Inked

by Karen Chance

  “But if the interrogation was last night, you didn’t know any of that when you challenged!”

  “No, but I knew that a guy who’d had his only child killed by a gang wasn’t likely to bow to pressure from another one. And he had to know he’d be killed as soon as he did what they wanted. He’d seen the wolf pelts and therefore was in a position to identify the ones who had taken them. It was the same reason his daughter was killed six years ago. So if he was going to die anyway, I thought there was a good chance he’d like to take a few of the gang with him.”

  “A good chance?” Cyrus looked like he was swallowing something sour. “If you’d been wrong you’d be dead!”

  “If it had to be me or Sebastian, better that it was me,” I told him, struggling for calm. Arguing with Cyrus was usually fun, adding frisson to whatever we were doing. But not when he got on this subject.

  “Sebastian knew the risks when he assumed his position—”

  “As did I. I’m a war mage trained to do exactly this kind of thing.”

  “I think if other mages went around fighting duels to the death in front of the Council, I might have heard.”

  “Maybe not in front of the Council,” I agreed, “but just about everywhere else. And with the war on, it’s likely to happen again. Particularly with my new job.”

  Cyrus looked up from glaring at the rug. “What new job?”

  “Hargrove has stuck me with the worst group of trainees you’ve ever seen. They scare me. I may be in here for a while, considering I have zero incentive to get well.”

  “You love teaching.”

  “They blew up the gym, Cyrus! Within a day of arrival! And I’m supposed to have them combat ready in six months!”

  “Sounds like they already are.” He looked much cheerier suddenly. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that, in the Corps, teaching was considered one of the more dangerous activities. “But at least you weren’t fired. By the way, why weren’t you fired?”

  “The same reason Caleb and Jamie weren’t. Hargrove prefers to keep us around to torture.”

  He grinned. “I thought Sedgewick was the problem.”

  “He was, until he decided to autopsy a certain off-limits corpse. Caleb dropped by with the news a few minutes ago. Sebastian noticed the difference when the body was delivered and made it sound like it was going to cause a major diplomatic incident. In reality we don’t even know for certain who the Were was.”

  “That’s a politician for you.”

  “So we did a trade. My little lapse for Sedgewick’s.”

  “Sounds like things are looking up.”

  “Yeah. So about that bond—”

  “I have some news, too,” Cyrus said quickly. “I’ve talked Sebastian into putting together a group of vargulfs to act as informants and to keep an eye on the Were gangs that remain in Tartarus. Grayshadow was able to turn them because there’s almost no way for outcasts to redeem themselves. If they end up being of service during the war, he’ll get them clan status after the dust settles. It’ll be a low-ranked clan, but it’s a start.”

  “What about you? He could tell Arnou that you caught the Hunter. Allow you to redeem yourself and rejoin the Clan.”

  “And then who would coordinate the vargulfs? A Clan wolf can’t be seen talking to them, nor would they be likely to take orders from one.”

  “But you could go home, Cyrus.”

  He leaned over to kiss my neck. “I already am.”

  I smiled back and slipped a lasso around his shoulders. “So, about that bond—”

  He tried to pull back, and found he couldn’t. He started to look a little panicked.

  “Lia—”

  “Don’t even try it. You’ve been yelling at me for the last twenty minutes—”

  “That wasn’t yelling.”

  “Berating, then. So it’s my turn. How come Sebastian knew we were bonded and I didn’t?”

  Cyrus closed his eyes and sighed. “You were so insistent that you weren’t Were. It was almost the first thing you ever said to me. I didn’t think it could happen. You’re only half-Were and there were none of the usual signs—until you left. I almost went crazy the first week; it was worse than leaving Arnou, ten times worse. And when I realized why…” His eyes opened, and there was genuine pain in them. “How could I tell you? I’m vargulf. I have nothing to offer you.”

  “You have you.”

  He gave a short, unamused laugh. “Yes, and I’m such a prize. You had to rescue me.”

