by Barb Taub
“For an Academy grad, you’re not very observant.” She heard him open a cabinet, his voice muffled as if he was searching inside. “Yesterday was the Seahawks hat. Today it’s the Mariners. Director Jeffers would be appalled.” She heard the fridge open. “But not as appalled as I am every time I look in this fridge. Have you considered—and I know this is just a concept here, so bear with me—vegetables?”
“I thought that’s what the ketchup was for.”
For the past week, they’d spent each evening sipping tea and eating sandwiches—which she told him pretty much stretched the boundaries of her culinary expertise—and talking. At the Academy, the unspoken understanding was that you didn’t discuss a past where you might have been on opposite sides of the war. Come to think of it, when they’d been together during her last year at the Academy, they hadn’t done much talking at all, especially when one of their roommates was gone long enough for them to spend a rare night together.
Now on her porch, he told her how he lied about his age to join up with Haven. He’d regretted it almost immediately, but his Mom said he’d made that bed. She gave a terse version of being raised by Nana after her mother—Nana’s only daughter—died when her spell miscast during a routine business deal when Claire was a baby. Somehow, she even told him how she’d been in her dorm room her second year at the Academy, when the amber in her necklace flared with a heat she’d never felt before. It was the first time Bygul rubbed against her mind, a vast alien warmth that wrapped her even as Director Jeffers arrived to tell her of Nana’s death.
Each night as they talked, Bygul would pad onto the porch, twining around Claire’s legs until she relented and moved to the porch swing next to the giant cat, automatically stroking her chin and ears to the accompaniment of industrial strength purrs. Those porch evenings weren’t dates, she told herself, because they never exchanged awkward first-date favorite movies/music/coffees. And neither mentioned what happened—and what didn’t happen—six years ago. She did still wonder about those tattoos, though.
Now she had to remind herself not to smile as she straightened up from her dusty car and turned toward him. “Okay, maybe driving a Range Rover in Seattle is like waving a net full of trapped baby dolphins in front of a Greenpeace ship, but none of their damn hybrid crunchy granola tree-hugging POS cars will ever make it up this hill when Seattle’s black ice takes over.”
“Don’t hold it in.” He straightened and came over to take her briefcase. The first few nights he followed her home, they’d struggled over it, but now she released it immediately. “Say what you really feel.”
So she did. When they reached her porch, he started toward the rocker he’d occupied every evening this week. But this time when he handed her the briefcase, she tossed it onto the table, took his hand, and moved closer. His eyes widened, and she saw him smile. And she was just lost.
His lips were soft with a question. And she was licking that smile, eating it, and then both their tongues were answering questions that hadn’t even been asked. She felt him take her other hand and tightened all her fingers around his. And the kiss that started out so sweet just went up in flames. Dimly she was aware they were standing pressed together, their clasped hands between them. He ate her air, she sucked his tongue, and tried to pull her hands loose so she could touch him.
“Peter.” A moan, a demand.
He groaned and stepped away. She heard him suck in a breath, and felt him steady her as she stumbled toward him.
“Claire.” It sounded like a laugh and a prayer. What it did not sound like was a kiss. She didn’t realize her eyes were closed until she opened them to glare at him.
“What?”
“We have to talk.”
“No.” She shook her head. “We really don’t.”
He laughed again and pulled her over to the empty porch swing, from which Bygul had supervised his previous visits. It was piled with pillows and long enough that Claire often used it as a bed on warm nights. Still holding both her hands, he tugged her onto his lap. When her head settled against his chest, he dropped her fingers to circle his arms around her. Through his shirt, his voice rumbled into her ear. “Back at the Academy… Why did you walk away?”
Even knowing the question was coming—that it had to come—Claire still froze. Over the last six years, she’d watched others face similar choices. Since most of the world had no idea of the pain and loss experienced by both sides in the Nonwars, it was almost ironic the ones who did get it were often former enemies. And, like survivors everywhere, they saw little point in postponing fragile happiness for long courtships and rituals. A standing joke at the Agency was “How can you tell two Wardens are on their second date? Wedding rings and a group gift envelope in the staff lounge.”
“I was a witch—the last Danielsen witch—trained from birth to protect our goddess and also to guard my emotions, especially from Haven, our enemy. You had already fought your war, and you wanted to get started on your happily-ever-after. But I was trying to combine my responsibilities to my family and to my goddess with being a Warden and a witch. I didn’t think I had enough left over to give what else you wanted.” She raised her gaze, steady blue meeting the questions in his dark eyes. “And Peter, back then you wanted…everything else.”
He shook his head slightly. “Thing is, people say that witches…”
She stiffened and tried to pull away. “That witches don’t do happily-ever-afters? That they’re only interested in one-night-hookups? That they…”
His arms tightened around her stiff shoulders and he interrupted, sounding angry, “People talk a load of crap about how witches love sex but hate relationships. But I already know you’re not like most witches.”
