by P. N. Elrod
I’d spent the day there, getting patched up by the doctors and grilled by a series of progressively more senior detectives. It was now 11 P.M., and I was in yet another meeting, this time with my very unhappy boss. “Mage de Croissets!”
I jumped slightly. “Yes, sir.”
“Kindly pay attention. I have a seven A.M. meeting tomorrow. I would like to get home before midnight!”
“Yes, sir.”
So much for the fatherly bit. I wondered why he’d trotted it out at all. Richard Hargrove was old school, brought out of retirement because of the war, to fill an important desk job and free someone in fighting form for more active duty. He’d made it clear that he didn’t like my gender, my service record, or the fact that my mother had been a Were. I’d tried to lie low and stay out of his way, but it hadn’t seemed to help.
Of course, it’s a little hard to build a relationship with your new boss when you’re best known for killing your old one.
He pushed a photograph across the desk at me. “Martina Colafranceschi—that’s her birth name. She’s going by Ophelia Roberts at the moment.”
The woman in the photo was not what I’d have called pretty, but there was something undeniably arresting about her. She was tall, judging by the height of the man standing next to her, with olive skin and short hair gone half-silver. She was well past her prime, but there were traces of beauty in the face—high cheekbones, almond eyes, full lips.
“You’re sure she’s the one?” It came out remarkably calmly, considering what I’d just learned. I was still in shock, and grateful for it. Because I had an inkling of what I was going to feel when the numbness wore off, and it scared me.
“The trace was ninety percent positive,” the man at my elbow said. He was slightly built, almost scrawny, with thinning brown hair and shirtsleeves rolled up around his stringy forearms. They showed off the perpetually pallid skin of someone who does his work inside—in this case, underground.
Benedict Simons was the head technician in the Corps’ version of a forensic lab. The magical community long ago gave up on the idea that magic is some mystical, indefinable quantity. There’s still a lot we don’t understand, but there are some hard-and-fast rules—like the fact that everyone’s energy signature is slightly different. No two people cast the same spell in quite the same way. It amounts to a magical fingerprint that allows the caster to be identified in certain circumstances, such as being able to test four people who were still under her spell.
“Ben performed the trace himself—there’s no mistake,” Hargrove said brusquely.
“And her motive?” I pushed the photo back at him. “I don’t know this woman; I’ve never even heard of her. Why would she go to so much trouble to have me killed?”
“Colafranceschi was one of the founding Assassins.”
I frowned. “If she was an assassin, why didn’t she just do the job herself?”
“Not an assassin,” he said impatiently. “One of the Assassins. They were a group of hit men—and women—who styled themselves after a sect of eleventh-century Islamic extremists. The modern-day Assassins were wiped out twelve years ago. The mage who led the investigation and the final raid was Guillame de Croissets.”
I blinked. “My father.”
“Exactly.”
“Okay.” I rubbed my eyes and tried to ignore the throbbing headache that had been building all day. “I see why this woman might target his daughter. But why in such a convoluted way?”
“Because Colafranceschi specializes in weaving illusions. Perhaps she liked the irony of destroying you using one of our own spells.”
And that hurt worse than anything—the idea that Adam had died attempting to impress me. He and the other students had attacked me while under a carefully crafted illusion. It was officially known as the Trials, although the local slang term was “Vegas Odds,” because you had about as much chance of beating it as you did of hitting a million-dollar jackpot. Of course, that was kind of the point—this was one game you weren’t supposed to win.
Students were led to believe that the Trials would give them a chance to demonstrate the skills they’d acquired by the end of basic training. In fact, it was a test of character. The specifics of the test varied from person to person, because each instructor designed and supervised their own. But they all had one thing in common: a no-holds-barred fight where your friends all died around you and you were left with the decision to either finish the allotted task and die, or save yourself and fail.
