“What, Rourke? I was going to walk into his place and take a look around. Instead I found you just standing outside, so eager to give me all of this choice information. As far as I know, the old Dog’s either still in his apartment or off in Allora bangin’ that sidhe chick. Oh, I’m sorry, Her Majesty.” He winks at me. “Thanks for those factoids, by the way. As for who I am…” He cocks the gun.
I grip the handle of the door, his eyes catch the motion. “Don’t worry, Dwarf, if I was going to shoot you, I would’ve.” He uncocks the hammer. “Just a fidgety habit of mine, is all. So I hear tell you’re the one fuckin’ the Ra’keth. Kind of interesting that instead of looking for him, you’re out trying to save a Coyote’s ass.” He chuckles. “Honeymoon over?”
“He can take care of himself.” I won’t use James’s name, I’m not that stupid. “You never said who you are. You’re a Coyote? Going to find your little brother and put two in his skull?” He glares at me suddenly, but I continue. “He’s been pretty open on how he’s on the outs with the clan.”
“No, Dwarf.” He smiles again, but it’s much darker this time. “I am going to find my son and end any blueblood who stands in my way. Maybe even more than that. Too damned many of you and you’re all too damned static. Boring.” He bumps the nose of the barrel against my forehead, still driving with ease. “Not you, though. Mostly because a blind man could tell you’re a halfie.” He winks again. “You’re a little tall for a Dwarf. Half-bloods are…interesting, and far be it from me to snip someone Momma Fate thinks is interesting.”
I swallow, fighting off trembles. “I…I thought Coyotes didn’t hurt anyone with their tricks.”
“Tricks?” He laughs loudly, scratching his temple with the barrel of the gun. “Pups trick, kid. Tricks are when Momma Fate thinks someone needs a new life path. Tricks are when Mother Lachesis has a bad case of the what-ifs. Tricks are for pups who think the Weaver is the shit. I prefer Granny Atropos. There are some people the world would be better without, and if Granny’s gotta cut a thread, she might as well have a laugh too. That’s what I do, kid. I don’t trick. I prank.” He points the pistol at the center of my chest. “But you’re still not gabbing about those bluebloods, Shorty, and I might double-tap your X ring just for the hell of it, so let’s chat.”
I gulp. “You’re Spencer’s father?”
He appears thoughtful a few seconds. “Yep, he’s definitely mine. I’m Justin Crain with him. I don’t hear any talking. Now if you knew where my son was, you would’ve told me when you thought I was Rourke.”
So I tell him. I tell him everything I know, and I’m ashamed of that, not because I gave all of that information to a Coyote, but because I know what he’s going to do with it. Just because I won’t forge a blade that’ll kill a bunch of sidhe doesn’t mean they’ve been forgiven for wrecking my car, nearly killing me and kidnapping Spencer.
I’m signing their death warrants, because I doubt they’ve ever faced a Coyote, especially not one who claims to work for the Crone herself. It isn’t right, and I wish I wanted to stop myself.
“Thanks for your cooperation, Dwarf.” He pulls over to a nearby curb. I think we’re close to the neighborhoods that straddle the border between South Allora and Destry Bay. “In fact, I’m feeling a little grateful, which is odd for me, I’ll admit. I saw a dragon with blue hair in line for the Palace over in Allora. Took everything I had not to trick her out of her last dime, but she’s probably still there.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
He grins knowingly. “Because you can’t bullshit a Coyote. You’d give your ass and hat to know where the Ra’keth is and run off to his rescue, and the only reason you ain’t shakin’ down your pal at the diner is you know he’d tell you if he knew anything. Other dragons on the other hand…”
“How exactly am I supposed to convince a dragon to tell me anything?”
“Remind me to tell you how I stole Spencer’s mother away from your hallowed Riordan sometime.” His eyes take on a glint. “Love is the greatest trick ever devised. You’d be amazed at the crazy shit a perfectly sane person will do for someone they love. Makes any one of us think that we’re human and makes humans remember they are. In the end, it’s why I lost her.”
