"This is impressive! I thought you'd only get about three or four ounces made. If magicians had apprentices, this would be your masterpiece."
"I still have a lot to learn. It seems like the more I know, the more I learn about how much I don't know."
We ordered more food and drinks and talked for two hours, going over the details of my transmutation and how I had overcome all the obstacles. Stars above, I loved talking about magic. When that subject ran dry, I mentioned Mike.
"Remember our friend Mike? Logan bumped into him tonight and gave him a ride back to the Strip."
"How is he?"
"Still in the military. But he's thinking of getting out. Says he's not happy with the direction of his command. I offered him a job if he gets out."
"What could an ex-SEAL do for us?"
"I don't know. But he's a good guy and has been a big help to us, I'm sure I can find something for him to do." I gestured at the pile of gold coins on the bed. "I have plenty of money to expend, so that's not an issue."
"But there is an issue?"
"It's his memory. He's been with us many times, but he only vaguely recalls working together. His memory is much worse than Kuga's was before I linked her to the pack."
"Humans react differently to the spells that protect us. Some remember us almost perfectly; others have the type of fog that Mike seems to have."
"If Mike ever works for us, we'll probably have to give him some kind of charm to let him remember." I took a drink of my pineapple juice and changed the subject. "So some humans remember everything about us?"
"Well, yes. The president, for example. Probably most of the senior leadership in our government can at least remember something about the supernatural. Knowing about us confers a great advantage."
"What do you mean? It's not like they can shape-shift or use magic."
"'In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king,'" quoted Mason. "Just knowing about us is a big help. Don't invade this country because they have djinn that protect them. Don't send warships too close to another country because the sea monsters will sink them."
I took a deep breath and gave Mason's statement some thought. He was great about letting me figure things out for myself. He believed that since magicians had to find their own way to interpret magic, they should also find ways to interpret the human world.
I blinked and found that over thirty minutes had passed. Mason was looking at me with a gentle smile. That long silence, which would have been rude for a human, was normal for a magician.
"Now I understand why our country's foreign policy seems so crazy."
13
Late the next day, I received a call urging me to race to St. Rose Dominican Hospital in Henderson. Only Mason and Logan were with me, so we headed out as quickly as possible. From our hotel on the Las Vegas Strip, it took about twenty minutes to reach our destination.
Mason, Logan, and I stood beside the hospital bed, shocked into silence at the sight of the savagery that had been unleashed on Mike.
Head swathed in bandages, he had a respirator tube shoved down his throat, and IV tubes led into his arms. Wires ran from monitors pasted onto his body to a display unit that beeped forlornly.
His eyes were closed and might never open again. Logan and Mason were stone-faced while I cried for one of the few decent humans I had ever known.
Mike had helped Mason break me out of the werewolf compound. Mason had rewarded him with a pair of magical spectacles—spectacles that had regenerated Mike's eyes, taking him from legally blind to having vision much, much better than human.
That improved vision, and his dedication to training, had allowed him to follow in his deceased father's footsteps and become a Navy SEAL.
Then Mike had been assigned to the Arctic prison where the government had been experimenting on captured werewolves. I had been a prisoner and guinea pig there. He had played a role helping me escape that prison.
I reached out and touched his left hand, one of the few places not covered in emergency splints and bandages. Through scent and my magical senses, I could detail the damage and the pain he was in.
"How is he?" asked Mason.
"He's got two broken legs, a broken pelvis, cracked ribs, shattered bones in both arms and a broken collarbone to top it off. The worst is a severe concussion which is causing bleeding in his skull. If the pressure isn't relieved, he’ll die soon."
"Are you a doctor? Did you read his chart?" asked a new voice. It startled me. It had been years since anyone had approached me without warning. Worry about Mike's condition had made me careless.
I turned and extended my claws, only to relax when I saw Logan between me and the doctor. The newcomer— a slim man with graying brown hair, round glasses, and a clipboard in his hands—was dressed in hospital scrubs, with a white knee-length lab coat over them. His nametag read Dr. Emory.
