Inked

by Karen Chance

  I landed in a pile of sweaters the proprietor was sorting and bounced back up, fighting with the smothering blanket I’d taken with me. I tore free just in time to see someone lunge for me in a blur of motion. And the next thing I knew I was flying backward through the air with what felt like half my ribs broken. I struck down with a thud that jarred my whole body, momentarily knocking my breath out, and then he was on me.

  The guy—young, greasy brown hair, angular face, baggy pants—was one of the Weres I’d fought in the first drain, the one who had taken a bullet in the leg. Only the wound didn’t appear to be slowing him down much. He hadn’t changed, which limited his strength, but then, he was doing fine without it. He picked me up by the legs and began bouncing me back and forth between the floor and the low, rocky ceiling, trying to pop my shields.

  It wasn’t exactly a textbook maneuver, but it was doing a hell of a job anyway. I’d have flung a spell, but the commotion had brought people running out of their booths, clogging the walkway. A Were would shrug off anything safe enough to use around the vendors, and the ricochet effect in here meant no guns.

  I was trying to get a hand on my potion belt when he slung me into a column. My shields collapsed, my head struck rock and everything whited out for a second. I blinked back to consciousness in time to see a blur of motion streaking down the corridor, about the same moment I realized that the wolf wards were gone. Damn it!

  I got up and then went back down to one knee, as a stab of agony ran through my temple and spread over my skull. My head was spinning, my wrist had almost been wrenched off and whatever had been done to my chest was making it hard to breathe. That was okay. I wasn’t planning any heroics in a cavern full of civilians. I just wanted to get close enough to get a tag in place.

  By the time I got to my less-than-steady feet, the screaming had reached earsplitting decibels. That seemed a little odd for a group used to Weres acting badly. And then a crowd of people almost ran over me, headed for the back of the cavern. One of them was the Were.

  He blew past me like lightning, and close on his heels was a huge, malodorous beast with small curled horns, a large shaggy body and an evil glint in its eye. Someone had let the bonnacon out, and it seemed to have a grudge against Weres, or at least against this one. It let out a bellow worthy of an enraged ox and plowed past me at a full gallop. The fumes in its wake were almost suffocating, but even worse, everywhere the creature went a trail of destruction followed. And not merely because it weighed a couple tons and didn’t bother sticking to the paths. But because—

  “Oh, my God!”

  “Cool, huh?” I glanced over my shoulder and saw Dieter. He’d acquired some jeans and a pair of sandals, courtesy of one of the abandoned shops, I assumed. He also appeared to have found some backbone. Instead of shaking, he was bouncing on his toes, looking pleased with himself.

  “It shits napalm?”

  “I said you didn’t want to know.”

  “I assume you let it out?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause this is why everybody pitched in and bought the thing. Bonnacons hate wolves; it’s like they’re natural enemies or something.”

  “I meant, why help me?”

  “I wasn’t. That fucker was one of those who burnt me out this morning.”

  “He’s a Predator? You’re sure?”

  “Damn right I’m sure! I woke up to see my tent burning over my head and that bastard holding a torch. I lost everything because they decided they didn’t need the competition.” He grinned as the Were ran past screaming, with his hair on fire. “Let’s see how he likes it!”

  The Were didn’t seem to be liking it. It also distracted him enough that he ran full tilt into the large cocktails sign, which crashed to the floor, sending bulbs bouncing and then shattering against the hard-packed ground. A second later, he changed, leapt over a counter and was gone—impossibly fast for so huge a beast.

  “You said you were staying off Decatur, right?” I asked Dieter.

  “Yeah.”

  I smiled. I hadn’t managed to tag the Were, but it didn’t worry me too much. You don’t need a tag when you have an address.

  “So, we going back to jail now?” Dieter asked hopefully.

  “Naw. They’d just process and release you.”

  “Yeah, but sometimes they feed us first.”

  I tucked a fifty in his jeans. “Lunch is on me.”