“There’s no such thing as most witches, Peter. We are all human. Even when we’re not.” She twisted out of his arms to kneel facing him on the swing. Cupping her hands on either side of his face, she turned him to meet her eyes. “Peter, I’m not the same girl who walked away from you six years ago. My best friend was almost killed a few weeks back, and now she’s disappeared. You and I, we’re still soldiering in a war everyone thinks is over, and I’m okay with that. But what I’m not okay with, is spending another six years wondering if we could have been more.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It’s the simplest thing there is.”
“Claire, you look at me with those calm eyes like you did six years ago and your face has absolutely no expression. I’ve never known what you’re thinking or what you want. And since I’m not willing to settle for a one night hookup, I don’t know how much else I have to give.”
She sank down onto the pillows and looked up at him. “We can take it as slow as you want.” She moved one foot to the porch floor.
He lowered a foot onto the floor beside her foot, and angled his body over hers. A breath away from her mouth, he whispered, “Did you mean it about taking it slow?”
“Well, no. Did you mean it about not knowing how much you’ve got to give?”
“Actually, the real problem is what I want to take.”
“And that is?”
He smiled into her mouth. “It’s still everything.”
***
She woke to the pearly diffused light of a northwest morning. Still on the porch swing, still covered by a quilt, and—she checked—still mostly dressed in yesterday’s work clothes. Damn him. But she smiled, remembering the lovely, unhurried time spent getting to know each other’s kisses again, hands remembering each other’s bodies. And then lying there wrapped in his arms and Nana’s quilt, listening as he talked about growing up in a normal family—she had no idea what that was—and how much his mom would like to meet her—she sincerely doubted that.
At least she now knew what those tats looked like. She’d run her hands over the indigo sweep of Japanese kanji characters covering one shoulder, demanding he tell her what each represented. But it had been her mouth that traced the lines of the red-gold carp twisting in the b
lue and green waves that frothed and cuffed his other shoulder.
The porch was empty except for a note on top of her briefcase. “Tonight.” She frowned at it, feeling a prickle of…something trying to get her attention. Right, are you upset because he didn’t say anything about last night? Well, yeah, she was, but the feeling didn’t go away. In fact, it got stronger, fingers scratching deliberately down a far-off blackboard.
She heard a hissing growl, and Bygul was on the top step of the porch, looking toward the woods. That far off blackboard-scraping itch hesitated. She and the huge cat considered each other for a moment, and the scrape started again at the edges of her mind. Bygul began deliberately washing, one great paw at a time, as the sound scratched at Claire’s brain. She tried to ignore it while she showered and got ready for work. When she came back to the porch, the cat stretched a paw to block her and bounded off into the woods.
Claire hadn’t fought in the Nonwars, but she’d heard plenty of stories. She supposed some battles might have sounded as bad as the noises coming from the woods, but she couldn’t see how they could have been any worse. The hell with that. Pulling both athame from her hair, she raced toward the sound of shrieking and snarls coming from the woods. Reaching the small clearing, she was just in time to see Bygul in her battle avatar, a lion-sized feline screaming defiance at a dark figure in the shadows at the edge of the clearing.
But it was the three black, vaguely dog-shaped creatures who brought Claire to a careful halt. Each had one glowing green eye, centered above grinning jaws lined with exaggerated teeth. Barghests, Nana’s stories had named them. The Black Hounds. As the hounds spread apart to surround her, their swaying heads panting ropes of drool in their eagerness to attack, she backed toward the largest tree. Mind racing, she reviewed the spells she’d managed so far, but none seemed likely to take out even one of the creatures facing her. Okay, we do this the old-fashioned way. Nana said the barghests had been after Bygul’s power forever, and that’s why the Danielsens originally left Norway. If all three attacked together, she wouldn’t stand a chance. But the creatures seemed as mistrustful of each other as they were of her, retaliating in a slash of claw or fang when another got too close.
Their swinging heads, she realized, compensated for their one-eyed lack of peripheral vision. Finally, one broke and leaped for her, jaws wide and spittle flying. She ducked low, coming up under its blind side and slashing at its belly with her silver knife. Not all creatures reacted to pure silver, so she sucked in a huge breath when the screaming barghest convulsed around the already smoking wound, its green eye flashing to red. The other two paused, and sniffed the air as the wounded beast dragged itself out of the clearing.
The two remaining barghests turned back to her and resumed circling. This time it was Claire who attacked, whirling to fling one athame at the creature attempting to move into position behind her tree. It caught the barghest high in back of a meaty shoulder, sending it into a snarling frenzy as it ripped chunks from its own haunch in a vain attempt to reach the smoking silver knife. The third monster crouched toward the ground, slinking on great padded feet as Claire transferred the remaining athame to her right hand and resumed her watchful stance. At a further snarl from Bygul, Claire risked a quick glance. The dark figure was backing away into the shadows, followed by the remaining barghest. Bygul gave a final screaming challenge, then limped over to drop something at Claire’s feet.
Chapter Three
“What’s so secret we have to meet here instead of the office?”
