Nightwalker

by Allyson James

  I’d looked up the location of Laura’s antique store after Ansel had told us about it. It lay on an innocuous side street lined with older shops; some of the shops had been little bungalows, now converted into stores or offices.

  Laura’s shop was a regular store front with glass windows and a glass door. Laura’s Treasures, she’d called it, proudly lettered, with a logo of the right-angled design that was on the flag of New Mexico.

  The shades were pulled down tightly over the windows and door, with a Closed sign hanging askew on one of the windows. I continued walking down the block without pausing, went around the corner, and walked up the alley behind Laura’s street.

  The shop owners had nicely labeled their back doors, so that anyone making deliveries in the alley could find the store they needed. It was dark and raining, and I had to use a little glow light from my residual storm magic to read the signs on each door before I found Laura’s.

  The same little bit of storm magic allowed me to open the lock without trouble. I let myself into the store and quietly closed the door behind me.

  I didn’t dare let too much light flare in here. Anyone seeing it would assume burglar and call the police. The store did have small emergency lights above the front and back doors, and those tiny glows would have to be enough.

  I waited until my eyes adjusted to the darkness then walked through the store, taking my time. The shop was pretty typical—aisles of locked glass cases for the expensive things, the cheap junk lying about on shelves. Not that Laura had much in the way of cheap junk. She stocked a few obvious souvenirs—T-shirts and sweatshirts, jars of red and green chile salsa, and chunks of polished rock with Santa Fe or Bandelier or New Mexico printed on them.

  The rest of the store was filled with Indian pottery and jewelry, most made by artists and artisans in the pueblos that surrounded Santa Fe, interspersed with a few Zuni and Navajo pieces. Some were new, but most were antiques, made decades ago by talented craftsmen and craftswomen.

  Laura didn’t have a cash register, but she had a credit card reader that was tucked away out of sight. No ledgers. I found a printer and a space for a desktop computer or laptop to rest next to it, but no computer or laptop.

  Laura might have taken the computer home every night. The computer or laptop would have all her transactions stored on it, and I itched to see them.

  If Laura were proclaimed dead, who would get all her belongings? This store? Her sister, Paige? I thought about Paige at the séance, very convinced that Laura was dead. She’d had a photograph of Laura and a bracelet, and Laura’s hat. Where had she gotten those? Laura’s house?

  But Laura was alive, if Drake told the truth. Why then, hadn’t Laura tried to contact Paige? I’d been assuming Paige herself had faked the séance, but could it have been someone else, wanting Paige to go on thinking Laura was dead? And why?

  Next to the back door of the shop was another door that opened to a stairwell, which had wooden stairs leading up and concrete stairs leading down.

  Laura might have locked her laptop into an upstairs office. I had an office in the third floor of my hotel, where I kept information I didn’t necessarily want guests or the maids to stumble upon. Nothing sinister, just private.

  I was also intrigued at what might be downstairs. A potter’s bench? An array of paint ground from clay and natural dies? Various chemicals for aging things? Was Laura a professional forger, or had this pot been a one-time deal, or had Laura farmed out the forging?

  I had taken two steps down the concrete staircase when I knew someone was in the basement. The aura of the other person was subtle—or well hidden. In either case, I hadn’t sensed him or her when I’d entered the shop. Usually I wasn’t so oblivious, but I’d had no idea until the faintest tendril of the aura tickled to me on the stairs.

  As I halted in the shadows, a thin light flashed once, pale white like an LED light, but it didn’t bob like a flashlight in someone’s hands. I heard a tiny clink, then a footstep.

  I sniffed, but I didn’t smell Nightwalker or dragon, or even skinwalker or Changer. Whoever was down there was human.

  I moved silently down three more steps. From there I could see that the staircase opened into a large room that ran the length of the store upstairs. A light hung steadily from the ceiling, a lantern maybe, or another emergency light.

  I sent a bit of residual storm magic into the room, delicately probing.

