Hunting Season (The Twenty-Sided Sorceress Book 4)

by Annie Bellet

  We had to wait until late morning before Yosemite was ready to leave. Alek wanted to come with us, but I made him stay. He’d barely slept in two days and his ribs were poking out. He needed rest and a ton of food. Yosemite didn’t have a driver’s license, or any ID at all, so I asked Ezee if he’d come to split the driving with me. No ulterior motive there, I swore, ignoring Alek’s disapproving face at my lie.

  Ezee had an SUV, which would make the trip more comfortable for all of us. I let him take the first leg to Seattle, and curled up across the back seat, pillowing my head on my arms. As I drifted off, I heard Ezee chuckle at something Yosemite said, and I smiled.

  “Haruki,” soft voices whisper around me. I can’t tell where they are coming from. Bamboo towers over my head as I run, the thin, sharp leaves slicing my bare arms. My heart pounds and my leg muscles are tired. I’ve come all the way from the village by the sea. Sweat stings my eyes, but I resist wiping it away.

  “Haruki, Haru, Haruki-ki-ki,” the voices sing out, movement in the bamboo around me giving them away.

  Children, I scoff to myself. I am not like them. They can torment me all they like. I am sure Mother put them up to it, another layer of distraction. I shove my anger down, letting it burn inside me, an ember keeping warm for later. Today I do not need it.

  The bamboo ends at the edge of a clear stream and I leap over, falling into a silent roll on the other side, and come to my feet beside the walled garden. I lick my palms to ignite the words carved upon them, the fine cuts stinging, and climb the smooth stone wall like a spider. At the top I pause. Below me is the garden, spread in a spiral of careful paths and shaped trees leading to the inner courtyard.

  There, standing on the bridge over an empty stream, is my target. The woman stands with her back to me, her long black hair loose over her blue robe. Too easy.

  I leap down from the wall, rolling again, and slip the kunai from my vest. I have only one spellblade. I must choose the right target, or I will fail.

  Failure has no appeal, no honor. I am a poor loser, Mother tells me. I would always rather win. Wouldn’t everyone?

  A songbird sings out in a cage on a pole high above as I run by, startling me. The wind picks up, making fallen petals dance along the path.

  Another woman waits in the center of the spiral, sitting calmly in seiza, her hands open on her knees, palms facing the overcast sky as though waiting to collect the rain that will surely fall tonight. Her hair is unbound as well, falling over her shoulders like ink spilled from a broken bottle.

  I let the kunai fly, my aim true, and it buries itself in her chest with a dull thud.

  The woman vanishes, a block of wood with a smoking piece of rice paper stuck to it all that remains of mother’s illusion.

  The woman at the bridge turns and bows respectfully as she approaches. I have not failed.

  “Haruki,” she says. “What have you learned?”

  “That illusion is immune to wind,” I say, unable to hide my smile. “Her hair did not move.”

  Mother shakes her head, her hair swaying gently with the motion. “I suppose that must be close enough the lesson, then. You must observe, always, Haruki-kun. Very little in this world is as it appears.”

  I woke from my half-dream, half-memory to find that it was dark out, with large buildings looming around us. I swept the dream from my head, shoving it away to examine later. Living with the echoes of the people I’d eaten inside my brain could get pretty creepy and I wasn’t up for dealing with whatever my subconscious was up to right now.

  “I thought you were going to wake me to help drive,” I said to Ezee, sitting up. “Looks like we are here.” I’d slept for nearly nine straight hours, cramped in the car, and I couldn’t decide if I felt better or worse. My mouth tasted thick with sleep and slightly sour.

  “You looked so peaceful, we didn’t want to wake you,” Ezee said.

  He seemed relaxed, more so than when we’d gotten in the car. I wondered how much of the intervening time he’d spent talking to Yosemite. The druid looked calm as well, and I had a feeling something had been worked out between them, whatever it was. More birds and fishes, maybe. Maybe not. I didn’t want to ruin the comfortable vibe by asking personal questions. I could try grilling Ezee about how his love life was shaking out later, in that magical future where someone wasn’t trying to kill us.

