Magic Slays kd-5

by Ilona Andrews

  Foolish man. That’s putting it lightly.

  “The head is bright,” Vasiliy continued, “but no wisdom. His father was very respected in the community. Did a lot of good for a lot of people.”

  “It was that or kill him,” Grigorii said. “Can’t trust him. He’ll build something else and kill us all.”

  “Can’t build anything now,” Adam said. “Can’t hold a screwdriver. Can’t hold a wrench. Or a brush. Finished. Zakonchen. My life’s over.”

  I surged to my feet, grabbed him by the hair, and twisted his head to the window. “Their lives are over. My kid is dying because of you, you damn asshole, and you are whining about your hands? Look at me. Look me in the eye. I want to skin you alive, do you understand?”

  “I never meant for this,” he said, his arms limp. “I meant it for good.”

  “There were armed men guarding you. Why the hell do you think that was? You tested it. You saw things die in the forest. Why didn’t you destroy it?”

  “I couldn’t do that. That’s what my purpose is, to build things. It was special. I gave it life. It was important.”

  “More important than dead children?”

  Adam’s mouth went slack. I glimpsed the answer in his eyes. Yes, his gadget was more important than dead children. Nothing I could say would reach him.

  I shoved him back into his chair.

  “I told you,” Vasiliy said. “Not right in the head. Defective.”

  “There is a sect of anti-magic fanatics,” Curran said. “The Lighthouse Keepers. They have the blueprints for the device. They’ve built their own version.”

  Grigorii paled.

  “How big?” Vasiliy asked.

  “Five-mile range.”

  Grigorii swore. Vasiliy leaned back, dragging his hand over his mouth. “Five miles?”

  Curran nodded and looked at Adam. Kamen cringed.

  “How long does it take to activate?”

  Kamen blinked. “The smaller model took forty-two minutes. For the larger, I never tested . . .”

  “Three hours, twelve minutes,” Jim said.

  “There is a coefficient . . . Ten hours, fifty-nine minutes, and four seconds,” Kamen said.

  “That’s our time frame,” Jim said. “Ten hours and fifty-nine minutes from the start of the magic wave. Magic hits, we start the countdown.”

  “Can it be turned off once activation starts?” Curran asked.

  “Yes,” Adam said. “There is a switch to power it down. I will show your people.”

  “What about the machine that has been used?” I asked. “What happens if you open it?”

  “Do you have it?” Kamen’s eyes sparked.

  Grigorii leaned over and slapped him on the back of the head. Kamen rocked forward and glanced at Grigorii like a kicked dog. “No need to hurt. I know, I know. Do you have a beer?”

  Barabas stepped away for a moment and set a beer in front of Kamen.

  “There is a valve at the top.” Kamen shook the beer. “The device is of limited capacity. There had to be a way to empty it so it could be refilled.”

  He’d built the equivalent of an atomic bomb, and he’d made it reusable. Words failed me.

  “So they can go from town to town murdering us,” Evdokia murmured.

  Kamen set the beer down. “You push the switches and poof.” He grasped the beer again, tried to twist the cap, and stared helplessly at it. No working thumbs. Barabas leaned over him and twisted the cap off with a snap of his fingers. Liquid shot out. Foam spilled over the sides of the bottle.

  “Have to be careful to push the switches correctly or it goes sideways,” Kamen said. “Boom and the cylinder breaks. Everyone’s dead.”

  Great. I made a heroic effort to ignore Curran’s stare. “If you open it correctly, does most of the magic shoot straight up?”

  Kamen nodded. “Yes. Some goes down, but most straight up. Like a laser.”

  “The magic that washes down, is it potent?”

  “Very.”

  “Like a small flare?”

  “Yes.” Kamen nodded several times. “Just like that.”

  I looked at Evdokia. “Can this magic be harnessed by a coven and focused on one person?”

  “Possibly,” Evdokia said.

  Grigorii snorted. “That much magic, your witches would break. And your focus would overload. You’d need an anchor for it, an object, to take the brunt of it, then draw power from it.”

  The duck-bunny-kitten stopped its rolling and hissed at Grigorii.