  IT took me precious minutes to get out of Tartarus. The old man weighed maybe a hundred and fifty pounds, and no way was I in any shape to carry him out of there. But leaving him behind wasn’t an option, either. Not with a ten-thousand-dollar tat on his arm and a hungry Aswang in the vicinity.

  I would have normally used magic, but right then I didn’t have any to spare. So I rigged up a travois out of plywood and blankets from the shop and dragged him out. Weak sunlight was filtering through angry clouds when I emerged, matching my mood. I leaned against the side of the drain, heedless of the mildew sliming my coat, and dug out my phone. The fact that it took me three tries to grab it probably wasn’t a good sign.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have seen a young man?” Caleb asked, before I got a word out. “Bad skin, lots of piercings, dreads—”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Well, I’m sure it’ll come up at your court-martial!” Jamie said heatedly. Oh, great. We were on speakerphone.

  “I don’t think I’m likely to be put on trial for borrowing a junkie for a few hours.”

  “No, but you might be for disobeying the direct command of a senior officer!”

  “Hargrove isn’t that much of a—”

  “Not him! Sedgewick! The old man told him he’d sent you on an errand, or he’d have you up on charges right now!”

  “Hargrove is covering for me?” Okay, now I knew I was hallucinating.

  “Yeah, and I’d love to know the story behind that one,” Caleb put in.

  “So would I,” I told him. “But it’ll keep. Right now, I need some—”

  “You need your head examined!” That was Jamie, of course.

  “Yeah. Concrete is pretty hard when you get slammed into it by a three-hundred-pound Were.”

  There was a brief silence. “Is that the body the patrol just brought in?” Caleb demanded.

  “I’ve only tagged two today so far, so—”

  “And where’s the other one?” Jamie again.

  “Tartarus. Some big market over by the Tropicana. I found a wardsmith stuffed into his own drop safe and then got jumped by a Were. He stole some wards, so I’m assuming he’s the one who did him, although—”

  “What wardsmith? What was his name?”

  “Like I said, we never made it as far as introductions. But he was still warm when I arrived; no rigor. So I’m guessing—”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Would you let me finish a sentence?”

  “It’s important, Accalia.”

  Something in his tone cut through the static. Not to mention that he never used my full name. “Older guy, shabby clothes, Thunderbird tat on his left arm—”

  “Shit!”

  Jamie didn’t say anything else, and Caleb took over. “Sounds like you’ve had a busy day. Why not come in? We can get your story straight before you see Sedgewick.”

  “Can’t, although it would be great if you could reroute a patrol by here to pick up the body.”

  There was some quiet conversation I couldn’t quite hear, and then Caleb came back on the line. “Will do. It’ll be about fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  I passed the time on the phone with a guy I know in research. The Predators were composed of outcast wolves, as I’d assumed. There were twenty to thirty of them and they were known for being big dealers of illicit drugs—including the Fey variety. I guess I knew what Dieter had meant about competition. They also had a reputation for brutality.

  “I kind of got that from t
he name,” I said, as an ambulance came around the corner. Four guys got out, two medics and…crap.

  “Nice to see you, too,” Caleb said, hiking an eyebrow at me. I guess I might have said that last bit aloud.

  “Where is he?” Jamie demanded, splashing through the current. A stretcher was whizzing through the air behind him, trying to keep up. That was definitely not SOP in an open area in broad daylight, any more than was the huge sword he’d slung over his back. But Jamie didn’t look like he gave a damn.

  I indicated my makeshift travois, which I’d parked inside the drain to keep it out of sight of passersby. Jamie knelt beside it and pulled back the blanket. And said a word he rarely employed in the presence of a lady—or even me.

  “You knew him?”

  “His name was Toby Wilkinson, and he was a damn fine wardsmith.”

  The two orderlies reached us and transferred the body to the stretcher. “Why was a talented wardsmith hanging around the drains?” I asked.

  “Because he was a stubborn old coot who wouldn’t listen to reason, that’s why!”