  “Are we there yet?” I quipped, smiling at Ezee as he flicked his gaze to me in the rearview mirror and made a face. I rolled my shoulders. Two nights of sleeping on cold, rocky ground, and now cramped in a car seat, made my muscles do their best Rice Krispie impression. Snap, crackle, pop. I felt old.

  “Nearly,” Yosemite said.

  “There” turned out to be a huge old warehouse in West Seattle. We pulled into the dark parking lot. Ezee turned off the car and pulled out his phone, plugging in headphones.

  “You aren’t coming up?” I said as Yosemite got out of the car. Salty, cold air from the Sound washed in over us.

  “No, just you two. Apparently this guy doesn’t like a crowd.” Ezee said it in a casual way but I could see it bothered him a little.

  “I’d say call me if there is trouble out here, but I’m phoneless.”

  “I’ll hit the horn, no worries,” he said. “Go on.”

  Yosemite hadn’t said much about the mysterious owner of the book, only that he was a man known as the Archivist. It sounded ominous.

  The warehouse was at least two stories, with dark windows high above and a heavy steel door. The door buzzed as we approached, and Yosemite pushed through it. He led me directly up a metal stair, running lights along the steps our only illumination. I could make out a hall beyond the stairs, with what might have been more doors. The place was cool without being cold, but the air had a slightly dusty quality to it that reminded me of a museum. Or a mausoleum.

  At the top of the steps, an ornate wooden door carved with huge Fu dogs stood partially open. As we stepped through, lamps came on around the room. Shelves lined the space, stretching up into the shadows, with tall library ladders adorning them in regular intervals. The gentle lamplight gleamed on leather spines embossed with gold leaf and engraved titles. The room was empty other than the books, two padded benches, and a small writing desk. Also it was much smaller than the outside dimensions of the warehouse said it should be. Like a reverse Tardis.

  I looked around for doors, but saw none. There must have been more rooms on this level, I was sure of it.

  Movement caught my eye and I realized a man stood just outside a pool of lamplight, watching us. He’d moved deliberately, I felt, just enough to catch our attention.

  “Archivist,” Yosemite said, inclining his head in greeting.

  The man stepped into the light. He was slender with an angular, not quite pretty face. His eyes were eerie, a flat, inhuman silver, with pupils that looked more catlike than round. He motioned to the benches, watching me intently. I felt like the mouse and it didn’t feel good.

  Going on instinct and probably no little amount of nerves built up from the last few days of fighting and running for my life, I sent a light brush of magic at him, trying to discern what he was. His flat silver eyes watched me and his mouth curled in the hint of a smile as nothing happened. I might as well have brushed my power against the desk at his side, or the books on the shelves.

  Or a corpse. I listened, using my magic to enhance my senses. The Archivist stood still, too still, frozen like a mannequin, no hint of breath or normal movement to him. No heartbeat.

  “Curiosity is known to kill cats, Ms. Crow,” he said, raising an eyebrow in a gesture that looked utterly practiced and precise.

  “Satisfaction brings them back,” I said, letting go of my magic. I didn’t want to accept what my brain and senses were telling me. “Do you sparkle in sunlight?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “I burn.”

  I looked at Yosemite, who had seated himself on a bench and was watching us with a guarded, bemused expression
. “Great. First unicorns, now vampires. What’s the next not-so-mythical thing we can encounter this week? Bigfoot? Ooh, I know! How about a dragon?” I looked back at our silent host.

  He had a very strange expression on his face and I had no idea what it meant. “Please,” he said after a moment. “Sit.”

  I sat, realizing I was ranting a little, and tried to get control of my nerves. I was dating a perfect predator, for Universe’s sake. This guy was scarier. Shifters I knew: I’d grown up with them. A vampire? I had no idea what was myth and what was reality. It was becoming quite clear to me that there was a lot about the world, the magical world especially, I didn’t know. I felt very small all of a sudden and it made me want to lash out.

