Dangerously Divine

by Deborah Blake

  The boss man doing his own dirty work? It didn’t seem likely. But even if he had sent one of his lieutenants, somebody pretty high up in the organization, she might be able to use that person to lead her to El Capitán.

  “What kind of car was it?” she asked the girl.

  Shawnda rolled her eyes, shuffling her feet. Ciera could tell she was getting restless. “How am I supposed to know?” the teen whined. “I wasn’t there, was I? And nobody in the gang is talking about nothing. They don’t want to end up with a bullet in the head too.”

  “Okay,” Ciera said, reaching behind herself and unlocking the door without taking her eyes off the girl. “I’ll see what I can do to keep Charlie safe, but you’d better not mention this visit to him. Or anyone else.” She spotted her leather jacket on the back of a chair and reclaimed it.

  Another eye roll. “Like I’m that stupid. Charlie finds out I let you in here, he’d belt me one.”

  Ciera sighed. “Are you sure you don’t want me to help you get out of here? Maybe get you into a program, or contact your parents?”

  “I’m sure,” Shawnda said. “Like I told you before, Charlie and me, we’re in love. He’s got plans for us. In a couple of years, we might even get married and, like, move someplace warm.”

  Ciera thought sadly that in a couple of years, it was a lot more likely that Charlie would have dumped her for a younger model, or that the girl would be dead of an overdose or some disease she’d picked up along the way. But who was she to piss on the poor kid’s dreams? One of the hardest things about the gig, Skye had told her back in the beginning, was that you couldn’t save them all. You couldn’t even save most of them. You just did the best you could with the few that really wanted to be helped, and tried not to let the rest break your heart.

  “Good luck with that,” she said, and walked out the door and then down all three flights of stairs, disappearing into the night as rapidly as she could, just in case little Shawnda changed her mind and decided to phone her boyfriend.

  Ciera pondered what she’d learned, wondering if it had been worth taking the risk of following and interrogating Shawnda. Maybe it had been. After all, she had two new pieces of information: a name, El Capitán, and the tidbit about there being an expensive car idling out in front of the bar when the leader of the local gang was taken out for having botched the attack on her.

  Actually, three pieces of info, if she counted finding out that the plan to lure her into that ambush had come from somewhere high up in the organization, and wasn’t just the idea of some minor tough she’d pissed off. That was an important difference, although knowing it didn’t do anything to make her feel any safer. Shit. If anything, it reinforced her sense that she was running out of time.

  She’d have to go back home and look for any mention of that name in her notebooks. Plus, she’d have to talk to the members of her informal street-kid network and see if any of them had heard any gossip about the day of the shooting. Big pricey cars were pretty damned unusual in that neighborhood. Somebody had to have noticed the make and model. Of course, anyone who had probably also knew exactly what had gone down, and if they had any sense of self-preservation, they wouldn’t say a word.

  She’d just have to hope for a witness with no sense. But she’d have to be careful about how she asked the questions. The last thing she wanted to do was put any of the kids in danger. Or tip off her quarry that she was getting closer. The next time, she couldn’t count on Gregori Sun to be there to come running to her rescue. She was only going to get one shot at taking down Skye’s killer—she had to make it count.

  CHAPTER 17

  “WHAT’S up with you and our newest volunteer?” Elisabeth asked Ciera a couple of days later. The older woman nodded her head in Gregori’s direction as he carried a heavy box of food donations toward the kitchen. His sleeves were rolled up despite the cool temperatures inside the room, and the weight of the carton made his muscles flex in an all-too-appealing way.

  “What? Nothing!” Ciera said, almost dropping the ladle into the pot of chicken soup she was serving up. “Why do you ask?”

  Elisabeth raised one gray eyebrow. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” she said, a wry twist to her lips.

  “I just meant that it seemed like you two had been getting pretty friendly, what with him spending time at the library, and then teaming up with you here to demonstrate those self-defense moves to the kids. Plus, I’m pretty sure I caught you checking out his ass. But tonight you’ve hardly said five words to him. I was just wondering if you guys had a fight or something.”