"No," I said, "I'm not a doctor."
"How did you know exactly what his injuries are?"
I scrambled for an explanation that didn't involve magic or werewolf senses. "I saw the splints on his arms, the traction on his legs, the dressing on his head, and the slow heartbeat on the monitor. My dad's a physician, I spent a lot of time in hospitals."
The doctor stepped over to the bed and began to examine Mike. He was followed by an assistant with a clipboard in her hands. She was short and had deep black hair and Asian features. Her nametag read Ms. Bituin. Not a nurse, some kind of clerk or admin.
While the doctor worked, Ms. Bituin started asking questions. "You're Luna White? He had no ID on him, only that business card. Are you related?"
"Yes," I said. "That's my card. We’re cousins. He has no one else in the world." Not really a lie, everyone is a remote cousin. Mason nodded behind the doctor’s back to let me know he could create any paperwork we might need.
"We need to operate right away to eliminate that cranial pressure," said Bituin. "If you're his only relative, it would be better if we have your permission."
"Whatever he needs," I said.
Ms. Bituin looked embarrassed, then said, "There's some paperwork for the insurance. He had no insurance card in his wallet. Of course, we won’t delay for that, but as soon as you can arrange payment…"
I looked at Mason. He nodded his head to show we could cover Mike's expenses.
"We'll cover all of his expenses," I said. "Don't delay surgery." I looked at Mike and sensed his heartbeat slowing. "He doesn't have much time left."
"I'll just grab the paperwork from the nurses' station and have them prep the OR," said Emory as he left. Ms Bituin followed him out.
Back to pack matters. Two noses are better than one. "Logan, can you scent the attackers on his body?"
Logan took a long sniff. "Six attackers. They were armed with guns but used baseball bats to smash his bones." That matched my assessment.
"A clumsy assassination attempt," said Mason.
"No," I said without thinking, "they had weapons. If they had wanted him dead, he would be dead." Logan nodded agreement.
"If they didn't want him dead, what did they want?" asked Mason.
Logan realized at the same time I did. "They wanted to use him as bait," we said in unison.
"Bait?"
"Bait to get us here for the real assassination," I said.
I cocked an ear and listened. I caught whispered commands and the sounds of feet on the stairwell, heading away from us. The scent of men and weapons floated down the corridor. The scents matched the lingering smells on Mike's body.
I growled and my claws extended. Mason said, "Be careful. Remember, you can only shift your hands and feet without endangering the babies."
I fought back the change but kept the claws.
Mason raised his hands and started weaving a spell. Logan snorted and his eyes changed to the amber of a wolf.
"Stop!" I said. "You can't use that much magic around Logan; it'll set him off."
Mason looked at me and shook his head in a
‘so what?’ gesture. He had never worried about his ability to handle werewolves. Typical magician, dismissing the effects of his actions on innocents.
"If his wolf comes out here, now," I said, "he might injure the other patients."
"If they start shooting, they'll kill everyone here anyway," grunted Logan.
"I can keep the guns from firing," said Mason. At Logan's look, he added, "It's a simple spell that requires very little magic."
Logan stepped to the other side of the room, giving Mason room to work his spell. He took a deep breath and held it while Mason started to work. It only took a few seconds.
"It's done," said Mason. "No firearms will work in this area for the next thirty minutes."
As the smell of Mason's magic cleared and the hit squad moved closer, I smelled something else, a weapon that the military had used on my pack while we were in prison.
"Does your spell work on grenades?"
"Grenades? No, it's specific to firearms. What kind of idiot would throw hand grenades around in a hospital?"
"They're not really hand grenades," I said. "They used them on us in Alaska. The label called them M-84s."
"Flash-bangs," said Logan. "Those are nasty, but I can handle them."
"Those grenades also have a narcotic gas that affects werewolves."
Logan said, "Then it'll affect you too, or the cubs."
