“So it’s true. You see magic beyond what the scat is showing you.” She looked me over as if expecting to see my own personal spellwork. “Valuable.”
“Do you know how I can get my phone back from the kitsune?” I asked. I had to try.
“Do you wish to make a deal, Mr. Victorsson?”
We already had a “deal,” one that I suspected would not turn out well for me in the long run.
Raven swirled her finger under my chin. “I have traded your offer of services, Mr. Victorsson. This deal would be new, and between us.”
My chest and throat tightened. What did she do? “Traded my services? What does that mean?” Was I about to get my head ripped off by some other trickster? I glanced over my shoulder at the black night beyond the apartment building’s balcony.
Maybe I had a bargaining chip. “My offer of services was non-transferable,” I said. Not that it mattered with tricksters.
Raven laughed. “Well, I guess I’ll just need to ask for it back.” She winked.
Harm was coming my way. A big harm or a little harm, I did not know, but the trickster in front of me was manipulating me toward something bad.
“No new deal,” I said anyway. “Not with you.”
Raven tapped my chest. “You worry too much. If I were a god of death, I would have dealt with the problem that is you already, Mr. Victorsson.”
No, Raven was often depicted in Native American myths as a creator. “Your job has always been to tempt the fearful out of their shells.” Sending harm my way fit with the “drive them out of their comfort zone” aspect of her spirit.
Raven laughed. “Because I’m bored, Mr. Victorsson. Do you have any idea how mind-numbingly dull the daily routines of mundanes are? There is very little knowledge and memory to collect there.”
Knowledge. Memory. Had I been wrong? Was Raven not a native spirit?
Raven grinned. “The world has new ways.” She tapped my chest. “New methods for building gods.”
Was I in the presence of a full-fledged god and not a tradition-specific spirit? Nor was she an elf, kami, or fae who had come to take on the aspects of a god.
She laughed again. “That troll scat makes you see things you should not. It’s quite a tool, isn’t it?”
A trickster god was messing with me because she was bored. “You’re interfering,” I said. “On purpose. Because you think I’m routinely setting about finding answers.” She had zero information. Zero actual connection to anything—not the woman in the picture on my phone. Not Portia Elizabeth, no matter how she played that she did. Most definitely not the elves, and probably not the kitsune, no matter how entertaining those two would be at a party.
Was Raven here, standing in my way, simply because I was the shiny thing that fell out of the elves’ pocket? All her talk of deals suggested she was more interested in playing than in helping.
Raven pouted. “Your expression wounds me, Mr. Victorsson.”
“I don’t have time for games. Yours or anyone else’s.”
“In Las Vegas?” Raven snorted. “That’s like saying you buy Playboy for the articles.”
No more chitchat. Not with this trickster. “I need my phone,” I said. “Portia Elizabeth is a succubus and she influenced us. I need to know if Remy’s okay.”
Raven’s features hardened—literally took on a muscle tension that flattened the planes around her eyes and hollowed out her cheeks. “Do not use derogatory terms, Mr. Victorsson.”
Derogatory?
Of course succubus was derogatory. How could it not be? Remy even said they didn’t know for sure what kind of spirit Portia Elizabeth was.
I was an idiot. “I apologize,” I said. I’d just pissed off the trickster to whom I had previously offered help—and I couldn’t shake the feeling I was about to pay for my transgressions.
“Yes. You do.” She raised her hand high above her head.
And Raven, the trickster—or perhaps the creator—snapped her fingers against my forehead.
Chapter 17
Portia Elizabeth leaned over me. She gripped my chin and pressed her fingers into my jaw. “Why are we doing this, Raven?” she said.
We were in the back of an SUV. Not our rental SUV—a different one upholstered in gray fabric. I was crammed in diagonally with my head on the flat rear seats next to the back of the front passenger seat. Portia Elizabeth sat cross-legged to my side. Raven, with her wings there-but-not, drove.
Portia Elizabeth’s red dress shifted and her green magic resonated. Behind her, through the window, yellow streetlights flickered by.