  And met a wash of magic so strong it lifted me off my feet, carried me over the stair railing in a rush of blackness, and slammed me without remorse to the floor.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I lost hold of the jacket-wrapped pot, which rolled free of the cloth. Hands caught my shirt and dragged me up, up, and up in an impossibly strong grip.

  I looked down at a man who wasn’t big, but his muscles were heavy. He was balding, like Fremont, but unlike Fremont, he had eyes that were hard, glittering, and had long ago lost every bit of warmth they might ever have possessed. I dredged up the remnants of lightning that still itched beneath my skin and threw it at him.

  The man’s eyes went black, voids of evil. Those eyes sucked in the lightning, fast, faster. Electricity sparkled across his retinas, turning them white, then the man blinked, and the lightning was gone. I could only hang in his grip and gape at him in terror.

  “Stormwalker,” he said, as though both puzzled and amused. “Who sent a Stormwalker after me?”

  “No one sends me anywhere,” I said, trying to sound tough. “Who are you?”

  “It’s not here,” he said. “I’ve already looked.”

  “The pot you mean?” I tried to act as dignified as possible while hanging in midair from hands I couldn’t wrench away. “You must be Pericles.”

  Pericles transferred one of his hands to my throat. “And who might you be?”

  “A Stormwalker, like you said.” Not that I could talk very well with him squeezing my larynx. “But a little more than that.”

  Coyote was dead, and Mick couldn’t blame me for using Beneath magic to save my own life. I let a ball grow in my hands, prayed I had enough connection with the storm to not blow up the building and the ones around it, and shot the magic into his face.

  Pericles dropped me. I landed on my knees, gasping for breath, my kneecaps smacking the stone floor with an audible crack.

  Pericles danced backward, flailing against the Beneath magic that covered him like napalm. I felt sick. I’d meant to disable him to keep him from killing me, but Beneath magic has a mind of its own. Burning someone alive . . . slowly . . . wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted to think myself capable of.

  Then, as I watched, the Beneath magic solidified around his body like molded glass, cracked into a thousand shards, and fell from his body. The shards tinkled like broken icicles on the floor, and then vanished.

  Pericles stood up and faced me, while I still struggled, on my knees, to breathe.

  “Impressive,” he said to me. “Nice bit of magic working.” He really did sound impressed.

  I could barely speak. “Why do you want the pot so much?”

  “You mean this pot?” The fake pot zoomed out of the dusty corner to which it had rolled and danced in midair in front of me. “The fake Richard Young was going to foist off on me? Before you burned down half his house? I laughed about that.”

  “Word travels fast.” I wiped away something that tickled my lower lip and found blood on my hand.

  “I have spies everywhere. Remember that, little Stormwalker. You’re not bad looking. Want to work for me?”

  “No.”

  “I’d pay you a shitload of money.” Pericles looked even more like Fremont now, face bland, arms folded, not going anywhere in a hurry. “You’d be able to do anything you wanted, have anything you wanted, have anyone you wanted. As long as you show up with your storm magic and . . . whatever that was . . . whenever I need it. Put out the occasional blow job, and we’re good.”

  “No,” I repeated.

 
“What are you? Navajo? I could use a Native American to find me more artifacts. The tribes hide away the best ones. Pretend it’s all secret and their heritage, but they just don’t want mages who’d know what to do with them to get a hold of them. Am I right?”

  “I’m not working for you,” I said. “Pericles. Is that really your name?”

  “My parents had a strange sense of humor. No, I didn’t kill them for it—they’re living in comfortable retirement in Tucson. I visit them every once in a while, and my father talks about his golf game. I have a good life, Stormwalker. Lots of money. Don’t you like money?”

  “To a point.”

  He snorted a laugh. “Your choice is—you work for me, or I try to kill you. I say try, because Stormwalkers aren’t weak, and you have a little sting in your tail. But I’ll keep at it until you’re dead. Not only that, I’ll put out the word to everyone who works for me to try to kill you. A lot of people work for me, so they’ll be coming from all sides.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  My bravado, unfortunately, wasn’t anything more than bravado, and Pericles knew it. The man was strong—he’d thrown off my Beneath magic like it was nothing. Not many could withstand it. The only one I’d ever seen stare at me without blinking when he got a full dose of my magic was Sheriff Jones, who sucked up all magic and never felt it.