Claire looked up from the back corner table of her favorite coffee shop when Director Jeffers set down the coffee she’d heard him order from two rooms away. Plain drip, that’s it, no he didn’t want one of those goddam candy-flavored piss buckets, just a cup of regular joe, and he appreciated the sentiment but his day didn’t have an ice cube’s chance in hell of being a good one…
He sat without waiting for her answer. She moved his coffee to the other side of the table and pushed an insulated lunch bag across to him. “Bygul brought this back from a fight with something in our woods this morning.” He looked into the bag and his eyebrows went up. She nodded. “Director, please do not pull it out. I don’t need to look at that again…” Ignoring her, he spread a napkin onto the table, removed the plastic envelope from the ice-filled bag, and poured out the freshly severed finger.
With her coffee stirrer he rolled it over to peer at the ring it still wore. “What’s that on the front?”
“So help me, if you pick that up again, I’m going to barf. Sir.”
He pointed the coffee stirrer at her and shook his head. “I’ll just never get used to the way you can say something like that and your voice and face never show the least emotion.”
“It’s a gift.” She handed him a magnifying lens with a light. As he shined it on the ring, she pulled out an old three-ring binder.
“Family album?”
“More or less. It’s our family’s method of bookkeeping. Whenever we get a commission, we keep a record. It wouldn’t be good business to take a job that might…disadvantage…an existing client.” She flipped it open to a page marked with a sticky note. “My mother accepted this commission just before she was killed. It was a standard business curse one of her regular clients wanted placed on a rival. As far as I know, she never finished the job.” She hesitated. “How much do you know about witches?”
“I know that you’re human, and that you work spells with power you’ve channeled from some other entity. Also, most witches aren’t able to channel anything at all until they’re middle-aged.” He eyed her speculatively. “Although you seem to have bypassed that requirement…”
“Only a little. And I think that’s because I’m the last Danielsen left. My goddess wants to make sure I’m around long enough to make more little witches to carry on.” He doesn’t need to know everything. Like the fact that a goddess needs her followers’ devotion to maintain the power she then channels back into their spells. Generally, witches didn’t share details of how they worked, but some things he had to understand. “Names have power, especially for non-humans. For beings of power, their true Name is their most closely-guarded secret. So if my mother channeled Bygul to get the Name of the person she was cursing, she would have added it here. But all I’ve got is the drawing of the crest. The same one as the ring.”
He moved the magnifying glass over the drawing. “What are these words with arrows pointing to the crest? Insigne cum praeco serpentis erectus?”
“Latin. Mom must have been showing off. It just refers to the crest itself. Herald with serpent rampant. See, she’s drawn that snake a couple of times.” She took a breath and continued in a level voice. “So here’s the thing. Mom didn’t get the Name from Bygul, so whoever she was spelling must have given up their Name voluntarily. For witches, that usually means an exchange of Names during sex, which might explain why my mother didn’t enter that Name in our records. That also means this is personal, and I’m thinking it’s going to get worse. My goddess and the owner of the finger weren’t able to destroy each other. So we think he’ll be back, probably with reinforcements.”
“You’re one of the best strategists we’ve got.” He frowned. “What do you think they want?”
“Just what the Outsiders have always wanted—to paralyze or destroy Null City’s defenders. And right now, the Accords Agency is standing in their way. You always said to look at the results. Well, in just the past weeks, your top Wardens have all been attacked. Two are dead and one is in the hospital. Carey Parker is still missing. That leaves you and your four remaining senior Wardens to make up our first team. The Outsiders have plenty of resources, and they’re going to come at each of us from different directions. In my case, I’m guessing they’ll go after Bygul’s power. The thing she fought wasn’t strong enough to take it directly, so he’ll be looking for another way in. She and I have to be ready for them.”
“Not acceptable.” He shook his head, lines on either
side of his mouth deepening. “I can send reinforcements from the Agency. Hell, I’m coming myself.”
She smiled but shook her head. “I might not be the best field operative the Agency ever trained, but I am the only one who is also a witch. Nobody else will be ready for this kind of battle. They wouldn’t be able to spot an attack, and protecting them might distract me. There never were that many witches, and since the war we’ve been pretty thin on the ground. I called a family Nana knew in Louisiana, and they’re going to try to send some help next week. Until then, I can keep myself safe but I can’t have anyone else around me.”
“Anyone else?”
“Not you. Not anybody from the Agency.” She paused, the tiniest of breaths. “So you need to tell Peter to stay away from me.”
“I can tell him lots of things. Doesn’t mean they’re going to happen.”
“You’re going to tell him I asked for some time off and that I’ve left town for a couple of weeks. Then you’re going to give him this letter.”
Her hand was steady as she held it out to him, along with a phone. He glared at her until she set them next to his arm. “You know I’m right. We don’t have anyone on board who can help with this, and anyone who tries will just be at risk. You’ve trained me, Sir, and my nana taught me the craft. I know I won’t be able to do most of it for a long time, but I’m not defenseless, especially if I’m in my family’s house.” She pointed to the little phone. “It’s spelled to only dial or receive me and it’s warded against eavesdroppers.”
He scowled, but picked up the letter and the phone. “I want to hear from you once an hour. If you’re going to sleep, going out, or taking a piss, I want to know. Got that?”
She nodded, face blank. “Let me know when he reads the letter. And Sir?”
He paused in the act of scooping the finger back into the envelope to raise a questioning eyebrow.