  “You were the one who found out what was going on,” I pointed out. “If you hadn’t told me, I never would have figured it out in time. And as I recall, you’d already freed yourself by the time I got there.”

  “Lia,” he paused, searching for words as Cyrus never did. “This isn’t wounded male pride talking. You could have died yesterday; you almost did die. And I could do nothing to save you.”

  His eyes looked haunted, and it wasn’t hard to guess that he was thinking about the other woman he’d failed to save. Sebastian had said they’d only been children when their mother was killed, but I knew Cyrus well enough to know he blamed himself for it. “You’re right,” I agreed, and his head shot up. “You couldn’t have done anything. Grayshadow was both a Were and a mage, albeit an untrained one. Only someone who was also both could have beaten him.”

  “I should have found a way, should have figured it out—”

  “Even if you had, he would never have feared you enough to use those damn wards. Not after having pulverized you for most of the day. It had to be a Were who possessed the same advantages he did to make him believe that he needed extra protection.”

  “A Were?” One eyebrow shot up. “You’re actually admitting to being one of us?”

  “After today, the facts are kind of hard to ignore,” I admitted. “If I wasn’t Were, I would never have found you in time or been able to get before the Council to fight the duel. But if I wasn’t also a mage, I would have lost.”

  Cyrus gave a lopsided grin. “You’re saying I’m mated to a mutt?”

  “You tell me. I have quite a few questions about—”

  Cyrus was suddenly on his feet, bad leg and all. “Damn, look at the time. Visiting hours are already over.”

  “I don’t think that applies if you’re also a patient—” I began, but the door closing after him cut me off.

  I stared at it in disbelief for a moment, before falling back against the pillows with a thump. Men! I picked up my bedraggled flowers, which had gotten a little squashed somehow. They looked like he’d picked them himself, from Sedgewick’s potion garden, judging by the contents. I grinned. “You can’t run forever, Cyrus.”

  “I guess you’ll just have to get well enough to catch me.”

  Now that was what I called incentive.

  armor of roses

  A HUNTER KISS NOVELLA

  MARJORIE M. LIU

  1

  ACCORDING to Mark Twain, in a notebook entry dated in 1897, time is atomized, broken into infinitesimal fragments in which moments that have been lived are forgotten and without value, while moments that have not yet been experienced do not exist and are of no importance. Only the present, the immediate, has significance; time is isolated, time is discrete. Even memories, hardwired into the brain to give dimension to the temporal, are fleeting.

  Because we die. Because each life is a single conscious moment, burning.

  Lost, in time.

  THERE were no zombies at the party. I would have been happy to find some. If nothing else, the small talk would have been less insulting. Nor would I have been as tempted to shove an opera singer over the railing of the yacht.

  “But my dear, you look so cultured,” complained Madame Borega, loudly enough that heads turned to stare. “What do you mean you’re from Texas?”

  Her affront was palpable, her distress audible in the faint tremor of her rich vibrato vowels. Texas, apparently, was apocalyptic. I might as well have told her that I was a kill
er—and that the two tiny demons hiding in my hair would be more than happy to set her face on fire.

  Both of which were true. But she didn’t need to know that.

  A gentle hand touched my elbow. I looked up to find Grant beside me, leaning hard on his cane. His gaze was faintly amused, but darkly so, and he settled his attention on Madame Borega with a smile that held an edge.

  “Wonderful performance last night,” he said in his deep rumbling voice. “Your Aida was a joy.”

  Madame Borega lowered her gaze, smiling—but, before she could thank him, or demure, or tell Grant that he was a hot, hot former priest and she wanted to pull a Thorn Birds on his ass, he added, “But frankly, Suzanne, I was shocked to learn that you were using an enhancer.”

  The woman froze, staring at him. A deep crimson flush stained her décolletage and rose into her face, all that red visible beneath the heavy pale cake of her makeup. I thought she was embarrassed, but then her lips tightened and her eyes hardened, and it was like watching a skunk lift its tail.