"No," I said, "I built up an immunity while I was there." I put a slight emphasis on ‘immunity’ to let Mason know I had a spell to prevent the gas from affecting me.
Mason snorted and said, "No need to test your immunity or endanger the cubs, I can take care of them." I could feel magical energy gather around him. A lot of magical energy.
"How about the innocent bystanders?" I asked. "How about Mike?"
Mason shook his head in anger. "I can't guarantee the integrity of the building once I loose this spell."
Just then, Dr. Emory stuck his head in the door. He was sweating profusely, and his lips trembled in fear. "Miss White," he said, "could you please come down to the office so we can get the paperwork done?"
The scent of fear and lies rolled off him, but his eyes pleaded.
I smiled like an idiot. "Sure thing, Doc. Be right there."
Emory ducked his head back, and we heard his steps skittering away.
"Mason," I said, "I love you. But you're a sledgehammer. This requires a scalpel."
Mason dropped his spell-work, and Logan let out a tightly held breath.
"Logan, stay here to protect Mike," I said. "Mason, try to keep the gas confined to the corridor; it's effective on werewolves, but deadly to humans."
Mason started weaving a spell, hands and fingers moving in and out of visibility. Logan scooted back into the far corner of the room to evade the scent of magic.
I hesitated at the door. "Can you do something about the security cameras?" Mason wiggled his little fingers and nodded to show that his camera cover-up spell was working.
I set my purse on a visitor's chair and stepped through the door as silently as possible. I glided down the corridor toward the group of Special Forces soldiers at the other end of the corridor, using my version of Mason's ‘don't-notice-me’ spell. It wasn't as powerful as his but, combined with stealth, it was enough to make me almost invisible.
They had just exited the elevator and had spread out across the corridor. They wore flak vests and gas masks, and each of them was festooned with weapons. There were patches on their chests—a set of wings and a parachute to show Airborne. On each upper sleeve was a curved patch that said Ranger. Below that was another round patch, an embroidered devil's head with tiny horns above the letters WHM. The same patch worn by some of the guards at the Arctic prison.
I moved so swiftly, so silently, that it took them several seconds to realize I was there. I dropped my spell and let my high heels click on the tiles on my last step. Each jerked at the sudden sound.
"I'm glad you accepted my invitation," I said.
They jerked and their fingers tightened on the triggers of their weapons, but they didn't fire.
"It saves me the trouble of hunting you down individually," I said.
Now that I was closer, their scents were stronger: men stoked with adrenaline, and the artificial taint of testosterone and stimulants. They were pumped up to make them as strong as a werewolf.
The soldier farthest back, the one with a major's oak leaf emblem on his collar, said, "We've got you right where we want you."
"No," I interrupted, "I've got you right where I want you." I stared at the major. "Tell me why you're going against orders. We have a deal with the president. He knows if we're attacked, there will be consequences."
The look in his eyes was enough. "You set this up yourself, didn't you? No orders from your chain of command." My teeth lengthened and grew sharper.
"You terrorists can't just thumb your noses at the world's best military," snarled the major.
"You're in trouble," I said in a sing-song voice.
"Take her down," ordered the major.
"No," said a soldier. He was older than the major, had more practical experience. "She's too damned confident. I bet she's packing explosives."
I gestured at my body, a skintight blouse over a knee-length skirt. "Explosives? Really? Where would I hide them?"
I leaned forward and jiggled my breasts. Their heads moved in time with my swaying. "Are you saying these are fake?"
"Maybe they're real; maybe the bomb is under your skirt," said the major.
I smiled again and tugged at my knee-length skirt until the elastic waistband was under my breasts and the hem was about an inch below my crotch. I'd need my legs free for the next part.
"See?" I said. "Nothing strapped to my legs. Heck, I'll even take off my shoes." I slipped off my high heels and slid them over to the side of the corridor. I could do a lot of lethal damage with high heels, but I had already decided how I would handle these Rangers.