He chuckles to himself before looking at me. “And, Dwarf, it’s why you’ll lose him. But hey, maybe you’re the exception. You certainly wouldn’t be the first mythic to buy that line. Love conquers all and all that shit, which is the answer to your question. You think you love the Ra’keth, so when you’ve got that dragon in your sights, you’ll think of something. Anything less would disappoint Momma Fate.” He picks up the silk bag I left on the seat, inspects the shotgun inside. “Think I’ll keep this, though.”
And then he drives away.
So I turn and start toward home, because that’s not the case with me and James. It isn’t. I mean I…care about him, deeply, enough that maybe I could say what I’m really feeling if I work up the nerve. And those dreams are just that, dreams and insecurity, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to step aside and let the Coyote do some perfectly orchestrated pop-culture overture and win James away from me. But I can fix it.
I’m going to go home, get what I made for James, find this dragon and make him or her take me to James, help him or rescue him or whatever he needs, and then I tell him that I…
That I…
“That I love him.” I exhale. “Yeah, Ozzie, you’re all brave and can say it when he’s not here. Good on ya. Now get moving before people start thinking you’re nuts for talking to yourself.”
The door is fixed when I get home, and I take the back stairs down a few flights to the basement, unlock it, move through the first room with storage boxes, washer, dryer and steam press, to a door outlined with Sigil. The keyword needs some effort, as being twin-blooded means Sigil doesn’t come as easy. But the door still opens with a grudging groan to the workshop on the other side.
It’s actually Dad’s workshop. I more have a workbench.
I’m almost thirty and I still only have a workbench. Which he gave me at twenty-two.
But the steel. The steel doesn’t care what my blood is, no matter what the other Dwarves think. It only cares that it’s worked and forged and alloyed and folded and shaped by someone who respects it, and Fae-steel, well, even more so.
But it’s expensive.
So I saved. Scraps, slivers, bits and chunks that are left over and would’ve been melted down anyway. For seven years. That seems like it’d be a lot, but in the end I had enough to make one thing. A couple months ago, I knew what it would be.
A sword is often what a Dwarf starts with, his first opus, proof that he is a smith of regard. Dad started me off with machining a fourteen-inch hubcap for a minor noble who lived outside the City and was barely making the payments on his Cadillac. That I was given the task was meant to be a message of how high a priority he was. But I got the bug, and every now and then I come down here and tinker away on a project when I’m bleary-eyed from staring at the books.
Then I met James.
And despite all my insistence that being a blacksmith was just a stereotype, I wanted to make something, forge something with my own hands. For him.
So I used my ingots and scraps and tapped a bit of my savings (not too much, I can still make rent with ease), and over the last couple months I’ve made…this.
It’s six feet even in length, one inch in diameter with a rounded bottom and an ornamental crown, the Fae-steel worked to a sheen that catches the light in an argent shimmer, or a deep ocean blue in the dark. I’ve put a lot of work into the etching that runs the entire length, painstaking work, especially considering that on many occasions I’ve had to delay dates or cut them short or miss out on sleep to work on the project.
Enchanting is difficult, that’s a given, but it’s what Dwarves are good at. Sidhe swear oaths and fight, brownie
s clean, trolls protect, Phouka trick, and Dwarves smith and enchant.
Fae-steel by its very nature holds magic well. The fact that it’s made without iron is just a bonus, really. According to legend, making this stuff is the only reason we were created by the Ra’keth to begin with. We were made a race of weaponsmiths to forge armaments for the inevitable military conflicts between Ra’keth. Often, the other armies utilized dragons. What we made injured or killed the dragons, hence their hatred of us. Occasionally we were asked to forge something for the personal use of a Sorcerer King.