  “My voice,” she said, “needs no enhancement.”

  “I’m sure it doesn’t,” Grant said, in the most conciliatory tone imaginable. “I just thought, perhaps, that you had been ill. Using a microphone is nothing to be ashamed of, which is what I told Roger Breckin over dinner.”

  Madame Borega’s gasp was so violent, this time people did more than turn their heads. Conversations stopped. Drinks were put down. I held myself steady in the three-inch heels I had been wobbling in all night, and casually rubbed the back of my neck. A small hot tongue rasped across the back of my hand.

  “You told Roger…” began the opera singer, touching her throat. “Oh, my God.”

  And with that, she fled—in fits and starts, stopping every few feet to stand on her toes to scan the crowd. Grant made a small humming sound, slid his large warm hand around my waist, and guided me in the opposite direction. His limp was more pronounced than usual. I kept my steps deliberately short, pretending it was the heels that were making me careful.

  “I’m no opera expert,” I said, twining my fingers through his, “but I think you just ruined that woman’s night.”

  Grant was taller than me even while stooping over his cane; a ruggedly handsome man with brown hair brushing the broad shoulders of his tuxedo, dark eyes keen with grim humor. “Roger Breckin helps finance the Seattle Opera House. He’s one of the richest men on the West Coast. He’s also Susan Borega’s benefactor, but his standards are exacting. One hint that her voice needs a microphone to fill the hall he paid for, and she would be ruined.”

  “Ah. But at dinner we were seated with a Watanabe and Anderson. No Breckin in sight.”

  “Funny how that works,” Grant replied, and tightened his arm protectively. I bit back a smile, and glanced over the railing of the yacht. I meant only to look at the water, still unused to living close to the sea, but instead spied three demons being dragged through the cold dark ocean like body surfers, their claws lodged in the outer hull.

  Zee, Raw, and Aaz. Steam rose from their small angular bodies, along with bubbles and frothing foam. Red eyes glinted like rubies shot with fire, and when they saw me observing, I was given three vigorous thumbs-up signs. My boys, rocking out. I had vague childhood memories of them watching Flipper on old hotel televisions—that, and Muscle Beach Party with Annette Funicello, who they still thought was hot. All they needed now was sand, shades, and some chocolate-covered surfboards to eat over a bonfire, and their fantasy would be complete.

  I flicked my fingers at them in a subtle wave, and two small voices began humming inside my ear, long bodies coiled against my scalp with a subtle sinuous weight that still, after all these years, made me want to pat my head to reassure myself that no scales, tails, or snouts were sticking out of my hair.

  I forced my hands to stay still, relying on faith and trust. No one else could see Dek and Mal. I might feel them, but the two demons hidden in my hair were only partially in this dimension, bodies resting here and elsewhere, lost in some mysterious realm that all my boys traveled like armored skipping stones.

  My protectors. My friends. My family, bound to my blood until I died and passed them on to the daughter I would one day have. Just as they had been passed on to me.

  Grant peered over the rail, choked down a quiet laugh, and then turned to scan the crowd. Watching auras. Reading every guest’s darkest secrets with nothing but a glance. For a long time he had thought he suffered merely from synesthesia—a cognitive peculiarity allowing him to see sound as color—but he knew differently now.

  “Maxine,” he said, speaking my name softly, so no one would hear him. I had used an alias all evening, but I missed being myself, hearing my real name. “Thank you for coming with me tonight.”

  I gave him a wry look. “And let you face the hyenas alone?”

  He smiled, but it was tense, and I could not help but notice how he was careful to take the weight off his bad leg. His grip on the cane was a little too tight. It had been a long night standing, or having to sit with his knee bent. Bone did not heal well when crushed, but Grant never took anything stronger than Ibuprofen—and for an old injury like his, that was nothing.

  Better pain than the alternative, though. For both of us, control was paramount. I might be dangerous, but so was Grant. More so, maybe.