“Because he’s a shiny, new bauble who offered his services.” Raven glanced over her shoulder. “The elves sent hounds into my territory. Of course I’m going to adopt the big, friendly one.”
“I can handle it myself, Raven. You didn’t have to—”
“He offered,” Raven said. “And he’s big enough to get the job done.”
I groaned.
“He works for Alfheim,” Portia Elizabeth said.
Raven laughed. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, he does.”
Portia Elizabeth inhaled, then slowly exhaled as she checked my eyes. “I think he’s coming around.”
Raven took a left onto another road. “Not too much, I hope.”
Portia Elizabeth laid her hand on my forehead. “He’s cold. What if he carries an unseen elven enchantment? Maybe your magic reacted adversely.”
Raven signaled and took a left onto another street. “He’s not carrying protection spells or tracer enchantments. I checked. You know we couldn’t take him in if he carried tracers.”
Portia Elizabeth leaned back. “I sent Remy back to the hotel. We should send Victorsson back, too. You know this isn’t right, Raven.”
“But it is necessary.”
Portia Elizabeth leaned over me again. “Why didn’t you follow Remy?”
“The kitsune stole my phone,” I mumbled. “They interfered.”
I knew, once again, that I would never lie to Portia Elizabeth. Not because I felt compelled to tell the truth. Because telling her the truth was the correct thing to do. “And I’m always cold when I wake up.”
She touched my forehead and cheeks, and frowned like a mother checking for a fever.
I still couldn’t tell what red her dress was—under one flickering streetlight, it looked like wet brick. Under the next, red cotton candy. When a shadow hit, like port.
“Did you know about the kitsune?” she asked Raven. “A few of them can cast and alter powerful illusions. Concealment enchantments have no effect on them.”
The SUV pulled up to a light. “I knew about the kitsune,” Raven said. “Ask him why they’re so interested in him.”
Portia Elizabeth frowned, but her green magic resonance shifted into a new shape. “What do they want?”
“They wanted information about vampires.”
Raven frowned over her shoulder before taking the SUV through the intersection.
“We need to take him back to his hotel,” Portia Elizabeth said.
“He offered his services,” Raven said. “Didn’t you, Mr. Victorsson?”
“Raven said she traded them.” No use lying about it. Not that I could, anyway.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Portia Elizabeth said. She looked up at Raven. “I damned well hope you get something good out of this exchange.”
Raven shrugged.
“You could use that resonant magic of yours and make me never offer help to anyone ever again.” Maybe I’d get something good out of this situation.
Portia Elizabeth frowned. “I work hard at holding my dark tendencies in check, Mr. Victorsson.”
I’d offended her. “I apologize. I didn’t mean…” I trailed off and set my head back down onto the SUV’s rough upholstery. Every word that came out of my mouth with Portia Elizabeth seemed to make matters worse.
A rapport, we did not have.
We took a left. “He sees magic,” Raven said. “Anthe
a hadn’t finished the job when she vanished.” She glanced back. “The last thing this world needs is you fighting.”
Portia Elizabeth inhaled and slowly exhaled again, as if doing a calming exercise.
“Where are you taking me?” Outside, the streetlights grew farther apart. “I have work in Alfheim. I can’t replace your Anthea.” No matter how well I could fight.
I tried to sit up, but Portia Elizabeth ran the back of her hand—and its smooth, cool, red silk—across the Yggdrasil tattoo on the side of my head.
“Hush,” she said.
“Okay.” No more questions, at least for now, but I’d still explain every happen- and circumstance to Portia Elizabeth the moment she asked.
Her eyes narrowed and she glanced down and to the side as if listening to someone. Then she sniffed at the skin of my forearm. “You wore protection spells for several decades,” she said.
“Dracula stole my spells and my tracer enchantments.” I held up my forearms for her to see.
“Dracula?” Portia Elizabeth looked up at Raven. “Dracula opened the portals?”
“Why do you think Anthea couldn’t resist?” Raven answered.
Portia Elizabeth stroked my skin. “The Lord of the Vampires messed with you, didn’t he?”
