Déjà Vu & Gin

by Heather R. Blair

  How did she know my surname? I haven’t heard it spoken out loud in at least a century. The last time I did, I slit the throat that spoke it. It’s unlikely he’ll remember the name, even more unlikely he’ll associate the legendary assassin with that long-ago day at Newgate, but I don’t like this. I don’t like it all.

  First the fucking Fetters, now this.

  I really should kill her. I slow on the sidewalk, turning around to look back at the oddly beautiful house: part Victorian gingerbread, part red-stone mansion, part faux castle complete with looming tower. The windows wink in the weak late-fall sunshine, looking eerily sentient, contemplating me as I contemplate murder. That itch between my shoulder blades starts up again, warning me off. With a sigh, I turn my back on the house and walk away.

  I can’t risk it.

  Killing Anastasia would cause me far too many problems, at least until our business is complete. Of course, not killing her is equally dangerous. I can’t both save Persephone and assassinate her. I stalk down the road, cursing almost as vividly as the witch.

  So far, my plan has consisted of putting off Cerunnos by way of pretended incompetence—an avenue that is not only distasteful, but professionally insane. I doubt Cerunnos is the type to take failure gracefully. I stop as my cell phone buzzes in my pocket. Speak of the devil. Holy horned one, indeed.

  I’m not supposed to know his real identity of course, but as a certain black-haired witch recently reminded me, in my line of work, it’s both stupid and careless to take a job without knowing your employer. I’m neither.

  It may have taken me over fifty years to peg him, but I got there eventually, and only recently. Herne, god of the hunt. He disappeared well before my time, but apparently he’s reinvented himself and making a comeback. Like Travolta, only without Scientology and the slick dance moves.

  I swipe right. “Yeah?”

  “Be back by dark.” Click.

  He’s not usually so succinct. Cryptic, yes. Succinct, not so much. Gods have a flare for the dramatic, at least the three I’ve met. In Herne’s case, that lends itself to a tendency for annoying monologues. He loves the sound of his own voice a little too much. Not today, though. I frown at my phone, wondering what’s up.

  I guess I’ll find out soon enough. Freelance contractor or not, I’m at the end of a short chain until I finish this gig. I have no choice but to heel when he yanks it. Fuck this situation three ways from Sunday. My best hope is that someone else offs one of them for me.

  Seph, Cerunnos or Anastasia. Doesn’t really matter which. I glance at the faint stars popping out in the twilight sky and think about making a wish.

  That itch between my shoulders starts up again, along with the memory of a pair of ice-blue eyes.

  Frowning, I shove the phone in my pocket and drop my gaze from the stars to look for a ride to steal.

  Fifteen minutes later, my liberated Dodge is climbing to ninety like a bird, smooth and powerful and quiet. I smile and keep my hand on the shifter. Navigating the switchbacks along Old Highway 61 is interesting even at a sane pace. I don’t have time for sane.

  Luckily, I like to drive and I’m good at it. I may have grown up in a time when that meant a four-in-hand rather than five on the floor, but I’ve been sold on American muscle for a while now. This modern Challenger has nothing on its grandpappy, the ’Cuda, but it’ll get me north fast. I’m fresh out of any kind of transport or speed spells at the moment. Anastasia will have to hook me up again.

  She does give great spellwork. My eyes narrow as I look out the windshield.

  I was pretty sure my anonymous blackmailer was a witch from day one. Unlimited spellwork was a clue, of course, but it was more than that. I’ve gotten a feel for different FTCs since I became a part of their world.

  Nymphs, sprites, dryads and those types use my kind primarily for protection, hired muscle and the like. Ditto for shifters, but in their case, it’s usually for protection of goods, not their persons. Elementals are bigger customers than you might expect, despite how powerful they are, because they’re also a sneaky, conniving bunch, not averse to outsourcing a bit of thievery, kidnapping or murder.

  Royals are another major source of revenue. I’ve started wars, and I’ve ended them, too. The only group that has never hired me are the gnomes. They handle their own dirty work. I respect that.