  I followed his aimless gaze, taking in the after-dinner party. We were on a luxury yacht, cruising around Elliot Bay. The sun had been gone for hours, and I could see the glittering lights of downtown through the far windows, glimpsed around men and women who dazzled almost as brightly. This was not my kind of crowd. Not Grant’s either, though he moved among them with an ease that I envied. I had always been an outsider, but for once my feelings of isolation had nothing to do with not being human. I simply was not human like them.

  Seattle’s elite. Software moguls, Boeing executives, famed novelists and musicians, sports stars and movie stars; old money, new money, more politicians than I could shake a stick at; as well as one former priest who was a celebrated philanthropist—and me. His date.

  The last living Warden of a multidimensional prison that housed an army of demons waiting to break free and destroy the earth.

  But tonight I was in a dress. First one I had worn in years. And since it had been a long time, I had decided to make a statement. Deep neck, no back, short as hell. Bright red. Long black hair loose, faintly curled. Good thing this was a night event, or else I would have had to make adjustments to the wardrobe, what little there was. No one but Grant and a handful of others ever saw my skin while the sun was up. Safer that way.

  Few ever saw my right hand, either, but tonight was another rare exception. I glanced down at the smooth metal encasing several of my fingers, veins of silver threading across the back of my hand to a shining cuff molded perfectly to my wrist. Not quite a glove, but almost. Bound so close to my flesh and the curve of my bones and joints that sometimes it seemed the metal had replaced flesh.

  The armor was magic, or something close. Bound to me for life. And though possessing this…thing…had proven useful in the past, the metal had a bad habit of growing. I usually wore a glove to hide it—wore gloves anyway, during the day—but this was a good night to test an old theory: that most folks would accept most anything strange as normal, because the alternative simply could not be imagined.

  I had not been proven wrong. Magic had become nothing more dangerous than jewelry. This was Seattle, after all. If you didn’t have some kind of piercing or body art, you practically couldn’t get service at local coffee shops.

  “Did you find any sponsors for the shelter?” I asked, as a leggy blonde strolled by on the arm of a giant whose face I recognized in a vague, sports star sort of way. A member of the Seattle Seahawks, maybe. He stared openly at my breasts, and then my face—but did not appear embarrassed until he glanced sideways and found Grant frowning at him.

  “Several,” Grant said, still watching the football player. “Not much
hard cash offered, just goods and services, which is all I was really after. I’ll probably have to sell one of the Hong Kong apartments, but it’s near the Peak. Even in this market I shouldn’t have trouble finding some tycoon willing to lay down thirteen million.”

  “Right,” I said dryly. “Small change.”

  “Whatever it takes.” Grant gave me a grim smile. “I doubt my father expected that his money and property would be used like this when he left it to me.”

  “You make it sound as though he would have found it dirty. There’s nothing shameful in keeping a homeless shelter afloat, or helping people.”

  “I know,” he said quietly, still watching the crowd. “But I don’t like the attention any more than you do.”

  True enough. Grant did not need donations to keep the shelter going, but there was little wrong with getting things for free, or involving the private and public sector in charitable works. Unfortunately, that meant events like this, where his looks, history, wealth—and how he was spending it—had made him a minor celebrity.

  That was also why, over the past eight months of our relationship, I had declined attending other black-tie events that Grant had been invited to. Cowardice, excused as self-preservation. I was afraid of people asking too many questions. I was unused to attention. Not accustomed to being noticed, most certainly not for being on the arm of a man.

  A man, I had been told, who had never once in five years brought a date to these events. Which, given what I knew about Grant, was not much of a surprise.

  But it did make me stand out.

  And that, as my mother had always said, was a good way to get dead, and fast.

  THE dinner cruise docked an hour later. Every bone in my feet felt broken, and my soles burned. I hobbled down the gangplank, fighting to maintain my dignity. Grant was having his own difficulties.