  “A fight? No,” Ciera said. Quite the opposite. She hoped she wasn’t blushing as a series of pictures flashed through her mind, most of them involving Gregori. Naked. “We’re fine. There’s no problem. I just haven’t had anything I needed to talk to him about tonight, I guess.” It’s not like we’re at that awkward “we had sex together, but we know we’re never going to do it again, but I’m seriously still attracted to him” stage or anything.

  “So you’re not avoiding him?” Elisabeth asked, sounding dubious.

  “Nope.”

  “And he’s not avoiding you?”

  “Not that I know of.” Probably. I wouldn’t blame him if he was. Monk. Monk. Monk. Don’t forget it, Ciera. And stop checking out his ass. He’s going to be a monk, for God’s sake. It was pity sex. He’s not interested. “Wouldn’t matter if he was either. We barely know each other.”

  The eyebrow went up higher. “Really? For some reason, I got the impression there was something going on there.”

  “No,” Ciera said, maybe a touch too vehemently. “Nothing. He’s training to be a Buddhist monk.”

  “Really?” Elisabeth watched the man in question as he walked back to the front to get another box. “Too bad. He’s hotter than hell.”

  Yes, yes, he is. Dammit. And completely off-limits.

  Gregori walked past the serving table and smiled in their general direction. Ciera dropped the ladle into the middle of the pot, where it swirled a couple of times before sinking to the bottom.

  “Dammit.”

  Elisabeth chuckled.

  It was going to be a long night.

  • • •

  BATBAYAR read the note over again for the sixth time. Its contents hadn’t changed nor become in any way less alarming since his first perusal, and he fought the impulse to crumple it into a tiny ball in his fist.

  Before he’d left Manitoba, he had asked Willowbark the tree sprite to keep an eye out for anything unusual happening in the area of the enclave, and to have its friends do the same. Tree sprites were one of the few paranormal species that had not been forced to retreat to the Otherworld when the Queen had decided years before that it would be safer for them to keep to their own borders. Some creatures, like merpeople and selkies, could not survive on the other side of the doorways because of the lack of oceans. In the case of the tree sprites, the absence of their particular type of trees prevented anything other than short visits to the Otherworld, and their main existence still took place hidden in plain sight in the Human world.

  Normally, such beings avoided anyone who was not paranormal, but Batbayar and his companions fell into a strange middle ground—Human, and yet more than Human—and years ago the little sprite had apparently decided it was safe to reveal itself to them. Its grove was located within the area the enclave currently called home, and the scent of magic had drawn the tiny creature out of hiding.

  The note Batbayar held was tiny, about the size of a matchbook, and had arrived on a sturdy pigeon, rolled into a scroll and tied to its wing with a braided strip of dried grass, probably plucked from the sprite’s winter nest. Batbayar had to squint to read the minuscule print that scrolled across the page.

  Batbayar friend, it read. You ask for eyes to look. Eyes have seen. Seen tall man with hair like wheat who rides white machine that roars and
smells like magic. Seen him ride here and ride there. Looking for hidden places. Not finding. Not close to your home. Safe for now. Eyes will watch more. Willowbark

  This was exactly what Batbayar had feared. He was quite certain he knew the identity of the man with hair like wheat, and it was too much of a coincidence for yet another Rider to be snooping around the area Batbayar called home. Gregori Sun had to have sent him.

  This was a possibility Batbayar had not considered. He should have realized that following Gregori’s movements would not be enough to keep his people safe. More drastic measures would be required.

  Batbayar would have to convince Iduyan that civilization was once again encroaching upon their tiny community and it was time to go deeper into hiding. Finding someplace even more remote than their current location would be a challenge, but Gregori Sun had left them no other choice.