  Witches, though. Witches inevitably want me to steal something. I’ve played bodyguard for them only a handful of times, usually when someone very specific wants one dead.

  Like Seph.

  Even if I hadn’t been hired to do her in already, I never would’ve accepted a gig to protect the youngest Gosse sister. Not with the rumors going around about that one. But then it wasn’t like Anastasia gave me a choice.

  It was cleverly done. Diabolical, almost.

  My lips twist as I force the Dodge to hug another curve. I’ve got to admit I’m impressed by the witch. It’s not often anyone gets the best of me.

  It started out incongruously enough. I got a message about an opportunity.

  I get many such messages; there was no reason not to answer this one, or to be concerned. An assassin is always on guard, but I wasn’t unduly so.

  I damn well should have been.

  Duluth is becoming a hopping spot for FTC work in the Americas. The Dark Council is nearby and throws a fair amount of coin my way, vampires love the place, and it’s got the whole forest spirit trifecta going on: nymphs, naiads and dryads. I like the New World and I prefer working here over the Old whenever possible.

  The meet was set up for The Anchor Bar on the Wisconsin side of the harbor. It’s the dive bar of dive bars at the end of a dive bar strip. The waitresses in this tiny little hole in the wall take bitchy to a new art form, but they serve up damn tasty hamburgers.

  That day, I had finished up my burger (melted swiss sprinkled with cashews, surprisingly tasty) and decided my client was a no-show. It happens a lot; people calm down and change their mind, or just plain chicken out. I called for the check and got a note along with it. Go have a smoke.

  So I did.

  This was last winter, around February. Piles of dirty snow glittered dully in the streetlights when I made my way around back. I saw her right away. Not that I knew it was a her then. Just a shadow lurking among other shadows. She was using a spell of some sort to distort her size and voice. Again, not anything particularly new or surprising.

  Then the shadow spoke—not much, just the number of the deposit box in which the Fetters were stored at the time. My heart stuttered in my chest, fear and fury mingling in a lethal mix.

  I’d assumed storing a powerful magical object in something so mundanely human was rather clever. Believe me, it wasn’t clever I was feeling when I went after that shadow behind the bar with every intention of cutting it to ribbons.

  I didn’t get far.

  The dirt on the damn snow wasn’t dirt. Vorpal sand. The same stuff that when melted down, tempered and beaten can be made into a sword. That’s right, Lewis Carroll wasn’t mad, he was just one of those rare humans who sometimes see things they shouldn’t.

  I yanked at the hilt of my sword, even though I knew it was useless. Vorpal sand is from the far distant shore of another plane, and it creates a kind of temporal flux, slowing time for whatever it touches.

  The air became thick and clinging. I couldn’t even manage to pull my sword an inch from its sheath. The shadow chuckled.

  “Should I call the prince? You could probably get free before the palace guard arrives, but then you’ll never really be free again, will you? The Firebird Prince doesn’t like thieves.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you to protect someone, a witch named Persephone.”

  I remember swearing internally. A futile protest, because I was stuck, in more ways than one. I’d just met with Cerunnos earlier that day, I knew the situation was all kinds of insane, but I had no choice.

  I agreed.

  One drop of bl
ood from her, one from me. Right on the dotted line of an already prepared parchment. By the time I was able to move freely again, the mysterious shadow was long gone, our contract with it.

  I figured after a week or two that it was probably someone in Persephone’s family. Either mama witch or one of the sisters.

  Jett was my first bet. Not because she can’t protect her sister herself, but as an almost-assassin, the woman knows her limitations. Plus, she knows firsthand just how good I am.

  But then there was the whole Firebird Prince threat. That could point to any of the sisters, but after researching the other women’s backgrounds, I started leaning toward Anastasia. There was no way for me to be sure, though, until I finally caught a break: Jett got curious and came to talk to me after her baby sister locked me in the basement.

  I’d known instantly that while Jett had no idea someone was trying to protect her baby sister, she did know who could make better scrollwork than hers.

  Her first reaction had been irritation. That seemed to point to someone she didn’t feel overly protective about, eliminating the younger sisters in my mind. Leaving only Oriane—in which case, consider me well fucked—or Anastasia.