  “Was she asking you?” Evdokia raised her chin.

  “I’m just saying. There is a proper way to do things.”

  “Mind your own business.”

  Vasiliy gazed at me. “Why do you need the power?”

  “Blood magic.”

  The table went so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

  “What for?” Vasiliy asked softly.

  “To purge Lyc-V from a little girl.”

  Grigorii pointed a long finger at me. “That is an unnatural thing.”

  “Some would say wolves with wings and wooden staves that bite you are unnatural things,” I said. “Some would say that sacrificing a man and turning his innards into ants are unnatural also.” If you live in a glass house, don’t fire any shotguns.

  “We will do this for you,” Evdokia said. “My coven will do it. I’ll bind them to silence. Nobody will talk about it.”

  Aha. “What’s the price?”

  “You will sign a writ of kinship. A document that acknowledges your mother and her ancestry. It will be kept sealed, so do not worry. We just want a paper. In case things do not go as expected.”

  What was the catch? There had to be a catch in there somewhere.

  Grigorii came to life like a shark sensing a drop of blood in the water. “Why? What is so special about her?”

  Evdokia slapped the table. “I’ve told you to mind your own business, old goat! This has nothing to do with you. Go kill something and revel in its blood.”

  Grigorii’s eyes bulged out of his head. “You will keep a civil tongue in your head!”

  Evdokia leaned forward. “Or what?”

  “Or I will teach you some manners, woman!”

  The tattooed witch behind Evdokia glared in outrage. “Dad! You will not speak to Mother this way!”

  “I will speak to her in whatever way I please!”

  The witch in the robe heaved a sigh. “Oy. Papa, really, there is no need.”

  I backed away from the table in case somebody started throwing things. Andrea backpedaled right behind me. Curran stayed, his chin resting on his hands clenched into a double fist, probably trying to decide if he should get in the middle of this.

  “Yes, go right ahead.” Evdokia pointed at Grigorii. “Live up to your reputation. Civil like a rabid badger.”

  The duck-bunny hissed and growled. Grigorii’s raven cawed, beating its wings. Grendel lost it and broke down in a cacophony of excited barks.

  Vasiliy put his hand over his eyes.

  Grigorii slipped into Russian. “Crazy old hag!”

  “A hag?” Evdokia rolled up her sleeves. “Let me show you how haggish I can be.”

  “Roman!” The tattooed witch pointed at the younger volhv. “Do something! You’re the oldest.”

  Roman startled. “They’ve been at this since before we were born. Don’t bring me into this.”

  So that was how he knew I would be at Evdokia’s. His mommy told him. Of course. They even looked alike. I should’ve seen it before. Was there anyone in here who wasn’t related?

  The tattooed witch turned to Vasiliy. “Uncle?”

  Nope. They were all one big happy family.

  “You be quiet, child!” Vasiliy snapped. “Adults are talking.”

  “Uncle, I’m twenty-six!”

  “That’s the problem with bringing children into the magic,” Vasiliy said. “The lot of you get a taste of power and grow up mouthy.”

  Grigorii spared a single
glance in his brother’s direction. If looks were daggers, that one would’ve sliced straight through the volhv’s heart. “Here it comes. ‘My oldest son . . .’”

  “Is a doctor,” Evdokia finished in a singsong voice. “And my daughter is an attorney.”

  Vasiliy raised his chin. “Jealousy is bad for you. Poisons the heart.”

  “Aha!” Evdokia slapped the table. “How about your youngest, the musician? How is he doing?”

  “Yes, what is Vyacheslav doing lately?” Grigorii asked. “Didn’t I see him with a black eye yesterday? Did he whistle a tree onto himself?”

  Oh boy.

  Curran opened his mouth. Next to him Jim shook his head. His expression looked suspiciously like fear.

  “He is young,” Vasiliy said.

  “He is spoiled rotten,” Evdokia barked. “He spends all his time trying to kill my cat. One child is a doctor, the other is an attorney, the third is a serial killer in training.”

  Vasiliy stared at her, shocked.