If you chose the latter, no matter how good your performance otherwise, you washed out. And if you chose the former, you found out how you faced death by actually doing it. The test was brutal but necessary. If a dark mage covertly entered the program, he or she wouldn’t learn anything new in basic training. But the apprenticeship phase was much more advanced, and no one liked the idea of someone picking up the latest magical breakthroughs only to turn them on us.
Adam had been a year or more away from the Trials, but someone had spelled him and the other four to believe that they were undergoing it now and that their mission was to assassinate me. Of course, had they really been in the Trials, they would have been closely supervised, with someone in the illusion along with them to guide it and chart their progress. Nothing they experienced would have actually taken place—not my death, not their own. As it was, the Trials had wreaked the usual havoc, but this time, everything had been very real indeed.
“If the Assassins are reforming, it could explain the unusually high number of losses we’ve sustained in recent months,” Hargrove was saying. “More than two dozen mages have been killed in suspicious circumstances, to the point that we started an investigation into a possible leak in the department. But it found nothing—possibly because there was nothing to find.”
“The Assassins usually worked for profit alone,” Simons added. “But in our case . . . it is conceivable that they bear enough of a grudge to forgo that in favor of revenge.”
“And picking off our operatives would ensure that we were stretched too thin by the war to come after them,” Hargrove added. “Now, I want to know everything that happened today—every detail—and don’t tell me it’s already in the reports.”
I didn’t bother arguing. It was too late and we were all too tired. Besides, if there was anything in what had happened that might help catch Colafranceschi, I wanted it as much as they did.
I sat there for another hour, recounting yet again a detailed description of the attack. It was starting to sound like a cata log of personal failures: caught half-asleep with inadequate weapons—check; let them get past the front door and thereby through the wards—check; unable to capture them without leaving one dead on the ground—check. It was hard to see how I could have screwed things up any worse.
Hargrove obviously agreed. By the time I finished, his mouth was even tighter than before and his shrewd blue eyes were slits. “Fortunately, there is a way to redeem your error,” he told me sourly. “Colafranceschi has been located. She has a loft downtown in a converted office building.” He gave me the address, and I had to admit, it was impressive work for the time they’d had.
“How did you get this so quickly?”
“We turned young Markham loose a few hours ago. He led us right to her.”
“What?” I was certain I’d heard wrong. “You sent Jason back to that creature?”
“He remains under her spell,” Hargrove said impatiently. “They all do.”
“So you decided to use him as bait?!”
He flushed puce. “Better that than young Adam’s fate,” he hissed.
And that was enough to send me over the brink into anger so intense that I couldn’t speak, couldn’t even splutter, because all the fury—at Hargrove for being such a cold-hearted bastard, at the Assassins for existing, at the fucking universe for not letting me pause for one second before muttering that spell—was choking me, cutting off my breath.
“Illusions that deep are notoriously diff
icult for another mage to dissolve without damage to the mind in thrall,” Simons said, glancing back and forth between the two of us. He looked a little spooked. “We . . . we tried, of course, but without her cooperation, I’m afraid there isn’t much hope. Lifting the spell would likely shred their minds along with the illusion.”
“That doesn’t justify sending him back! Jason failed her. Do you really think she’s going to keep him alive?”
“No,” he said quietly. “But if the spell is not lifted soon, they’ll all die. They will continue to attempt to carry out her last command to the exclusion of everything else. They won’t eat unless fed intravenously, or sleep unless sedated or do anything except to search for you.”
“Then we’ll make them believe I’m dead,” I said a little unsteadily. “We could fake—”
“Yes, but then they would be like robots on standby, waiting for the next order. Which would never come. A zombie, in effect, for life.”
I had a sudden visual, and it was horrible. I strongly suspected that they’d prefer Jason’s fate—whatever it was—to a future as drooling vegetables or comatose druggies. For that matter, so would I.
“If you want to help your students,” Hargrove said, “I suggest you use the opportunity to remove this creature from my territory.”