  I decided for sanity’s sake it was Anastasia. Waiting to get out of that basement and confirm my theory had driven me nutters. But now it’s almost worse.

  My hands tighten on the thick leather of the steering wheel. I’m still stuck with no real idea how to work myself loose.

  I’ve been in tight places before. The key is not to panic. The solution will come. It always does. I’ve learned patience over the years. When you chew at a problem too much, it just grows bigger, but leave it alone, go on with your life, and sometimes epiphany strikes.

  As I drive, watching the lake winking to my right, I can only hope that shit strikes soon.

  Palisade Head gleams in the wash of the moon, icy grey waves licking at its rocky toes, hundreds of feet of raw stone. This landscape was formed by lava and scrubbed by glaciers, right down to the bedrock. It left a nice deep basin for Lake Superior to fill and a stunning array of cliffs to ring its northern shore. The original song of ice and fire.

  I smile tightly as I exit the car and head for the ‘secret lair.’ Like I said, all gods have a flare for the dramatic, but in Herne’s case, it’s overkill.

  I take a stroll down the tunnel. Since it was carved by gnome magic, they could’ve made it look smooth and perfectly modern. But no, he went for the jagged, hand-hewn look. Some people like living in the past; it’s where they feel cozy and safe.

  Before I can reach the throne room, a god steps into my path.

  This isn’t the one I expected. It’s Loki.

  Everything inside me stills and goes icy calm, the way it does every time I come face-to-face with this bastard. Behind my back, my hands clench together.

  He looks at me. Those bright blue eyes are pure chaos. It makes my head ache to look at them, so I pick a point just over his left shoulder to focus on. It’s hard to read any god, but the god of chaos presents a unique challenge, even to one with my skills. I doubt Loki himself ever knows what he intends to do from one moment to the next.

  “You’re late.”

  “I wasn’t aware I had a curfew.”

  “Cerunnos wanted you here before dark.”

  “Well, not being a god, I did the best I could.”

  “It must be emasculating to have to depend on others for magic.” He tsks, waiting for a reaction I don’t give him. This one isn’t the type to simply pull the wings off a fly. That’s not nearly entertaining enough. He’s more likely to crumple one wing and throw it into a spider’s web, then sit back and watch the show. Like he did to me.

  “So what’s with the urgent urgency anyway?”

  “The wolves hit the witches tonight.” He rubs his chin, looking thoughtful. “They might just finish your job for you, assassin.”

  I blink, careful not to react. “How’s that?”

  “You know Cerunnos is always hedging his bets. What did you expect him to do when you got yourself tied up?”

  “I’m free now,” I point out.

  “Hmmm,” Loki’s smile twists, “if you say so. But you took too long getting there. The word went out over a week ago and the wolves want that bounty pretty badly. Snagged the little witch’s human bestie earlier tonight.”

  Huh. Not a bad plan. “Clever.”

  “Yes, it was, don’t you think?” Loki looks pleased. He loves ingenuity. “They also got one of the other witches, coordinated attacks. Pretty slick plan for a bunch of mutts. They grabbed her right outside their house.”

  I go still. “Which sister did they get?”

  Loki shrugs. “Don’t think it was the one with the sword, but other than that . . . does it matter?”

  I deflect, not wanting him to get too curious about my interest, and throw out some information that might confound even the god of chaos. “If it’s the redheaded one, it might to a certain lake monster.”

  Loki cocks his head, those bright eyes starting to swirl madly. “Are you serious?” Then he laughs. “These witches must have more magic between their legs than at their fingertips.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I say shortly. “Where is he?”

  “In his chamber. I doubt he will see you yet. Failure may amuse me, but it just pisses him off.” He gives me a considering look. “Have you ever considered that you’re past your prime? Perhaps I should advise my sister it’s time to put you out to pasture.”

  I look him directly in the eyes for the first time. “I wouldn’t recommend it, Loki. Even gods have felt the bite of an assassin’s blade a time or two.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “That sounds like a threat.”

  “Sounds like?” I smile tightly. “I didn’t mean to be so ambiguous.”