  “We’re taking a short recess!” Curran roared and took off. We staged a strategic advance to the entrance of the steak house, right past Barabas, bent over double and making high-pitched strangled noises.

  Outside, Curran exhaled and turned to me. “Did you know they were crazy?”

  “I didn’t even know they were married.”

  “They aren’t,” Roman said next to me. Somehow he’d gotten outside. “They love each other, they just can’t live together. When I was younger, it was always drama: they are together, they are apart, they are seeing other people.” He shrugged. “Mom never could stand all the blood, and Dad has no patience for the witchery. We’re lucky the magic isn’t up. At the last New Year’s they set the house on fire. There was alcohol involved. Did you bring my staff?”

  I looked around for the boy wonder. “Derek?”

  Derek popped up by my side and thrust a stick with a trash bag on top of it at the volhv. Roman ripped the black plastic off. “What’s with the bag?”

  Derek bared his teeth. “It tried to bite me.”

  Roman petted the staff. “He was just scared, that’s all.” He took a step toward me and lowered his voice. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  We walked away a few feet, like it would make a difference with a bunch of shapeshifters. Roman leaned to me. “The gorgeous blonde, does she work with you?”

  I glanced to where Andrea stood by the doors. “Andrea? Yes.”

  “Oh, that’s a pretty name,” Roman said.

  “Bad idea,” I told him.

  “Why? Married?”

  “No. An ex-boyfriend. A very dangerous, very jealous ex-boyfriend.”

  Roman grinned. “Married is a problem. Dangerous, no problem.”

  Over Roman’s shoulder I could see Curran. He stood absolutely still, his gaze fixed on the back of Roman’s neck.

  Houston, we have a problem.

  “Step away from me,” I said quietly.

  “Sorry?” Roman leaned closer.

  Jim was saying something. Curran started toward us in that unhurried lion gait that usually signaled he was a hair from exploding into violence.

  “Step away.”

  Roman took two steps back, just in time to move out of Curran’s path. The Beast Lord passed by him and deliberately stepped between the volhv and me. I touched his cheek, running my fingers over the stubble. He took my hand into his. A quiet growl reverberated in his throat. Roman decided he had someplace to be and he really needed to get there as soon as possible.

  “Too much excitement, Your Majesty?” I asked.

  “He was standing too close.”

  “He was asking about Andrea.”

  “Too close. I didn’t like it.” Curran wrapped his arm around my shoulders and started walking, steering me away from the group. His Possessive Majesty in all of his glory. “This writ of kinship, what the hell is that? Does it make you allied with them?”

  And he changed the subject, too. “No. I’ve only run across it a couple of times before. It’s a document that states that I acknowledge that my mother is my mother and that my mother was born to such-and-such family. The witches are big on family record keeping.”

  “Will she take it to Roland?” Curran asked.

  “It’s not in her best interests. She hates him.”

  “So what’s the point of it?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “I don’t like it,” he said.

  “You’ve been saying that a lot lately.”

  He dipped his head, his gray eyes looking into mine. “Are you going to take them up on it?”

  “Yes. Nothing has changed. Julie is still dying.”

  “Then do it soon,” Curran said.

  “Why?”

  He pointed at the road. A caravan of black SUVs slithered its way up the highway. Thin emaciated shapes dashed along the shoulder of the road, their gait odd and jerky.

  “The People are here,” Curran said.

  CHAPTER 21

  AN HOUR LATER THE INSIDE OF THE STEAK HOUSE had been cleared, every table in the house set into a square. The People had brought four out of their seven Masters of the Dead, headed by Ghastek. Nataraja must’ve declined to make an appearance. Because the meeting was held in the Pack’s territory, the People had their choice of seats and positioned themselves with their backs to the window, so they could observe the front and back doors.

  The four Masters of the Dead—Ghastek, Rowena, Mulradin, and Filipa—took their places at the table. Behind them a gaggle of journeymen sat in their chairs flush against the window, their faces carefully blank. Between the journeymen, vampires crouched like monstrous gargoyles: hairless, corded with a tight network of steel-hard muscle, and smeared in lime-green and purple sunblock. Bubble-gum-tinted nightmares.

