Chapter Twenty-Six
I woke with the afternoon sun slanting through the windows, feeling as if I hadn’t slept at all. But also as prepared as I’d ever be to face an opponent who might well kill me.
Cassandra and Grace still snoozed on their pallets, giving me the chance to sneak my new toys into the bathroom without having to deal with a lot of diversionary tactics. Once Raoul had given me the correct words to say, I’d made a physical trip to his headquarters during the post-dawn hours of the morning using the portal I’d seen while walking with Vayl.
Beyond the fact that I was actually alive this time or, well, as near as I’d ever get to it again — nothing much had changed from the way I remembered his place. The suite made me feel underdressed in my shapeless black manteau and pants. At least I matched the bar stools to the right of the front door, which lined up neatly under a sleek black counter backed by a mirror that ran the length and width of the wall behind it. But I looked like I should be running a vacuum over the plush white couches, arranged just as I recalled in the center of a room made even more elaborate by white satin curtains and marble floors with rich pink veins. In the back corner of the room, a lovely ivory dining set with six high-backed cushioned chairs completed the mood.
Raoul had been standing by the bar when I walked into the room. “How was your trip?” he asked politely. “Any problems?”
“No. Should there have been?”
He smirked. “With you, I’m never sure. May I take your coat?”
“Please.” I shucked the awful thing, watched him hang it on the elaborately curved black wall rack by the door. “That’s one depressing piece of clothing,” I told him. “Makes me feel like a mortician.”
“Well, I think I know just how to lift your spirits.”
He led me past the bar and the dining table toward a door I assumed led to the bedroom. It didn’t. It was a hall. A long one that, as we walked it, branched into several others, making me wonder just how big Raoul’s penthouse really was. The door we finally stopped at looked no different from any of the others. Rimmed with elaborate white molding it held the kind of lock you expect to see in a hotel. But Raoul didn’t slide a card into the slot. He leaned down, pulled a knife out of his boot, and quickly slashed his forearm. Gathering a generous amount of blood on the blade, he then transferred it to the lock, letting it drip the whole length of the slot. When the light turned green, he opened the door.
“That’s some security system you’ve got there. I’m guessing you don’t access this room very often.”
He sent me a smile over his shoulder. “Since I met you I’m doing all kinds of things I haven’t done for years.”
He was right about the room cheering me up. When you’re in my biz and you walk into an arsenal, something inside you springs to its feet and starts yelling, “Yipee!” The place could’ve come straight out of a medieval castle. Swords, axes, lances, spears, anything that could hold a blade and prove fatal graced three and a half walls of a room roughly the size of Raoul’s living space. The last half held built-in drawers, which I soon discovered held armor. But this was modern. Stuff you could wear under your day clothes, probably even move comfortably in. And yet I imagined it outperformed even Bergman’s famous dragon armor, which, since we’d rescued it from its kidnappers on our last mission, was still undergoing testing at White Sands.
The armory’s floor space had been kept completely clear. For sparring? I kind of thought I was about to find out. Raoul strode across the battered wooden floor to one corner of the room, lifted from its moorings a sheath holding a curved blade similar to the one I’d been clutching in my dream. Prophetic, huh?
“This shamshir was forged by an Amanha Szeya,” he told me as he pulled it free and handed me a shining silver blade that felt like it had been made for my hand. As I marveled at the balance he said, “That means it can kill a nefralim.”
He moved to the drawers next, taking from them a suit of black body armor. It weighed almost nothing. But Raoul assured me it could stop a bullet, though the force of the impact would still throw me to the ground. “Not that you have to worry about that from the Magistrate. It’s the cut of his whip from which the suit will protect you. I fear, however, you may still feel its sting.”
I could’ve said something cocky at that moment like, “I’m no stranger to pain.” While true, it just seemed stupid to throw fastballs at karma, knowing how much she enjoyed shooting them right back at you. So I just nodded my thanks.
“How good are you at swordplay?” Raoul asked as he took a blade similar to mine off the wall.
