he was smiling. “Made my girl one, too,” he said. “Of course, she’s in the Corps. She works secretarial upstairs, but she wanted one. You know, to look cool.”
“This isn’t about how it looks,” Pritkin told him. “Cassie fights more than you do.”
He didn’t look happy about it.
Of course, neither was I. But if we played our cards right with Jonathan, maybe we wouldn’t have to so much anymore. “Billy?” I said.
A ghostly head popped out of Jonathan’s neck, making him look like a two-headed man for a moment. “Nothing. That damned song just echoes everywhere. He’s been trained for this, Cass. I don’t think you’re gonna get anything outta this one.”
“Come on out,” I told him, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
Billy floated a little way off, and Jonathan’s eyes followed him. My own narrowed, because he shouldn’t have been able to see him. Almost no mages could. That was reserved for clairvoyants, some of the demon races, and the kind of necromancers who specialized in ghosts—and the latter were few and far between.
“You can see him,” I accused.
“I can see many things,” Jonathan crooned. “Things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. C-beams glittering in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time—” the vague gaze suddenly sharpened. “Like you. Like your people. Like your precious court when I’m finished with—”
Pritkin didn’t hit him that time. He didn’t get a chance. Because, suddenly, I felt it—all of Mircea’s ruthlessness kicking in, to the point that, when I grabbed Jonathan’s hair again, I also bared fangs I didn’t have.
“Give it to me!”
He stared up at me, the gray eyes contemptuous. “No.”
And it swamped me. Not just my own emotions, but the fury of a master defied, combined with his rage at the man who had dared to hurt one of his own. Mircea could smell my blood through the bond, knew I’d been injured, knew the one who had done it was right there.
It was everything I could do not to tear Jonathan’s throat out with my blunt human teeth.
But Mircea had a better idea.
I watched as ghostly hands sank into the slick blond head, but this time, they weren’t Billy’s. It looked like I’d put on silvery gloves, ones that were now sliding off my fingertips and into the mage’s mind. Cold, cold, I felt him start, reacting to the chill. And then cry out, as those hands suddenly clenched.
“Give it to me or I’ll rip your mind apart and
take it.”
The voice was mine; the words Mircea’s. But I meant every one of them. This wasn’t play time. Something was wrong here, something was very wrong, and I needed to know what it was. I needed to know right freaking now.
And, suddenly, I did. Not a coherent stream of thoughts, but pieces, images, especially one in particular. One so shocking that my hands sprang away from the sweaty head—both sets of them. For a moment, the mage and I just stared at each other.
And then I was fumbling with the bloody shirt he wore, ripping it open.
“Fuck!” A war mage exclaimed. It wasn’t Pritkin. He was deathly quiet, as was Jonas, both of them staring along with me at the . . . thing . . . on Jonathan’s stomach.
It was moving.
Someone sounded like they were losing their lunch. Someone else cursed and yet another voice loudly proclaimed: “What the hell?”
“What the hell indeed,” Jonas said, bending closer. He looked up at me, and for once, there was nothing of the doddering old man in sight. His eyes were as sharp as knives. “What is it?”
I bent closer as well, to what looked like a face protruding out of Jonathan’s stomach. It was off to the side slightly, and looked to have forced some of his ribs out of the way, leaving strange protrusions in the flesh around it. But I doubt most people would have noticed.
Because the face was screaming.
It was silent and blind, the whole thing covered by the pasty, slightly hairy skin of his torso. But the mouth was open and working, and the slight lumps of the eyes were moving under the skin as if desperately trying to see. It was too indistinct to make out facial features, but then, I didn’t need them.
I’d already seen her inside his head.
I put a hand to the working mass, and somebody cursed again. And then I pushed through it, with ghostly fingers that finally made contact with what little was left . . . of an acolyte. “Jo,” I murmured, and heard her scream my name.
Even in her madness, she knew me, and she was mad. Completely, gibberingly crazy, which . . . yeah. I would have been, too.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” I said, more to myself than to her. I could already tell that I wouldn’t be getting any help there.
But I got some from another, unexpected source.
“Dead. What is dead?” Jonathan asked, his fingers stroking the side of her trapped face, causing her to flinch away. “Pretty pet isn’t dead. She lives, oh yes, she does. And feeds me.”
“With the Pythian power,” I said, leaning on Mircea’s emotions to keep from losing my shit. Master vampires took this sort of thing a lot more in stride than I did.
Jonathan looked up at me, and this time, the pale eyes were shining. He was proud of himself, I realized sickly. He wanted someone to know how clever he’d been, and since I’d already guessed it, why not crow a little?
“You killed most of her,” he told me. “But she was a necromancer. She liked ghosts.”
Once again, his eyes went to Billy, who shivered all over. “Okay. Skeeved out now.”
“Yes, she liked ghosts,” I said. “But that . . . isn’t one.”
In fact, I didn’t know what it was. I’d seen it in his mind, seen him stroking it and talking to it, as he was now. But I hadn’t gotten an explanation.
Not one that I could understand, anyway.
“It’s part of a ghost,” he said, looking down fondly. “She was going to face you, but she was afraid. Pretty little goddess is savage, sometimes.”
“So she did . . . what?” I asked through numb lips, hoping I was wrong.
“She told me about it, you see? Chimera, isn’t that what it’s called?” He looked up, and once again, the strange, colorless eyes met mine. There was nothing sane in them, but there was intelligence, and cunning.