  Resentment roiled like fire in Batbayar’s belly, making his insides churn and quiver. Gregori Sun. Why could he not have left them in peace? Why decide to seek out Iduyan after all these years? She belonged to the community now. She belonged to Batbayar, her chosen and most trusted disciple. Had she not said that he was like a son to her? Who was Gregori Sun to ruin all that?

  Batbayar felt the tension in his jaw from grinding his teeth together and forced himself to take a deep breath. This was not a disaster. It was a problem to be solved. And that was what Batbayar was best at.

  He needed to go home, to talk to Iduyan and the other elders. To persuade them that they were in danger of being discovered, without letting on from whence that danger came. Then he had to find someplace safe to relocate them to—an area not just far away from prying eyes, but also a site that would lend itself to magical work and the protection charms that kept them concealed from anyone passing near.

  Not an impossible task, but not an easy one. He would need time to talk, to plan, to move. But if he just left, Gregori would continue to poke his nose where it was not wanted, and perhaps send others to seek out their sanctuary.

  He had to be stopped. Distracted from his task somehow. But how? Batbayar pondered, tapping the sprite’s note restlessly against the side of his leg. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  It was too bad he did not have a paranormal connection in this place to call on for aid. But most such beings avoided cities and other populated areas, sensible creatures that they were. Besides, it would take more than a sprite or two to discourage one as determined as Gregori Sun. Batbayar scowled to himself. Those Riders. So stubborn, it would take a god to deter them.

  The tapping slowed, and then stopped. A tiny smile hovered at the edges of Batbayar’s thin lips, as chilly as the weather outside the window of his anonymous motel room. A god, or perhaps a goddess, he thought. How fortunate that in his many years of arcane study, he had actually come across the knowledge of how to summon one. A particularly appropriate one, at that.

  It was not an act to be undertaken lightly, but this was a desperate situation, and desperate situations called for desperate measures. Once roused, there was no telling what a deity would do—especially not the one Batbayar had in mind. But he would be gone, back to Manitoba, and Gregori Sun could deal with whatever befell after.

  If she arose from her long sleep angry at being summoned, all the better. Let the former Rider turn his attentions to a more immediate problem, buying Batbayar the space he needed to put his plans into motion.

  He rubbed dark hands together, turning the sprite’s note into crumpled shreds of parchment. There were surprisingly few ingredients needed to summon a deity, once you knew how. Even in this benighted city, he ought to be able to find the supplies he needed. Then let Iduyan’s precious son find out how well he coped with a true challenge—the arrival of Morena, the Russian goddess of winter.

  She ought to find herself quite at home in Minnesota. Perhaps she would decide she never wished to leave.

  • • •

  THE city park was completely abandoned at midnight on a winter’s evening. Frozen snow crunched under his feet in their soft leather boots, and starlight glittered off of ice-coated twigs on bushes bent beneath the unaccustomed weight.

  Batbayar laughed softly. He suspected this would be nothing compared to what was to come. But first things first.

  He spread a small square of white silk on an open section of ground, sweeping it clean first with a makeshift besom made of twigs. Upon the cloth, he placed four white candles, one at each corner, and a small cast-iron cauldron the size of his fist went exactly in the middle.

  The cauldron made him chuckle again, since in the old days the Baba Yagas would ride through the forests of Russia in their mortars, which looked much the same. He rather enjoyed the irony. There would be no witch to swoop in to the rescue this time; the Riders rode alone these days, and the Baba Yagas had their own tasks to tend to. Besides, if all went as planned, by the time anyone figured out that there was something uncanny going on, the damage would be so great it would keep Gregori occupied for weeks to come. Maybe months.

  Some of the twigs went into the cauldron, along with a sprig each of dill and tarragon, and a clove of garlic, all traditional Russian herbs. The mugwort and wormwood that followed them in had been harder to find, but not as difficult as the dragon’s tear. That one involved hunting down an extremely special specialty store. One could not expect to summon a goddess using a turnip, after all.