“Better than I used to be.” Having nearly lost major body parts to Desmond Yale, I’d spent the time I could spare between missions honing my skills. That meant two hours a day with the best coach I could find.
Vayl was a patient teacher, but a strict one. By the end of week one I was sick of hearing “Watch your form.”
“Vayl,” I said once, wiping sweat out of my eyes in exasperation. “What the hell? I’m not training for the Olympics here!” Here was the gym a retired agent owned and allowed us to rent during his off-hours. When I saw red spark in his eyes, I realized I’d pissed him off. But I didn’t much care at that point. I was hot, sweaty, and, yeah, frustrated that it wasn’t for any of the fun reasons. Never mind that it had been my choice. And that I should respect Vayl for giving me the space I thought I needed. Having no idea as to the real source of my unspoken frustrations, Vayl addressed my vocalized ones.
“Correct form allows you to find the balance you need to fight. It keeps you from tiring too quickly. And it prevents you from telegraphing your moves long before you make them.”
“Oh.”
Vayl and I had never fought with curved blades, but I figured the basics he’d taught me would still serve me well. I stood en garde and moments later Raoul and I were hard at it. Every minute or so he’d stop. Say something like, “Look, if you’d turned the blade this way you could have disarmed me on that swing.” He showed me some moves unique to the blade, and within half an hour I felt like I’d been born with it in my hand.
“You’re a fast learner,” Raoul said when he finally called for a stop.
“It’s more of a defense mechanism than anything else,” I replied as I sheathed the blade. “Since my parents were my first teachers, and things always escalated to yelling if we didn’t catch on fast, we figured out quick how to listen and learn.”
I saw the thought on Raoul’s face, though he was kind enough not to say it out loud. No wonder your mother’s in hell. Yeah. And he didn’t even know the half of it.
“Get your armor,” he said. “I have one more item to give you before you go.” I grabbed my goodies and followed him to the Charm room.
It resembled a jewelry store, with multiple racks of necklaces, bracelets, and enough other sparklies to keep a serious accessorizer busy for days. He took me straight to the back, where a locked glass display case backed in red velvet held some fine old pieces. As he unlocked it he said, “You must remember never to let the Magistrate touch you. We’re not sure how he managed to pull you out of your body the first time, but we know it was at great expense, both in terms of power and time. That’s why he’ll want you to do most of the work yourself the second time around. Since you haven’t willingly left your body, he’ll find a way to trigger that exodus if he can. But he won’t be able to if he can’t physically touch you.”
“Or kill me.”
Raoul gave me a you-could-have-gone-all-day-without-saying-that look. “Obviously.” He pulled a delicate, octagonal bluish white stone out of the case and handed it to me.
“It’s gorgeous,” I said.
“It’s best worn near the center of your body,” he replied. “In ages past, men and women wore it on a long chain beneath their clothing. But since you have a rather convenient piercing, I took the liberty of mounting it for you.”
“Cool!” As I replaced the gold stud I currently wore in my navel, I said,
“What’s it do?”
“It protects the soul during flight. It will shield you from any sort of attack the Magistrate may launch should the worst happen.”
“Thanks. Really.”
Raoul nodded. “I wish I could do more.” He stopped. Shook his head. Looked at me through hooded eyes that said, If I were the man I should be, I would do more.
“Rules are rules,” I said simply. “I don’t understand them all yet. I don’t agree with half of them when they’re explained to me. But I know sometimes they’re all that separate me from the guys Pete sends me after.” I gave him the straight stare he’d earned. “I appreciate your help. But I don’t expect you to do my work for me. Or to stick your neck out so far it snaps.” Okay, considering the way I’d died the first time, maybe that was the wrong metaphor. We looked at each other for another three seconds. And then we both smiled.
“You’re amazing,” Raoul said.
His words warmed me, deprived as I was of genuine compliments. I let them carry me back to the house. Played them over and over in my mind as I prepared to face the Magistrate, strapping the sword to my back with a special belt Raoul had given me that was completely hidden under my bland brown tunic and black hijab.