All those times, our smithing was done under orders, under decree from a Sorcerer King. But this…
I run my hands along the length, fingers brushing the inscribed Sigil, enchantments that I had to look up, research and engrave after the usual charm etchings for perfect balance and easy wielding. (Sidhe may have a natural knack for everything, but it doesn’t stop them from looking for an advantage when they commission a sword.) The Sigil leading to the cap, where it would rest upon the ground, is a series of channeling enchantments, to tap the innate power in the earth and to ground out any excess energy. From the center to the crown are memory charms, ensuring that the wielder can have close-to-perfect recall, as James tends to scramble for words in a pinch, the headpiece etched with the words for lightning, since I suspect he’ll use it as a literal lightning rod.
A sorcerer should have a staff, and I want to be the one who can give him that.
I pick up the staff and whisper my heavily accented Sigil to it. “Collapse.”
Almost immediately the length of metal turns, snapping and clacking loudly, as the opposite ends of it recede toward the center and leave it about a foot in length. I clip it by the crown to my belt, for easy transport.
Took me three weeks to figure that out, and I still can’t believe I pulled it off. And to think that the Coyote’s impressed by a shotgun that shoots lightning bolts. Adorable.
“Let’s see a Coyote make something like this.” I appraise it one more time. I’m pretty sure James’ll like it. I went for something similar to what his D&D character, Radcliffe, has. Hell, maybe after this our characters can finally get together in the game too.
After leaving and locking up, I hail a cab, given that the sidhe wrecked my car, not my bank account, and head out to Allora.
At least the Coyote’s getting help from his father. Maybe it’s a little embarrassing for your father to come and save you, but given his captors, hopefully Spencer won’t hold it against me, and he’ll understand that I needed to get to James a-s-a-damned-p.
And I’m going to.
All I need to do is find a dragon at a nightclub full of mythics.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Spencer
December 20, 4:09 pm
So this sucks.
Seriously, I know that the sidekick is supposed to end up in situations like this so the hero can bust down the door and save him all, well, heroically, but I never thought to consider how rough it is for the guy being saved.
“So, what, you’re just giving up?”
And now, for some reason, James is in front of me.
Okay…
“You’re dreaming, Spence. You fell asleep.”
Then why am I still in a vent—
Nope, I’m on a couch and I’m human. James and I are in the living room of what looks like a modest apartment that’s sparsely decorated with Salvation Army chic furniture, with the exception of a sixty-four-inch flat screen in front of us, where an episode of Spaced is currently playing. My head is also in the sorcerer’s lap, and he’s gently stroking my hair.
“I still can’t believe you’ve never seen this.” I chuckle to myself, looking up at him. “The entire series can be watched in an afternoon.”
“Spence. Focus.” He runs his fingertip along the edge of my ear. I decide I like that. “So this is how you see you and me, huh?”
“First, are you here? I mean, I don’t know if you’re trying to send me a message through my—”
“I’m part of the dream, Spence. This is apparently what you want. You really think you love me, don’t you?”
I get up for that. “Well, yeah.”
“And you think you’ll just tell me and…” he motions to the room, “…what, this will happen? I’ve got a boyfriend, Spencer. Remember him? The guy who slugged you in the stomach?”
I shrug. “This is my dream, can’t you let me enjoy this?”
“I’m just surprised that this is all you want. No tricks, just lying on a couch and watching TV with me. You haven’t even had a sex dream about me, for God’s sake.”
And suddenly the two of us are in bed. I’m naked, but he’s strangely not.
“You’ve never seen me naked so there’s no frame of reference.”
I lean over to kiss him, and while my lips press to his, he does nothing. When I pull back, feeling a little cross, he rolls his eyes again.
“You don’t know how I kiss either, Spence. Now are we going to talk about how to get you out of your mess or what?”
“With you and Ozzie?”
He grumbles, forcefully exhales. “With the vent. You know, the thing you’re trapped in right now?”
“I don’t see any options. I’m stuck and the way forward is blocked.”
“Use one of your tricks. Bark Sora at the wall or something.”
“I don’t have any cards.”