  “Do you have a name?” I asked, trying to curb my tone to something polite.

  “Noah Grey,” he said, and this time his smile reached his eyes, briefly. I wasn’t sure if that was scarier.

  Yosemite gave a start of surprise next to me when the Archivist answered, but recovered quickly. “We would like to read the book I discussed.”

  “All information can be had, for a price,” the vampire said. “I doubt you can afford this one.”

  “I do not want to take the book, only to let Jade read it.” The druid was prepared for this. He had a small bag of various rare and special plants and seeds. “I am willing to trade, so we may read and copy what we need.”

  “A week,” Noah said, looking at me. “I will take a week of your time, working for me here. Then you may copy the pages you want.”

  “What?” I said. I leaned back on the bench and folded my arms over my chest, aware it was a defensive position and not caring. “We don’t have a week. And what the hell do you want me for?”

  “I have books that even I cannot read, information hidden from me. A week of your time to translate certain texts, is that so much?” His smile was back, this time revealing a hint of sharp white teeth.

  “Yes,” I said. “For one, we’re sort of on a clock here. For another thing, how do you even know I can read the things you want me to translate?”

  “But of course you can,” he said, tipping his head to the side.

  I wished he would blink. His unwavering stare was fucking unnerving. I couldn’t help but bend forward, searching his face for a clue as to his thoughts. What did he know about me? How did he know about my gift with languages? Yosemite had promised he would only tell the Archivist that I could read the book and I trusted the druid’s word.

  “How do you know that?” I asked.

  Samir’s dagger chose that moment to fall right out of its ankle sheath and clatter to the smooth wooden floor.

  I didn’t see Noah move. One breath the vampire was standing by the writing desk, the next he knelt in front of me, the dagger in his hands. He turned it over and over and then looked up at me. I tried not to flinch.

  “Sorry,” I said, reaching for the blade. “It does that.”

  “As well it should,” he said, standing up at a more human speed. He kept a hold of the knife. “This blade is not complete without its twin, so it will always seek to leave its bearer unless he or she holds both.”

  “What is it, besides mine?” I asked, emphasizing the “mine” a little and holding out my hand. I hoped that Samir didn’t have the twin. That would be awkward. The dagger was scary enough on its own.

  Reluctantly, Noah handed me back the blade. “What will you pay for that knowledge?” he asked.

  I almost said “What do you want” but realized the answer would probably be something like “Another week of your time.” I thought about pointing out I had paid translation services easily available on the web, but if this supposed knowledge broker couldn’t figure out that much, I wasn’t about to share. Maybe later, if I felt like ever dealing with him again, which I really kind of didn’t.

  “Look,” I said, standing up. Noah and I were almost of a height. “We aren’t going to loan you my time for a week. We can’t. And I’m not going to play these stupid bargaining games. Lives are at stake here, which I realize dead guys probably don’t give a flying fuck about, but we need to read the druid’s book.”

  “Trade me the dagger,” he said.

  “Give us the book, outright,” I countered. “Not just to read, but for Yosemite to keep. It should be his, after all.”

  “Done,” he said.

  I couldn’t repress a small jerk of surprise. I hadn’t expected him to cave like that.

  “Won’t the dagger just try to leave you, too?” I asked as he turned and walked to the desk, pulling a receipt book from one of the little drawers.

  “No,” he said. “I possess the twin.” This time his smile was all teeth.

  I bit back all my other questions and glanced at Yosemite. He hadn’t said a word in minutes. He stood slowly and shook his head at me, but I sensed a part of him was pleased at the bargain. Why should he not be, right? I’d given something up, not he.

  I hated that dagger. I carried it on my person, despite its many attempts to get left behind, dropped, or lost, because I wanted to keep it close, keep it out of the wrong hands. I wasn’t sure a vampire constituted the right hands, but he wasn’t actively trying to kill me, so I was pretty sure that made him a better candidate for holding onto the thing than most of the other people who knew about it.

  Noah signed a receipt, listing one druidic tome for one dagger, magic, and handed it over. He disappeared through a sliding bookcase door at the back of the room, leaving us alone.