“I’m amazing,” I told my reflection in the bathroom mirror. It didn’t seem convinced. Maybe it was too busy trying to remember that first visit to hell. Not the part about Mom. That was just too disturbing. The before, when Uldin Beit had presented her case to the Magistrate and his court. Something about that scene, I thought, had inspired me to give up my card-shuffling acumen, which I was desperately wishing I had back at this very moment. Something I’d missed had required that sacrifice. Now I thought maybe I’d witnessed the secret to the Magistrate’s downfall. Not that I wasn’t pretty confident in my sword-fighting abilities. Especially after Raoul’s high praise. But it never hurt to have an edge. (Ha! Jaz made a sword pun! What a gas.) So I played the scene over and over again in my head. Trying to remember details I’d registered only with the back of my mind. For some reason instead of lingering on the Magistrate it kept jumping to Samos and those strange glowing eyes I’d seen behind his office door.
That’s not going to help. What’s the Magistrate’s weakness? What did you see? I headed to the kitchen, still racking my brain, which was starting to ache from the unaccustomed just-woke-up-dammit strain. “They were sitting in a circle,” I murmured. “There were twelve ugly-ass demons plus supermodel Magistrate. They talked. Then the whipping. But the whole event was about Marking me.”
I gave up. Let my subconscious chew on it for a while. Maybe it would regurgitate something useful while I choked down some toast and juice. And wondered why nobody else was stirring. I finally decided the card game had gone on well into the morning. Figuring they might not make it through the next night, Dave’s crew had probably stretched their time together as far as it would go before they began nodding off into their poker chips.
Cassandra and Bergman had used their distraction to retire to the guys’ room, where they’d worked till God knows when on what they now called their save-Dave device. I hoped they’d made ample progress. Because I planned on needing it soon.
“It’s quiet in here,” I told the cabinets, which stared back at me stoically. I scanned the kitchen. The room should’ve cheered me. But I hadn’t felt this bummed in a while. Going off to fight your battles alone, without a friend or loved one to see you off, sucks. And if I didn’t come back, they’d never know what happened to me.
I thought briefly of leaving a note:
Off to kill the Magistrate. Raoul taught me how to find neutral ground on another plane and summon him there. No biggie. Just a life or death struggle that may slightly muss my hair and call for a new manicure when all’s said and done. Oh, yeah, there is that bit about the risk to my soul. But don’t worry. My new belly gem should have that covered. Maybe. Of course he didn’t mention that it would protect any of the other souls connected with mine. Nothing to fear, however, I’ll be back in a flash. Or, alternatively, a pool of blood. In which case, tell Vayl . . . What? That I wished he hadn’t turned into a complete ass on this job? Because after that kiss I’d thought we were right for each other. Only now I wasn’t so sure. A man who will forsake you for his obsession, which includes taking a stranger’s blood, is not one who’ll treat you well anytime soon. I caressed the ring in my left pocket. I’d had the right kind of man. One who’d known what I was worth. I could never settle for anything less.
I walked out the door, the windows beside which Vayl had temporarily mended with some slats of wood he’d found in the garage. People glanced at me as I made my way down the street. Most of them seemed simply curious. But a couple — purely hostile. Though I’d darkened my hair and skin, I was clearly not a native, and two gray-bearded men didn’t approve of me walking around unescorted. But I wouldn’t be alone long.
The portal hadn’t moved since I’d glimpsed it the first time and then used it to visit Raoul. People walked right through it as if it didn’t exist. Well, it didn’t for them. Because they didn’t have the Spirit Eye to see it. Didn’t know the words to open it. I did.
Raoul had told me no one would notice when I walked through. The portal itself would shield my passage, actually project an image of me walking into the nearest store, though the proprietor inside would never even see his door open.
Chanting the words Raoul had taught me, I tried not to flinch as the flames framing the door flared, and its black center melted in every direction to reveal . . .