  Batbayar lit the four candles, and then set alight the twigs within the cauldron. As the herbs began to smolder, sending their sweet-scented smoke rising into the sky, Batbayar carefully placed the golden dragon’s tear atop the rest. The tips of his fingers charred slightly from their brief contact with the fire, but sacrifice was always required in a working of this magnitude. He took a tiny sharp knife out of his boot and with a quick snick cut the side of his hand, so that exactly three drops of blood fell sizzling onto the tear. He spoke the goddess’s name aloud with each drop.

  With a great whooshing noise, the smoke from the small fire grew to a swirling mass ten feet tall and three feet wide. It spun wildly, first widdershins and then deasil, counterclockwise and clockwise, and finally took on the vague and amorphous shape of a woman with long gray hair and a swirling white cloak.

  “Who summons me?” a voice said, resonating so strongly it made his bones shake. And yet the owl perched in a nearby tree did not seem to hear it at all. “I am Morena, goddess of winter. Who dares to call my name?”

  Batbayar bowed low. “I am known as Batbayar, O goddess,” he said. “I am a child of the land you once ruled. But who I am is unimportant. Know only that I have called you from your long slumber to give you a gift—one that only you in your greatness could appreciate or utilize. I have freed you from the prison of neglect so that you might once again remind mortals of your power and glory.”

  The wind died down a fraction, causing Morena’s cloak to swish back and forth with a sound of falling snow. “And how exactly am I to do that?” she asked. “I have been forgotten for so many centuries. My power is not what it was.”

  “You are still a goddess,” Batbayar reminded her—carefully. It was always best to be careful around the gods, even old and weak ones. “And I have brought you to a place where your powers will be magnified. This is a land of snow and ice and cold. It needs but a small push from you to create a great storm, one such as has not been seen in year upon year, decade upon decade. Your fury will rain down on those who have ceased to worship you and punish them for their shortsightedness. When you are done, they will fall on their knees before you.”

  “Will they?” The goddess sounded unconvinced, but not displeased. “Perhaps we shall see. If you are right, it will be good to be worshipped again. If you are wrong, at least I will have had a chance to stretch my reach beyond the stultifying boredom of the lands of the gods.”

  Batbayar bowed again, even deeper. “Welcome to Minneapolis, my goddess. Your new land awaits.”

>   CHAPTER 18

  “WHY do they always call it the ‘Storm of the Century’?” Byron grumbled. “It’s winter in Minneapolis. It always snows. Some days it snows a lot. I swear, it’s like these Weather Channel people have nothing better to do than make up worse and worse ways to say, ‘Oh, look. It’s snowing again.’”

  Elisabeth glanced up from the vegetables she was chopping, ignoring the tears streaming down her face because of the onions. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve been through a lot of storms in my time, and this one looks like it is shaping up to be a doozy.” She chopped faster. “We’ve been packed the last couple of days, and the worse the storm gets, the more mouths we’re going to have to feed.”

  Ciera stood on tiptoe to get another can of beans down from a top shelf. “At this rate, we’re going to run through a month’s worth of supplies in a week. And feeding them is only half the problem. Where the hell are they all going to sleep?”

  The three volunteers exchanged worried looks. Over two feet of snow had already fallen, and it was still coming down harder than ever. All the schools had closed after the second day, and today even the university had given in, something that hardly ever happened. With the library shut down, Ciera had come in to the soup kitchen early to see what she could do to help. That turned out to be a good thing, because according to Elisabeth, half of their regular helpers hadn’t been able to make it through the barely plowed streets, so a short-handed crew was trying to do double the work.

  Ciera had only made it in because she had been able to walk from her apartment, and as close as she lived, it had still taken her twice as long as usual. Sidewalks weren’t shoveled, and even when they were, the gusting winds simply blew the snow right back into place. Between the wind and the bitter cold, she had been glad to use the balaclava for its intended purpose for once, and even bundled up like a mummy, it had taken ten minutes for her fingers and toes to thaw out. She couldn’t imagine how the homeless—many of them underdressed for normal winter weather—were going to cope.