I nodded.
She did her inhale-exhale again. “I do not recognize the elf responsible for your tracers.”
“Dagrun Tyrsdottir,” I said.
Portia Elizabeth touched my cheek and a small smile appeared on her full, lovely mouth. “I was gone from Alfheim before the Icelandic elves came to town,” she said.
“Remy told me.”
A tendril of her mahogany-black hair slid from the bun on her head and slid across my cheek when she checked my eyes again. I swore for a split-second, her lip quivered. But she caught her body’s display of emotion and stopped it in its tracks.
“He showed me the portraits he drew of you. He keeps them in an enchanted pouch so they don’t fade away.”
Raven threw me a look that was part you’re adorable, and part you poor thing. Where Portia Elizabeth showed a motherly side, Raven showed bemused aunt.
I tried to sit up again, but Portia Elizabeth put her hand on my chest. She stared at the back of the seats, then shook her head as if deciding not to pursue more questions about Remy. “Tell me about Alfheim,” she said.
I’d tell her the entire detailed history, if she wanted. “I came to town two centuries ago. Arne took me in. He took in Rose, too, when I returned with her on my hip from fighting in the Civil War. He took her in even though she was a witch,” I said. “He took in two vampires. They lasted seventy years before they turned on us. One turned out to be Radu the Handsome, the younger brother of Vlad the Impaler.”
“And Arne still allowed them to live in town?” Portia Elizabeth asked. “Even after the havoc I caused?”
“Yes,” I said. “He says dark magicals can move to neutral if they’re offered a worthwhile opportunity to do so. He doesn’t expect friendship, or even trust, but diplomatic associations. He needs you to look all the other elves in the eye and tell them that taking a chance at diplomacy with a dark magical is worth the effort. Show them how you’ve changed and held onto those changes these three centuries.”
“What about Remy and Gerard?” She lifted her hand off my chest. “Why can’t they stand at the Conclave?”
“Remy will. I will. We’re witnesses. But Arne’s certain that you have something special to say. Something the other elves need to hear.”
“The kings are male, Mr. Victorsson,” Portia Elizabeth said. “And I would guess that the majority of the entourages will also be male.”
I hadn’t considered that Arne wanted Portia Elizabeth there because she was a spirit labeled succubus. “Maybe he’s counting on your abilities to cut through their bluster and table-banging. Plus the queens will be there, too, including Dagrun.”
Portia Elizabeth laughed. “Tell me, Frank Victorsson, do you truly believe that the Elf Queens would not use my presence to their advantage?”
Dag would use her presence to the advantage of all elves, not just herself and her husband.
“There’s a usurper. His name is Niklas der Nord. He’ll destroy Alfheim. The Alfheim Pack has more than thirty members. Remy, Gerard, and Axlam have helped countless wolves since you left,” I said. “Niklas der Nord will declare them dark and evict the pack.”
She glanced toward Raven as if expecting an admonishment for asking questions. “Axlam?”
“Gerard’s wife,” I said. “She came to us in the early nineties. She was attacked by a werewolf in a refugee camp. She’s everything the wolves can be. She’s the first of the pack to get a college degree after being turned.”
I swear a tear appeared at the corner of Portia Elizabeth’s eye. She shook it off. “Does Remy have someone?” She glanced at Raven again, then leaned closer. “What did he say about me?” she whispered.
Raven’s semi-present wings fluttered.
Portia Elizabeth sat up and all the emotion her body had shown vanished once again. “I am no longer part of Alfheim, Mr. Victorsson,” she said.
“We need your help.” No lying. No dancing around needs, either.
Portia Elizabeth returned her hand to my chest. “This is not my fight. I cannot intervene in elven politics.”
She spread her silk-covered fingers directly over my heart. I tried harder to sit up, but somehow she held me down.
“Stay down,” she said.
I couldn’t fight her. I would never fight this woman, though I would fight for her, so I would be worthy of her touches.