“A football field? Are you serious?” I asked as I stepped out of the street and into the stadium. Well, Raoul hadn’t lied. Things definitely weren’t what they seemed. Maybe the Magistrate would observe an entirely different setup when he arrived. A gladiator’s ring. A matador’s arena. Or, more likely, a reeking pit lined with burning skulls.
My mind had come up with the old RCA dome as neutral territory. A little tip of the hat to my brother-in-law, the rabid Colts fan? Or just a wish that I could revisit Indy, hang with people I loved. With whom, I suddenly realized, I’d come the closest to finding a home.
I shook my head. The time to ponder had passed. And what a relief it was, in a way, to let go of all those thoughts zooming around in my head like child stars hurtling toward their first DUIs. I shucked my outer layer of clothing, which left me in a white T-shirt and a pair of loose black pants. Drawing the sword, I made the specific motions in the air Raoul had taught me. He’d called them atra-cuts, and explained they were symbolic of me slicing through the planes between us in order to bring the Magistrate to me. You could do them with any blade, and though by themselves they didn’t affect any change, coupled with the words I spoke they worked to bring the nefralim onto the field. When I was still working solo I had a job in L.A. where I happened to see Keanu Reeves lunching with, well, who gives a crap, right? Say what you want about the guy, he’s easily the most hell-yeah gorgeous dude on the scene today. The Magistrate left him in the dust. And, shame on me, there was a very American part of me that wanted badly for him to be good because of it. Surely somebody whose eyes, cheekbones, chest, ass made me want to stand up and applaud couldn’t be pure evil. Okay, can we all just take a minute to remember high school, please? Good. Now, back to business. He wore, well, that whip. And that was all. Disconcerting. Because I have, believe it or not, never fought a naked man before. Which, while he was not a man, he was certainly built like one, and that could be a distraction. Or a hindrance. Because, despite my chosen profession and my tendency to leave a trail of bent and broken bones behind me, I try to avoid injuring the man parts. They’re just so damn vulnerable. Plus, Dave once explained to me in excruciating detail exactly how it feels to be kicked there. Which is why I totally understand now why guys cringe just seeing it happen on TV. Give it any name you want. My definition is torture, and I just haven’t gotten to the point where I’m willing to cross that line. On the other hand, this battle had everything to do with saving
my brother. Keeping that thought firmly at the front of my mind, I knew I’d do damn near anything to keep the Magistrate from grabbing his soul when the moment came for him to climb that rainbow-colored cord to Raoul. As the Magistrate loosened the whip from his belt, sauntering toward me from the visiting team’s locker room, I had maybe thirty seconds to consider whether or not Raoul and I had calculated correctly. If we were right, this would be a quick, aggressive fight. Like most of my opponents before him, he’d assume I was weaker, slower, and more likely to give quarter than take it. The very fact that I was standing there showed it never hurt to be underestimated.
“You annoy me, little gnat,” the Magistrate snapped as he strode toward me, uncoiling his whip with a whoosh of air that sounded painfully lethal. “Summoning me away from my duties as if I were some sort of common rail.”
A rail, as I’d learned on one of my previous missions, was a hell-servant. I’d thought they were higher up the hierarchy. Like reavers, and with the same ultimate goals. But apparently the Magistrate saw them more as clean-the-toilet and mop-up-the-puke sorts of demons.
Raoul had advised me, “Do what you do best.” So I taunted him. “And yet you’re here. So who really has the power, huh? I’m thinking the skinny redhead with the kick-ass Spirit Eye.”
Oh, that brought the purple to his face. He charged me like a blitzing linebacker, belatedly remembering the whip. He swung it around as I brought my sword through and the weapons clashed. My blade bit into the leather-wrapped handle of his whip. And stopped. Whatever hid under that overlay was as strong as steel.
I jumped back as he reached out to grab me, slashing at him with the knife I held in my left hand. At the last minute, Raoul had found me a long, thin dagger. Not a one-blow killer, but a cutter, nonetheless. And, baby, did the Magistrate bleed when I strafed that blade across his chest.
Biting the Bullet Page 21