  I had to fight the urge to keep glancing at Rowena. Short, only about five two or so, Rowena was a teenage boy’s wet dream. Perfect figure, sensual face, emerald-green eyes, and fiery red hair falling in a cascade of glossy waves all the way past her waist. An elegant business suit molded to her curves like a glove. When she smiled, male heads turned. If she said something, people nodded in agreement. There was something about her that made you want to earn her approval. She could make you feel like a hero for passing her the salt.

  This was what my mother must’ve been like. I might’ve had her DNA, but not a drop of her magic had made it through.

  To the left of the People sat the representatives of the Mercenary Guild. I recognized three veteran mercs and Mark, nominally the Guild’s admin and in reality the Guild’s overseer now that Solomon Red, the Guild’s founder, lay six feet under. At least some of him did. After my aunt was done with him, there hadn’t been much left.

  Next to the Guild sat representatives of the Natives. I recognized shamans from the Cherokee, Apalachee, and Muskogee Creek tribes, but the other two I’d never seen before.

  Norse Heritage took up the next three seats. The Norse Heritage Foundation claimed that their goal was to preserve Scandinavian cultural traditions. In reality, they took the idea of Vikings and ran with it as far from any cultural or historical accuracy as they could go. Norse Heritage took everyone in. As long as you were willing to drink beer, get rowdy, and proclaim yourself a Viking, you had a place at their table. Ragnvald, their jarl, a huge bear of a man, came easily enough, but Jim’s people had the devil of a time getting his escort to surrender their axes and horned helmets. There was a lot of roaring and cursing and promises of doing indelicate things and screams of “Make me!” and “Over your dead body!” until Curran came out, looked at them for a while, and went back inside. Ragnvald read the writing on the wall, and his crew decided to disarm voluntarily.

  The College of Mages provided three representatives, followed by us, and then by the witches, volhvs, druids, and half a dozen other smaller factions. Getting everyone to take a seat and be quiet was like trying to roll Sisyphus’s boulder up the mountain.
By the time we were done, I wanted to stab myself in the eye. Nobody seemed ready to make trouble, but I kept Slayer on my lap under the table just in case.

  We put Kamen in the middle of the square in his own special chair. Just in case he decided to wander off and invent a black hole generator out of a box of matches and paper clips while we weren’t looking. Rene and the Red Guard brass sat at the table directly behind Kamen. Rene looked a bit green in the face.

  Tea, coffee, and water were served, and then Jim rose and gave a succinct summary of Kamen’s invention and the aftermath of its usage. The Red Guardsmen were presented as being heroic; the volhvs’ involvement was tactfully omitted. When he moved on to explain the third device, silence claimed the steak house. Five miles. Absolute destruction. If you had a drop of magic, you would not survive.

  People paled. The jolt was so strong, even Ghastek looked disturbed.

  Next Andrea stood up and profiled the Keepers. Most of it I already knew, and I watched the faces while she spoke.

  “The Keepers are very well connected and financed. During the attack on Cutting Edge, the Keepers deployed exploding boltheads,” Andrea continued. “Analysis and an m-scan of the residue provided a profile consistent with Galahad Five warheads. These warheads are manufactured exclusively by the Welsh to combat giants. They’re prohibitively expensive and their export into the United States is limited and only semilegal. I had obtained a small number of said warheads for the Atlanta chapter of the Order during my tenure there, and I had to call in several favors just to get them through customs. Either the Keepers have a unique connection or the Order’s armory has been compromised.”

  “Or the Order has been infiltrated,” Rowena said.

  “It is a distinct possibility,” Andrea agreed. “I can guarantee that no boltheads had left the Order’s armory prior to November, because the inventory and security of the armory had been my responsibility up to that point.”

  “Is that why there are no representatives of the Order at this Conclave?” one of the druids asked.

  “The Order has never been a part of the Conclave,” Curran said.

  Ghastek permitted himself a narrow smile. “Considering the success the Keepers had with infiltrating the Pack, if we were to exclude all the organizations whose screening and security measures couldn’t stand up to close scrutiny, this assembly couldn’t take place. Banning the Pack alone would halve our numbers.”