“We could call upon our own assassins, of course,” Simons offered. “But you have one great advantage over them—your Were blood leaves you impervious to illusions. Her greatest weapon will be useless against you.”
“Unless you would prefer someone else to clean up your mess,” Hargrove said silkily.
“No, sir,” I snapped. Hargrove was a dick, but he was a dick with a point. Adam’s death was my fault, and if I didn’t get this bitch soon, the others faced something even worse. I was suddenly, fiercely glad that this assignment was mine.
“Then you’re dismissed.”
I pushed through the front entrance a few minutes later, practically blinded by tears and guilt and rage, and nearly leapt out of my skin when I came right up against the solid wall of Cyrus’s body. His hands shot out to grip my sides, and I flinched. He pushed my shirt up, revealing the purpling bruise that covered half my left side, and sucked a hot breath between his teeth. “Christ.”
“The docs checked me out; it looks worse than it is. What are you doing here?”
“Availing myself of some free medical. Like I told the guys at the house—if the Corps can mess me up, it can damn well fix me up.”
“You’re hurt?” I didn’t give him time to reply, just turned his arms over and pushed up his sleeves. The red gashes he’d sustained from fending off a knife attack while I ran for weapons had already faded, with only a few white scars and irregular patches of skin remaining. But some of the deepest lines were still puckered, with a faint ridge of flesh running down his right forearm. Another bisected his left palm, like the seam on a glove.
“I’m sorry.” I hugged myself, staring at the signs of what friendship with me had cost him. It made me remember the way I’d felt when I’d seen him dive for the kitchen floor, unsure whether he’d been hit, like my insides were tumbling out onto the linoleum. The scars would probably fade completely in another day, Were metabolism being what it was. But if he’d been a little slower . . .
Cyrus stared at me for a moment, then tugged me into a loose hug. I closed my eyes and went, arms still wrapped around myself. His mouth brushed my ear. “I’ve had worse from a hunt,” he said. And then, even more softly, “You scared the shit out of me.” And then we were hugging so tight that his leather jacket creaked.
“Where are you staying?” he asked after a moment.
I blinked. Because, yeah, going home wasn’t an option. Even if the house had been habitable, I couldn’t go back there with a dark witch on my tail.
“I hadn’t really gotten that far yet.”
“Then it’s settled. You’re coming with me.”
Cyrus’s bike, a black-and-silver Harley-Davidson, was propped against one side of the building. It was where I usually kept mine, too, since no one had gotten around to marking out parking places yet. Cyrus threw a leg over, I climbed on back, and we took off, ignoring the scowls of the guards at the front gate. I laid my cheek against his back and enjoyed the feeling of freedom, the cool night air unbelievable heady after a day spent inside suffocating hallways and concrete-gray offices.
“You want pizza?” he yelled back a few minutes later.
“Only if I get to pick the toppings.”
“Deal.”
We made a pit stop at a late-night diner that still had a crowd, then headed to the motel that Cyrus currently called home. His room was clean, if not particularly large, and there was a noisy but functioning air conditioner. He shrugged out of his jacket, leaving him in a black T-shirt and jeans, and carefully checked his guns before putting them within arm’s reach on the nightstand. He finally allowed himself to relax, kicking off his boots and stretching out on the bedspread.
I borrowed a shirt and took a much-needed shower. I’d re-stocked my potions supplies and ammunition at HQ, but the only clothes in my locker had been a rangy old pair of socks. Luckily, a T-shirt is a T-shirt, and Cyrus’s looked fine on me. Plus the long tail almost covered the bloodstains on my jeans.
We didn’t have a table, so we’d put the pizza in the middle of the bed after laying down some towels to catch the grease. I hadn’t eaten all day, and suddenly I was starving. The pie was soggy in the middle and half cold and tasted wonderful. I did damage to my half, then rolled onto my back and stared at the watermarked ceiling tiles. Classy.