All that pooled red fabric didn’t hide the truth—Portia Elizabeth was the balance to all the storms. She was the fortress at the center of the world, the one place we were all safe, healthy, and fed.
“What are you?” I asked.
She shook her head. She wasn’t going to tell me.
I pushed against Portia Elizabeth’s hand. “Please.” I wouldn’t be the bull in their china shop. I wouldn’t sow discord or domination or ill manners. But I needed answers.
Portia Elizabeth lifted away her hand.
I sat up. We were off The Strip and driving toward the massive isolated glass boxes on the edge of town. Shiny things moved by outside. Interesting things. Things made of metal, chrome, neon, glass. Things a raven might like.
Not one of the buildings we drove by had been here in the early sixties, when I was robbed by a showgirl. The Strip had been completely gutted and rebuilt since then. Most of the houses out on the edge had, as well. Every building in Vegas taller than three stories had to be no more than a quarter-century old.
Maybe that was why Las Vegas attracted magicals and conclaves. The city wove itself a shiny new glamour every few decades.
Portia Elizabeth gathered her dress’s flowing red fabric. It puffed and whiffed, and no obvious changes occurred, but it ceased to be just a dress.
She now wore leggings under her skirt—leggings that appeared as armored as the sleeves of her top. Every time Portia Elizabeth moved, her red dress became less dress-like. It continued to shimmer and flow like silk, and continued to refuse to settle on one red, but the sense it gave off was less formalwear and more combat-wear.
But she didn’t look ready to fight, nor did her green magic. She looked agitated. “No more questions,” she said.
I bowed my head. If she wished me silent, I would stay silent.
Raven drove, and occasionally glanced at Portia Elizabeth, or at me. We passed three huge buildings that could have either been more casinos or some sort of corporate offices, and ended up on a lonely two-lane road out of the city. Palm trees lined the road, first only a few hundred feet apart, then every quarter mile, before giving way to cacti.
Odd cacti—huge barrel cactuses that looked to be taller than me. Saguaros that towered like the hotels back in Vegas. Saguaros that should not be in Nevada.
“When did we enter Arizona?” I asked. And n
ot northern Arizona. The saguaro was native to the southwestern corner of the state.
I’d forgotten to stay quiet.
Portia Elizabeth patted my hand. Her dress had fully transformed into a full-body red fight-suit in a style I did not recognize. The fabric had migrated up her neck to her hairline behind her ears. Only her face, hair, and fingers remained uncovered, and like the variability of its red hue, its fit—tight, loose, formfitting, open—oscillated as well.
And part of me wondered if it was speaking to her.
“I have an elven axe,” I said. “She chose me. She talks to me, but not really talk. She skips the words part and makes me understand her meaning.”
Portia Elizabeth smiled. “I like you.”
I smiled back. “Seems I’m likable.”
Both Portia Elizabeth and Raven laughed.
“Odinsson was right to take you in,” Raven said.
“He takes a lot of us in,” I said. “That’s why he needs our help.”
Portia Elizabeth touched my cheek, but did not respond. Instead, she reached past me and rolled down the window.
Cool twilight air swept over my head and shoulders. The sun out here hung just at the edge of the mountains, which ringed us on all sides. We were inside a bowl—a magnificent world-bowl, one full of the sweet-savory scent of desert sage and the thinly-golden taste of prickly-pear. This was a place that did not need syrupy sweetness. It did not need maples or honeybees. It needed its saguaros and tarantulas.
We’d driven into another realm.
The last evening rays hit the desert dust and the sky burst in bright salmons, reds, oranges, purples, and hints of greens and blues. The colors shimmered much like the aurora borealis, but they didn’t waver or fall in sheets. Out here, they were the sky, and the sky was them. The aurora had exploded into the heavens and we drove inside the remains of its rainbow corpse.
The road ceased its modern concrete smoothness and took on its original horse-trail gravel.
Raven pointed down the gravel path to an intersection. A spot at which the path we followed intersected not one, but two other paths, at angles I could not fathom. Angles that made no sense, but were there, in front of the SUV, converging in a magical space that had to be offset from reality.
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