  Pericles had felt it, but he’d destroyed it with a spell of his own.

  But then, if he was so powerful, why was he looking for an artifact to help him out? Objects could be laced with incredible magic—the same way the magic mirror had been—but Pericles didn’t seem like the type to need a boost.

  “What is it about this pot that makes it so popular?” I asked.

  Pericles shrugged. “If you agree to work for me, I’ll tell you. I’ll even ask you to help me find the real one for me. Want to satisfy your curiosity?”

  “You seem plenty capable on your own. What do you need the pot for?”

  He laughed, still relaxed. “I collect things. And people. I like having all the magic users and little shamans on my payroll. A good job and cushy living keeps them from getting ideas about moving up the mage food chain and ousting me. By ousting, you know, I mean killing.”

  “Not all mages kill each other,” I said. “Most know it can take a lifetime to learn about the powers they do have.” I still didn’t know everything I could do, despite the guidance of first my friend Jamison, then Mick and Coyote.

  “Ambitious mages kill each other,” Pericles said. “Trust me.”

  I thought again about Emmett Smith. He qualified as an ambitious mage, and he’d slaughtered his way to the top. I guessed that Pericles aspired to be the next ununculous. There was only ever one at a time.

  “I’ll have to try to make it on my own,” I said.

  “Last chance.”

  “No.” I readied more magic, my body aching all over. “You’re kind of sleazy.”

  Pericles finally lost his smile. He gestured at the pot that dangled beside my face, and it exploded into fragments, sharp pieces slashing my skin. I threw up my hands to fend them off, and Pericles sent a wave of darkness at me.

  The darkness held cold and death and the screams of helpless things, things from which the magic had sucked all power. Now it wanted mine.

  I desperately blocked the black wave with Stormwalker-laced Beneath magic. The deadly wave hovered in front of me, making me weak and sick, then it reluctantly dispersed. The tendrils that touched me before it dissolved froze my skin, leaving behind little burned patches.

  The backlash of his magic mixed with mine was like a dam bursting, except instead of concrete and water, a flood of chaotic power poured through the basement.

  The wave swept up everything in its path. It lifted me from my feet and threw me backward with the force of hurricane winds. I crashed into a workbench, smacked my head on something hard, and went to sleep.

  *** *** ***

  I woke surrounded by the aura of dragon.

  Dragon aura is fiery with a hint of smoke—sweet-smelling smoke, not oily like a furnace. I think I fell in love with Mick’s aura before I realized I loved the rest of him, even before I knew he was a dragon.

  I reached up, hand landing on a muscular arm, and I smiled.

  “Wakey, wakey, Janet.”

  I popped my eyes open. Mick would never say something as asinine as Wakey, wakey.

  The overhead light was on, and by it I saw that the muscular arm was covered with tattoos. Completely covered, wrist to shoulder.

  Colby grinned down at me as he hoisted me to my feet. I landed against his solid chest, and he steadied me with his arms around my back, in no hurry to let me go.

  Lines of tattoos emerged from the neck of Colby’s T-shirt, climbing his throat to his chin. Every part of his body was inked, except his hands and face. And I do mean every part.

  I pulled away from him. “Where’s Mick?”

  “Is that any way to greet a friend? I saw that look of disappointment when you realized it was me, not Mickey. Hurts, Janet. That really hurts.”

  “If you’re here,” I said when I found my breath, “where is Drake?”

  “Tossing the place upstairs. He told me to look down here. Imagine my surprise when I found you out cold on the floor.” Colby pressed a loud kiss to my forehead. “Mickey’s about to take the town apart to find you. He told us to keep an eye out.”

  “Yeah, I’d better call him.” I rubbed the back of my head, my brain still not working right. “Drake won’t find anything up there. I already looked.”