  “Could you be a little more—”

  “Six years ago, Toby was one of the best weapons-grade wardsmiths in the southwest. Then a group of kidnappers took his daughter and demanded an exorbitant ransom. Toby paid it instead of coming to us, afraid they’d kill his only child if he didn’t do precisely as he was told.”

  “I’m assuming they killed her anyway?”

  Jamie nodded. “Didn’t want to risk being identified. But it wasn’t her death that sent Toby over the edge. It was the fact that they killed her using one of his own wards.”

  “Jesus.”

  “What could they possibly have hoped to gain by that?” Caleb asked.

  “Nothing. That was the devil of it. We caught them eventually and one of them cracked. Said they’d thought it would be quieter than shooting her or some such. It was pure coincidence that the ward they used to suck the life out of her was one made by her father.”

  “And afterward?” I asked, pretty sure I already knew.

  Jamie shrugged. “Toby went off the rails. He started drinking, lost his practice, disappeared for a few years. The next time I saw him, he’d hung out his shingle in Tartarus. Turns out he’d been studying with some Native American master out in Arizona—healing spells, defensive wards and the like.”

  “And weapons. I didn’t find any in his shop, but I’m pretty sure he was killed over some wolf tats. And I didn’t think they were used for defense.”

  “They’re not. But Toby didn’t make weapons. He swore he’d never again allow his energy to be used to destroy the innocent.”

  “Are you sure? Because—”

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?” Jamie snapped. “I warned him when we had to pull out that Tartarus wasn’t safe—not with his inventory and with the price of wards these days. I practically begged him to at least make a few weapons for his own use. He flat-out refused.”

  I frowned. This case was getting murkier, not clearer, as I went along. I needed some answers, and I knew of only one person who might have them.

  “What are we waiting for?” Jamie echoed my thoughts. “Let’s go!”

  “Go where?” I asked, starting to worry.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know who did this!” He glared at me, hands on hips, red-gray hair flying, face fierce. His whole five-three frame was quivering with emotion.

  “I have an idea, yes.”

  “Or where to find him?”

  “Yes to that, too. I was waiting around to ask if you know anything about the drain over on Decatur.”

  “I know everything about it,” Jamie said impatiently.

  “Can you draw me a map of the interior?”

  “I’ll do better than that. I’ll show you!” He hopped back into the drain, splashed over to where I’d left my bike and threw a leg over.

  “Jamie!” He waved, started the engine despite not having a key and took off in a cloud of dust, leaving Caleb and me staring after him.

  “I didn’t know he could ride,” Caleb said, as Jamie ripped through a median, slung across the path of an oncoming truck, jumped the sidewalk, clipped a streetlight, wobbled, corrected, and tore away in a squeal of my tires.

  “He can’t.”

  “Maybe we can get a ride with the ambulance,” Caleb offered after a moment.

  Well, crap.

  9

  THE ambulance let us off on a patch of raw desert by Decatur Road. Jamie was nowhere to be seen, but my bike was leaning against a chain-link fence. The fence protected what had been an open air channel and was now a raging river.

  A few dust-dry areas still ringed the sides of the channel, but through the middle, the wash seethed. Water with a skim of oil and gas rushed past a corroded stove, lying on a rapidly diminishing sandbar. Trash—beer bottles, cigarette butts, and fast-food wrappers—bobbed in the current, swirling madly toward a tunnel protected by a large grate and a patch of weeds.

  I stared at it dubiously. This had seemed simple enough in my head: the gang lost their old hideout this morning, so they burnt out their rivals in the shantytown to make themselves a new one. But the reality wasn’t looking so cut and dried. I glanced around, but there didn’t appear to be any lookouts. Maybe they thought that with Were hearing they didn’t need any.

  Or maybe no one was crazy enough to want to hide out in the middle of a river.

  “Could we have the wrong address?” I asked hopefully.

  “My luck’s not that good,” Caleb muttered, swinging himself onto the fence. I hauled myself up after him and we dropped to the other side.