  After a second’s hesitation, he laughs. “I rather like you, assassin.”

  “Is that so?” I head to Cerunnos’s chamber, done with this conversation. I shouldn’t have let him bait me, but then again, I couldn’t let such a comment pass unanswered. Not even from Loki.

  “Yes. You remind me of someone I used to know.”

  The softly spoken words slam into my back like thrown bricks, but I manage to keep walking without a hitch. “If we’d met, I’m sure I’d remember it.”

  “Yes,” he says again, his voice almost sibilant, slithering after me as I round the corner. “I’m sure you would.”

  I’m not exactly hyperventilating by the time I reach Cerunnos’s rooms, but I do have to stop outside the door and take a deep breath.

  All right. Even if Loki has figured out my identity, which I definitely do not know for sure, what does it give him? I was some gypsy street rat he tortured in another time and place, probably one of dozens, if not thousands. He couldn’t possibly know what I have planned. The witch has a few pieces of the puzzle but hardly enough to figure out the endgame.

  This is just Loki being Loki. All godlike and mysterious, trying to come off omnipotent. But just like I told him, gods aren’t out of reach of death. Nothing is.

  I’ve made quite a study of such things in the last century.

  Loki was right, Cerunnos refuses to see me. But he doesn’t deign to dismiss me outright either, which means I have to wait on his pleasure.

  So I wait. All night, dozing while standing up. When the door finally slams open in front of me around eight or nine the next morning, I open one eye to see Cerunnos framed in the doorway, looking apoplectic.

  “Frost is back.” He waves me inside. The elemental across the room eyes me narrowly. I send what I hope is an unconcerned smile Frost’s way. Nothing to see here, asshole.

  Thankfully, Frost dismisses me to explain in detail what happened on a Wisconsin beach earlier tonight. My eyes widen as I realize the little witch that had me locked in her basement for over a week just obliterated half a werewolf pack.

  Cerunnos is also stunned, but unlike me, he’s stunned and pissed. “The witches got away s
afe then. Both of them?” His tone makes no bones about who he blames for that.

  Frost shrugs, cool as ice in the face of the god’s wrath. “What exactly could I have done in front of the bruin king and Styx? Not to mention, Persephone has elemental magic now.”

  “But no control of it, from what you say,” the god snaps.

  The elemental laughs without humor. “Control or not, I’m going to be stepping a lot more carefully around her after what I saw tonight.”

  “Her magic doesn’t even work on you!”

  “Be that as it may.” He flicks that frosty gaze my way. “If I were you, assassin, I’d ask for a raise.” There is something odd in that gaze. Something almost . . . satisfied. My lips press together as I consider the elemental. I had thought Cerunnos was being paranoid about Frost having some sort of sentiment for the witch. After all, you don’t do what Frost did to Persephone unless you’re one cold son of a bitch, but now I wonder. Frost raises an eyebrow, but I only smile and look away.

  Cerunnos’s tone is sly when he speaks up again. “At least there was a nice surprise waiting when they got home.

  Frost blinks once, his face turning to stone. “What kind of surprise?”

  My own spine tingles as Cerunnos’s bloodred eyes gleam with malice. “I received a call from the alpha bitch before you arrived, Frost. It appears she didn’t take the news of her mate’s demise well. Broke into the witches’ house around dawn and went rabid.”

  Frost straightens almost imperceptibly. My own heartbeat has slowed to a near stop. “Who was home?” I wonder aloud, even though I know exactly who I left there.

  He shrugs. “Some human male.” I frown at this unexpected bit of news. “Along with the oldest witch sister. You’ve studied up on them, Tyr.” Is his tone mocking, or is it just me? “What’s her name again?”

  “Anastasia,” I say automatically.

  “That’s the one.” Cerunnos smiles with satisfaction. “It seems they’re knocking on death’s door.”

  I school my expression to mild surprise. “The witch as well?”

  “Oh yes, the werewolf saved her teeth and claws for the human but got to the witch first with a soul-poisoned blade. Too bad it wasn’t the youngest, but a witch is a witch after all.” His smile is dark and feral.