“Shouldn’t be chimera—stupid name. It means something composed of disparate parts, like the Greek original. A monster with the body of a lion, the head of a goat, and a snake for a tail. You lot called your little spell that, when all it does is chop you in half. Stupid name,” he said again, running fingertips over Jo’s blind eyes.
“Not so stupid now.”
I felt an icy shiver run down my spine, and I wasn’t the only one. Billy was bobbing up and down a little way off, because he hadn’t bothered to materialize all the way. But what I could see of him looked horrified, with wide eyes and a hand over his mouth.
I felt numb; just numb. And surer than ever that Jonathan was mad. Because I knew what he’d done.
“She created a chimera copy, before going to fight me, didn’t she?” I asked. “So that, if she lost, her soul would snap back into her second body.”
But he shook his head. “No, no. That would have halved her power, and she wanted all of it to deal with you. No, she carved off a little piece of herself, just a tiny bit of soul, and took the rest with her. Instead of fifty-fifty, it was more like ninety-five to five. The soul she left in Faerie was so small, it couldn’t animate her body at all. She couldn’t even sit up.
“It was a kindness, really.”
“A kindness?”
He blinked. “When I took her back into this world. Faerie manifests bodies for souls, thus the spell hadn’t had to make an extra, you see? But once you leave, those bodies fall away, leaving only—”
“The soul itself.”
He nodded. “I welded it to mine, that little piece, and when she died, it survived. She’s a part of me now. She’ll always be a part of me—”
He’d started stroking the face again, but he suddenly stopped, and looked up. “I’ll make you a part of me, too,” he promised. “Won’t let them just kill you, no, no. Told them so. They said I could have you, once they were done. Well, part of you, anyway—"
He suddenly cut off, but not because he’d planned to.
But because Pritkin had all but put a fist through his face.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“We’re not going anywhere until you calm down,” Jonas said.
“I’ll calm down when he’s dead!” Pritkin snarled, his hair as wild as his eyes. Which were less worrying than the little filaments of what looked like lightning that were fritzing off his coat and attacking things in the small room where we’d ended up.
I didn’t think he was doing it on purpose, but it was wreaking havoc anyway. Already, a small lamp was a smoking nub, having gone up almost as soon as we came in. But there were also several black marks on the walls, a small fire on a table top, and a now-missing secretarial type, who had gotten an electric goose on the way out the door.
I was fine. Mentally, there was some white noise between my ears that was probably shock, but I was busy ignoring it. A lifetime of compartmentalization does have its advantages. It would wear off eventually and I’d probably go screaming down a hallway, but right now, I was fine.
That included the physical, although I wasn’t sure why. I didn’t think Pritkin could fully control his magic right now. But my pretty new coat might have had something to do with it. It was bristling all over, with the little pockets fluttering up and the belt snaking out to poke the air warningly whenever he stalked back this way.
In any case, I hadn’t been zapped yet, for which I was grateful.
I would have been even more grateful if the tea that the secretary had had delivered for his break was still hot. It didn’t look like he’d gotten a chance to drink any—there was still a full pot—but it must have been there for a while. Even a knitted green tea cozy hadn’t been enough to hold in the heat.
It was a shame, I thought, taking off the top and peering inside. I’d like some tea. It still smelled really good, but there was nothing worse than lukewarm—
And then it got zapped, when Pritkin came back this way again, causing steam to boil out of the opening.
Well, that worked out, I thought, and poured myself a cup.
Pritkin slammed his hands down onto the table, hard enough to make the pot jump and a little Earl Gray slosh out onto the cozy. Luckil
y, I had the cup in my hands. I sipped tea, which seemed to enrage him even further, if that was possible.
“Why does he want you?” Pritkin demanded, flinging out a hand at the guy next door.
“The same reason he wanted Jo, probably.”
“Who he already has! Why does he need you as well? And did you know he was planning to capture you before you deliberately went back to confront him?”
That was a lot of questions at once, which was good. There were a few in there that I didn’t want to answer because I preferred Pritkin alive and I was pretty sure the truth would give him a heart attack. So, I chose the easy one.
“I didn’t know he was going to be there at all. I was expecting another fey—”
Aaaaand that hadn’t been the right answer, either.
“Yes! Because a fey assassin is so much better!”
I took a moment to sip tea, and to give myself a chance to come up with an answer that wasn’t an emphatic agreement, but nothing came to mind. And then Jonas pulled him off, giving me a reprieve. I still didn’t manage to come up with a reply, however, because my brain was shorted out.
I found myself watching Jonathan instead.
That was easy, since the small room was adjacent to the larger one we’d just been in, with a two-way mirror separating them. Jonathan was still slumped in his seat while the medic attended to him. The two were surrounded by no fewer than six hulking war mages, with another dozen having arrived and arrayed themselves around the room.
I wasn’t completely sure if they were there for Jonathan, who wasn’t looking up to attacking anybody right now, or Pritkin, who’d had to be dragged off him. Something that . . . hadn’t gone well. Which was probably why several more mages were awaiting the medic’s attention, and why a bright yellow light was strobing the room.
The young medic finally finished with his patient and went on to Pritkin’s battered comrades. That gave me a better view of the prisoner, although with the flashing lights and hedge of leather coats, I still couldn’t see him too well. But what I could see . . . was disturbing.