"Satisfied?" I asked as I pirouetted.
"Yes," said the major. He tapped the helmet of the man in front of him and shouted, "Fire!"
Multiple clicks as hammers fell on duds. Well trained, they cycled to eject the duds and tried again, only to have the same thing happen.
"You should never trust the lowest bidder for your ammunition needs," I said.
As if they had been expecting this, each man drew and threw a device. Three M-84 flashbangs, and two gas-emitting canisters. Before they could hit the floor and detonate, I had activated my sound-dampening spell and my oxygen mask spell. To protect against the flash, I put my arm in front of my eyes. The explosions were still blinding, but my sight returned quickly. As the shrieking of the noisemaker faded away, the hallway started filling up with toxic gas. I activated the spell that would neutralize the gas. It couldn't hurt me, but if Mason tired, the gas could affect the other patients.
The group had taken three steps toward me, then halted when they realized I wasn't a babbling bundle of flesh huddled on the floor. The oxygen mask spell kept a clear bubble of air around my head. They halted at seeing the change in my eyes, the gaze of an alpha predator on a pretty girl's face.
Too late for them, I was suddenly in the middle of the group. They were all bigger and heavier than me. But I had been fighting people larger than me all my life. There's a trick to striking upward, using your legs to add power to blows. My judo instructor had said I looked like a maniac on a pogo stick when I fought, but he appreciated the effectiveness of the technique.
A knife hand shattered a left humerus bone; a punch cracked a helmet, concussing the man beneath; a swift knee cracked a pelvis. Fists, feet, knees, and elbows flew faster than they could react. But no claws. I was saving those for later.
When I finished several minutes later, all but the major were lying on the floor. I was down to my bra and panties; the soldiers had grabbed and ripped off my clothes in the fight, but it hadn't been effective in stopping me.
The fight hadn't bee
n one-sided. I had a dozen bruises, a black eye, several minor lacerations, and a deep cut along my left-side ribcage where one had tried to knife me. My knuckles, knees, and elbows were smashed and bleeding. I had a bald patch where one had tried to restrain me for the knife fighter. I was injured, badly enough that a normal human would have collapsed.
The major watched as my bruises faded, the laceration on my side healed up, and my knuckles stopped bleeding and scabbed over in seconds. I flexed my fingers, and the scabs fell off, revealing smooth pink flesh underneath.
I looked around to find the knifer, intent on doing him further harm. He had come close to stabbing me in the womb.
He was propped up against the wall, staring with a glazed look at his right leg, where his knife was embedded deeply into his thigh. He fumbled drunkenly at the handle of the knife with his least broken arm.
"That knife is the only thing keeping your femoral artery closed," I said. "If you pull that out, you'll bleed to death in seconds."
Indifferent to his fate, I turned to the major. In the melee, I had ripped off the major's mask. Luckily for him, the neutralization spell had finished making the gas inert.
I smiled at him, showing more teeth than humanly possible. The major held a .45 aimed directly at my heart.
"Lowest bidder, my ass!" he snarled. "I loaded these cartridges myself. I know they'll work."
I took a step closer and eased my claws out slowly. This would feel good.
"Stop right there, bitch!" he shouted. "I don't care how much kung-fu you know, you can't beat a bullet."
"You'd be surprised," I said.
"You're under arrest for committing acts of terrorism—"
He droned on, but I stopped listening. He'd already tried to assassinate me once; any blather about an arrest had to be a cover for something else.
Over his shoulder, I could see into the elevator. The attackers had jammed the door open so the elevator couldn't move from this floor. There was a convex mirror mounted near the ceiling of the junction of the corridors. Probably to prevent collisions between gurneys and people. In the mirror, I could see the stairwell door behind me open a millimeter at a time. More soldiers were trying to sneak up on me.
Lycan Legacy - 4 - 5 - 6: Princess - Progeny - Paladin: Book 4 - 5 - 6 in the Lycan Legacy Series Page 11