I let my body start to relax, and it was a mistake. I’d been running on adrenaline and the instinct drilled into me during training that let me push through pain and exhaustion and fear by walling off my emotions until it was safe to deal with them. That detachment had started to crack when Hargrove told me the recruits had been targeted because they were mine. That, essentially, I’d killed Adam twice, because if someone else had been his trainer, he wouldn’t have been there in the first place. And now it felt like the two halves of my rib cage were being slowly squeezed together by some invisible vise.
The gentleness of hands on my face was no comfort; it rattled me, made my body burn and my stomach clench. Cyrus leaned down and kissed me, so slowly and thoroughly that I felt like I was sinking into the mattress. His teeth were smooth, the edges catching sharp against the thin skin behind my ear, his hands big and rough, sliding down my sides. It threatened to break something in me, just the warmth of him. I squeezed my eyes shut, biting my bottom lip hard to keep the insane, embarrassing sounds I could feel building behind my teeth where they belonged.
“Stop blaming yourself,” he said softly.
“There’s nothing wrong with blaming myself when it’s my fault,” I snapped, rolling away from him. I didn’t want to feel better; I didn’t deserve to feel better. Not yet.
He lay back, hands behind his head. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
I almost said no, but bit it back. I’d desperately wanted company—his company—but it would have been better to find a bolt-hole somewhere else. I’d never been sure if it was a Were thing or a macho thing or just something he did to drive me crazy, but Cyrus had a protective streak a mile wide. And like most Weres, he seriously underestimated magic.
I’d tried to explain that, yeah, Weres were faster, stronger, and had senses far more acute than any humans—even magical ones. But none of that made a damn bit of difference when facing a well-trained magic user. Cyrus’s hardheadedness on that subject was going to get him killed someday. I’d just prefer it wasn’t this one.
But Weres could smell a lie, so I had to give him something. I settled on a version of the truth, leaving out the part about the Assassins and the vengeful witch. I didn’t want him deciding to go after Colafranchesi himself.
“You’re saying that someone in the Corps wants you dead?” he demanded when I finished.
“I�
��m not universally popular, but I don’t think it’s gotten that far yet.”
“But who else would know about the spell?”
Someone who had made a lifelong study of illusions, I didn’t say. “I’m sure the investigators are working on that.”
Cyrus didn’t look satisfied. “If this test is so important, how come I’ve never heard of it?”
“It isn’t a popular topic of conversation,” I said dryly. “No one is allowed to give the recruits any hints, and most people who’ve passed are happy to forget the experience.”
Cyrus cocked an eyebrow at me. “How did you do?”
“I didn’t,” I said, trying to keep an edge out of my voice. “My Were blood made me difficult to influence. If Dad hadn’t been with the Corps, that probably would have ended my career right there. But he called in some favors.” I guess no one had really thought that Guillame de Croisset’s daughter was likely to be a dark mage plant. Or if they did, they weren’t about to say it to his face.
For the first time, I wondered if it might have been better if they had.
Everyone always assumed that Dad was pulling strings for me, that I would never have found a mentor or made it through training or gotten my first promotion on my own. In fact, he’d done it only the one time, and only because he considered it partly his fault that I was facing that particular hurdle. Dad had taught me to be tough, self-reliant, and competent. Only the Corps had never given me the chance.
I’d tried overcompensating for a while, taking the hardest assignments, working the longest hours, but nothing erased the stain of my mother’s blood. Somewhere along the line, I’d decided that undercompensating was a lot easier. It didn’t get me any more promotions, but nothing was likely to do that. Nor did it make me any more popular among my peers, who had transitioned smoothly from resenting me for showing them up to resenting me for slacking off. But at least it left me with more free time.
“They just let you skip it?” Cyrus asked, breaking into my thoughts.
“Not exactly. My trainer sent me on a three-week hike through a Louisiana swamp instead.” My only companions had been a bad map to the finish line, an occasional alligator, and a horde of mosquitoes the size of my thumb. But the trainees I talked to afterwards thought I’d gotten the better deal.