  Even standing on the bank, I could feel the ground tremble. Angry gray floodwater rushed around my legs and threatened to sweep me off my feet as we angled into the channel and sloshed across to the grate. It was festooned with newspapers and old crime scene tape, which it was attempting to keep out of the maybe four-by-four tunnel opening. Caleb shone his flashlight inside. “See anything?”

  “No.” Nothing good, anyway. Water churned around a small area just inside, like acid in a stomach. It foamed along grimy walls, mixing with bits of trash that had made it past the grate, before being sucked down the dark gullet of a tunnel. I could feel the current growing, pushing relentlessly against my shins, trying to shove me inside the hungry mouth.

  And my doubts grew along with it.

  What if all the gang knew about was the death of the old man? Yes, I wanted them brought in for that, but waiting a little while wouldn’t do further harm to Wilkinson. The same couldn’t be said for Cyrus. And this little trip seemed less and less likely to yield results the longer I thought about it.

  With a setup like that, I was surprised Wilkinson hadn’t been murdered long ago. And although it hadn’t looked like anything had been taken, I didn’t know what he’d kept on hand. As for the Were, maybe he’d followed me from the first drain, waiting for the opportunity to reclaim his property. He might not have had anything to do with Wilkinson at all.

  Likewise, the fact that that body had been dumped along 91 might have nothing to do with the gang. Maybe the Hunter had placed it there at random. Maybe he’d learned that the gang was using the drain for a hangout and was taunting them. Maybe a lot of things. Because the other alternative was that a bunch of Weres were hiding a Hunter. And why did I have trouble believing that?

  I started to pull back, but stopped when the drain flickered out, like a T.V. switching stations. For a moment there was nothing, no rushing water, no dark tunnel. And then I was staring at Cyrus.

  He was standing in his living room, clutching a small plastic guitar. “I Love Rock ’n’ Roll” was blasting from the T.V. And a woman who looked a lot like me was standing in the kitchen behind him, holding a small casserole dish.

  “Okay, rock star. I think it’s done,” she said, sounding dubious.

  “I’m almost through,” he told her, fingers flying. He was going to win this with human speed, damn it. If every nine-
year-old in the country could do it, how hard could it be?

  “You realize that’s only level one, right?”

  “You mean, sort of like making a soufflé?” She’d been at it all day, with much creative cursing. It still amazed him that a woman who brewed her own potions couldn’t cook worth a damn.

  “A soufflé is Freebird on expert,” she said crossly, as the last few notes faded away.

  Your mother doesn’t count as a fan, the screen informed him.

  Damn nine-year-olds.

  He joined her in the kitchen to find her staring into a small white container and biting her lip. They watched as the contents slowly melted, like the witch in The Wizard of Oz. “We could try it,” he offered manfully.

  “Try what? There’s nothing left!” She poked at the sad remains with a spoon.

  Cyrus threw an arm around her shoulders and kissed her flour-streaked cheek. She was warm and smelled like butter and spices and Lia. He was suddenly starving, but not for food.

  “You know what they say about the best way to a man’s heart?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They lie.”

  An hour later, she dropped a daub of sauce from the calzones they’d ordered in, and he leaned over the kitchen table and caught her wrist, putting his mouth over the pulse point. He slowly licked the sauce away, daring her with his eyes. The taste of her pulse under his tongue was enough to escalate the slow rolling pleasure of her company into something more. He wanted. Now.

  They’d been dating for months, but he sometimes wondered if she realized it. Lunches and dinners spent talking about her cases had slid into movie nights at his place, laundry dates at hers and weekends spent riding the motorcycles they both loved. Yet she still treated him more like a colleague than anything else.

  It was driving him out of what was left of his mind.

  She grinned, and it was purely her, the insolent charm that made him respond to her from the very beginning. “All right, rock star. Let’s see what you’ve got.” He just sat there for a moment, sure he’d misunderstood. Until she laughed and pulled him up from the table. “You keep looking at me like that, and we won’t even make it to the bed.”