  “You’re probably right, but you know Drake. Stick shoved firmly up his ass. Has to go over every inch of ground, even if he’s done it before.”

  I reached for my cell phone but found empty air in the little holster. The phone must have flown out when I hit the floor. “If Drake has searched here before, why is he doing it again?”

  “Because he got wind that Pericles had come back here. Drake hauled ass—his and mine—to get here, but he was too late. Peri was gone.”

  “Then why search?”

  Colby rolled his eyes. “Because he’s Drake. He’s convinced that if Pericles came back here, there was something to find. Drake says he’ll figure out what Peri took based on what isn’t here this time.”

  “Logical.” I rubbed my head again.

  “Yeah, well, that’s Drake. Mr. Logic.”

  I pushed Colby out of my way and started hunting for my cell phone. “You two knew all about Pericles, the wonderful mage. Why didn’t you tell me? Why are you telling me now?”

  “Well, you know about him now, obviously. He get what he was looking for?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  I spotted my cell phone under a worktable and stooped to retrieve it. The phone wasn’t a phone anymore, but a melted mass in my hand. “Damn.”

  “Looks like he fried it,” Colby said. “Lots of other stuff too.”

  Our magic backlash had been bad, but Pericles must have blasted the place with fire as well before he left. The tables were marked with black streaks, glass and plastic containers had melted, and curios had been reduced to small piles of ash. Whatever Laura had been working on, sitting at one of the worktables, had been smashed to powder.

  Pericles had tried to burn the room behind him. For some reason—maybe my residual magic, or maybe because he thought I might be useful later—the fire had burned out instead of building into an inferno. I went cold.

  “I’m glad you found me,” I said, heartfelt.

  “Any time, sweetie. Does this mean I get a reward?”

  “No way,” I said.

  “Damn. I’ll keep trying until you dump that fire lizard you call Mickey.”

  “I don’t call him Mickey. You do.” I dropped my useless cell phone to a table. “Help me with this.”

  I bent to the floor and started gathering the shards of the pot Pericles had broken. Colby picked up a piece and stared at the pattern. “Where the hell did yo
u get this?”

  “Richard Young.”

  Colby tossed the piece onto the table next to my melted cell phone. “It’s a fake.”

  “I know. And you’ve just revealed to me that you know about the real one.”

  Colby shrugged, unembarrassed. “So why do you want this one? If it’s fake?”

  “Because it’s handy to have a replica of what I’m looking for, for when I shove people up against the wall and question them. Like I want to do to you. This is what Drake was after the night he fried my hotel, wasn’t it? The real one, I mean?”

  “Yep. You sure your Nightwalker doesn’t have it?”

  “No, I’m not sure. But that doesn’t mean I’m letting your dragons have him. Ansel and my hotel are off limits.”

  “Not my dragons. Don’t insult me, Janet. I’m a prisoner here. A victim.”

  “Right. You never did tell me what you did to get yourself into so much trouble with the dragon council.”

  Colby lifted his hands. “It was a big misunderstanding.”

  I glared at him, but he wasn’t going to budge. Never mind. I’d get it out of him later.

  “Help me put this back together.” I rummaged in the metal cabinets that hadn’t melted, searching for glue. “And call Mick before he hurts someone looking for me.”

  “Demand, demand. I can’t do everything at once.”

  “Call Mick, then.”

  “I don’t have a cell phone.”

  I bit back some bad words. “Then start sorting pieces, and I’ll make Drake call him.”

  Colby lost his grin and lowered his voice. “I didn’t alert Drake that you were down here. We need to keep it that way. He’s mad at you for the way things went at your hotel. When I say mad, I mean he’s in a killing rage.”

  “He’s mad at me?” My voice started to rise, and Colby frantically waved me quiet. “He’s the one who set fire to my hotel.”

  “I know, but he’s pissed off because you wouldn’t turn over the Nightwalker to him. It’s dragon law that creatures of evil aren’t allowed to walk free. Nightwalkers are creatures of evil—dragons are creatures of good.”