“So imagine the card in your head.”
I give him a look. “I’m not a sorcerer, James, I can’t do that. Well, I did once, but I had a magic battery that’ll let anyone do magic, and I doubt there’s one sitting around in here. I’m apparently supposed to just wait for you, well, the real you, to come and save me.”
“How? You’re chained to Fate and I’m off their radar. How are those ladies supposed to lead me to you? Besides, don’t you remember that you were looking for me when all this happened? You’re going to have to save yourself. Blind luck is not going to lead a savior to you.”
“I seriously have to get you to watch more movies. Then you’d realize how wrong that statement is.”
“Spence, you know me, right?”
I shrug. “Not as well as I’d like to.” I waggle my eyebrows, but he ignores it.
“Spence, you saved me. In the bus station. But after that I became a different person, stronger, independent, a little scarier, maybe a little brooding—”
“A little? You’re practically a Joss Whedon protagonist.”
“Not everyone knows who that is, you know. My point is that I took down Heath myself. I took down the Usurper myself. Hell, I’ll probably take care of this dragon problem myself.”
“And the point is?”
He meets my eyes. “Why would I waste my time on someone who always needs saving?” He gets out of the bed, heading toward a door that’s now there. “You want to earn a run at me if Ozzie and I don’t work out? Get off your ass and save yourself. Since when does the comedy sidekick end up with the hero?”
I open my mouth, but he cuts me off.
“What went through your head when you had to admit to Rourke that you didn’t love him?”
I close my eyes. “This isn’t TV. It’s my life.” I take a breath. “I wanted to be the kind of guy who could deserve you, be something more than your friend. I…I love you. And I want to fight for you.”
When I open my eyes there’s only darkness, so I imagine a deck of cards—aces, kings, and queens; hearts, diamonds, spades and clubs—spinning in front of me, vanishing one at a time until only a single card remains: the Joker.
In that moment I forget that I’m a coyote, that I’m cramped in a vent, that it’s dark, cold and scary. In that moment there is only me and the card. The word slips over my tongue.
“Sora.”
I want out. Now.
The lights are off down in the halls, and here in the darkness nothing is certain without a truthful light shining on it, pulling back the curtain to expose the trick. Here in the dark, the curtain is never pulled.
The trick can be anything.
But let’s keep it simple.
The vent is closed, but this building is old, damp, and the panel might not fit right, the hinges could be rusted, a thousand things could be wrong with that hatch. Only a single curse has to stick.
I hear a creak, then a loud clatter behind me.
Or, a few dozen stick. When you shotgun curses, sometimes you hit really well.
I shimmy backwards, slowly progressing, but eventually my legs find the opening. It’s a steep fall, but…
I hear another clatter below me. Those boxes were stacked pretty badly. What’s to say they didn’t fall over on their own? And since they were full of clothes, they make something a lot softer to land on than concrete. It’s not too much of a stretch to assume that the human traded places with the coyote on the way down, either.
I’m still on a bit of a buzz when I clamber out of the pile of thrift-shop chic for the nouveau riche. I feel warm and sore all over, but I’m free and alive and human again and…
And fuck, how did I do that? That was seriously some heavy-duty targeted cursing there. Nice to know that Fate still has my back, even when I’m in a jam like this. Guess those ladies dig the proactive type.
“Don’t congratulate yourself too soon, Spence. You’re still in the same jam you were in when you woke up here.”
I paw, not literally, around for a light switch or pull chain, but no luck. Instead, since I at least can guess which way the “door” at the end of the passage is, I lean against the wall to guide me until I reach the stairs and the door. A quick curse takes care of the lock, and I open it to find…
The same brick wall.
“Damn it.” I don’t touch the wall yet, though. “Okay. They locked the door. There wouldn’t be a point to that if there wasn’t already a way through.” Actually, throwing me off would be the point to it, but I quickly shove that thought aside. Saving your own ass leaves no room for uncertainty.
Breaking Ties Page 18