  “That was probably a mistake,” I said quietly to Yosemite.

  “Perhaps,” he said. “The Archivist is not good, but he is not so bad, either. He lives for the preservation of knowledge, all kinds. Objects, rumors, myth, prophecy, art, literature. It all flows through here and he squirrels it away, a lot of it. Often the most dangerous things. That knife will likely never see the light of day.”

  “Well, sure,” I said, trying on a smile. “Daylight burns that guy, don’t you know.”

  I paced the room as we waited, thinking that Ciaran would have been doing a jig in here if these titles were authentic. I feared touching some of the books, not knowing if the bindings were just decorative or if they were as old as they looked. I found one, a slim volume with a red leather binding and an inlaid figure of an oriental dragon. I reached for the book, forgetting my caution, but Noah returned before I could pull it from the shelf.

  “Curiosity and cats, Ms. Crow,” he said, clucking his tongue as he walked by me, hauling a thick tome in his arms.

  The book was a good foot across and nearly as deep. The cover was carved-wood inlaid with semi-precious stones, and I could almost smell the age of the vellum inside. Knotwork illuminated the first few pages as I pulled my sleeve down over my hand to protect the pages from the oils on my skin.

  “It’s magically protected,” Yosemite said, peering over my shoulder. “Your hands won’t hurt it.”

  “How did the other two get destroyed?” I asked, flipping a page. There were many drawings, diagrams with notes on plants, animals, even a star chart. Something about it was familiar. The book reminded me a little of pictures of the Book of Kells I’d seen online, but not quite so ornate.

  “Witch hunters,” the druid said, pain straining his voice.

  “The Inquisition was not a good time for magic,” Noah added. He almost seemed to sigh. “Do you wish to read it here?”

  “No,” I said. I’d paid pretty dearly, probably more than I knew, for this book. I could read in the car on the way back. I couldn’t get motion sickness. “We don’t have time.”

  The vampire walked us to the ornate doors.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, trying to sound at least halfway sincere.

  He took my hand, his fingers strong and cool against my skin, and bent over it before I could react, brushing his lips against my knuckles. “Until we meet again,” he murmured so low I thought I imagined the words—until I saw the predatory look in his strange silver eyes.

 
I won’t say I ran down the steps, but hey, we were in a hurry, so taking them two by two was perfectly natural, and not all because the vampire gave me the heebies.

  Ezee was relieved to see us and swore that as long as we grabbed some of Seattle’s finest coffee, he was good to drive back as well, so I could read the book and find the rituals we needed to stop Clyde and save the trees. I gulped down scalding coffee after we hit a late drive-through, and dragged the huge book onto my lap, summoning light into my talisman to read by.

  The text wasn’t easy to read. The handwriting was precise but like many things from its time, the script was difficult to decipher and it was written in about four different languages, only three of which I’d ever seen before. If my gift hadn’t been wholly magical, I would have been screwed. Fortunately, magic saved my ass as soon as I stopped squinting so hard and trusted my ability to let me read and make sense of what I was reading. Slowly I grew used to the druid’s handwriting and odd diction, and the words and phrases began to make more sense. I shoved away the nagging feeling of familiarity and searched each entry, looking for references to Balor, hearts of the forest, and other keywords. I wished the damn thing was digitized so I could have just used a search function and lost about ten minutes musing if I could create a spell that would hunt the text for me.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t want to risk messing with the magic preserving the book, or risk the book itself if my spell went sideways somehow, which new spells of mine often did if they were detailed. Settling back against the seat, my thighs growing numb under the weight of the tome, I turned page after page. I found the ritual I thought we needed after over four hours of carefully searching the book, and a lot of pieces fell into place.

  “Drive faster,” I told Ezee. “We better hope the unicorn is still safe.”

  “No one has called me,” Ezee said. “I’m sure they are fine.”

  So, of course, no sooner were the cursed words out of his mouth than his damn phone began to sing “Lean on Me,” which was his ringtone for his brother.