"That tickles,” she murmured to him as his brush swept delicately up the network of thin bones that sloped from index finger to wrist.
Dakimo smiled and slipped a quick glance up from beneath half-drawn eyelids, met Emika's coy smile with a wistful one of his own. He didn't reply with innuendo and teasing; he merely tightened his light hold on her fingers and dipped his brush again. Pursuits of the body would wait. Concentration now.
"We are nearly done,” he said.
Emika gauged the reply correctly—she always did—and merely went back to reading whatever report or complaint or ruling she'd been studying to occupy herself while Dakimo traced over the old wards and charms on her hands and added new ones, absently whispering spells as his brush swept whorls and ancient characters on her smooth skin. There was an intimacy involved that couldn't be helped—not that Dakimo wanted to—and these sessions more often than not ended with a locked door and an order left with the secretaries that the governor was not to be disturbed for an hour. Dakimo didn't think that would be happening today. Emika seemed to understand and concur equably.
Dakimo thought he might really love her.
"You met with Goyo this morning.” Emika seemed to be paying more attention to whatever she was reading, and her tone was casual—pertinent small talk—but Dakimo knew her very well. She wanted to know.
"I did.” Dakimo kept painting. He'd never actually used this particular ward, ancient as it was, but... it couldn't hurt.
Emika waited for a few beats, apparently finishing a paragraph, before going on, “And what news from Snake?"
Dakimo considered lying. And then he considered telling her the truth. He was still caught somewhere between the two, trying to form an answer, when the noise beyond the governor's closed doors rose in pitch and volume. Dakimo stilled his brush, listening, Emika's hand still lying trustingly in his own, until the voices took on a panicked tone. And then someone screamed. He was already rising, putting himself between the door and Emika and pulling his veil of protection tight around them both, when the door burst open.
The first thing Dakimo saw was the blood. The second thing he saw was the smile. Cold and sly beneath gray eyes set in a red-spattered face too angular and too close to perfectly shaped to be anything but Jin. Dripping knives were held in tight-clenched fists; more knives hung in belts crisscrossed over hips, with yet more tucked in sheaths strapped to thighs. The look was feral, lethal. If the man hadn't been standing right in front of him, Dakimo would have doubted he truly existed. Trying to look at him with anything but the physical senses was like trying to catch smoke in his hands.
"Incendiary,” Dakimo whispered, eyes narrowed.
"Wolf's sheep,” was all the man said—sneered—in a voice rough and raspy, and the smile curled wider. He flipped a knife in his hand.
* * * *
Jacin stopped dead when he reached the teahouse to which the strange little man had directed him. With a sharp curse through his teeth, he took a last, long drag of his smoke, then dropped it to the ground. He shook his head with real wonder.
Couldn't be real. Because how could that stall vendor have known? Coincidences like this just didn't happen.
Fate, the young man had said. Maybe it was and maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was just more of Jacin blundering into an outward reality by following an inward desire. He didn't know what was real and what wasn't, so how was he supposed to know?
Like everything else, it didn't matter. Once he'd stopped fighting it, it seemed that things just started falling in to place.
Jacin stared at the sign above the door then down the alley between the two buildings that, presumably, led to another door. And didn't necessarily care what might be waiting in the stretch of darkness between him and it. Fate was fate, and he could disdain the gods, but there was no disdaining Fate. It would have him, and in this case, he really didn't think he minded.
Now, this was something that Jacin would expect his warped mind to come up with.
He hadn't even known he wanted it. Hadn't even thought about the angry words Malick had spoken, like a last instruction. Hadn't even acknowledged that vengeance might be lurking inside all the spiraling emotions caroming around inside him since he'd watched Malick go down and take all of Jacin's safety with him.
Then again, what was Jacin, if not a tool for vengeance?
There is no fair—there's Balance, and that's all there is.
Wasn't vengeance a balance of its own sort?
"Fate is fate,” Jacin whispered. He peered once more up at the sign—The Gates of Rapture—then sucked in a bracing breath and limped down the alley, walking stick tap-tap-tapping along.
He really wanted this part to be real.
* * * *
All right, so Malick had been telling the truth: this wasn't a whorehouse. And if it was, its atmosphere left a lot to be desired.
Jacin stepped into The Gates of Rapture with a wary eye scanning all points, taking in somewhat bemusedly the variations of the assembly. Men and women in a wild array of apparent wealth, from moneyed to beggared, and yet all mixed together in conversation with no apparent awareness or concern about station. A young woman clad in the rich robes of the Heldes, cheekbones highlighted by the sepia strokes of elaborate tattoos, lounged on cushions at a squat table, delicately smoking from a water pipe while speaking quietly and earnestly to an elderly man who looked like he was keeping his raggedy coat on by a few stitches and a wish. A girl who couldn't be older than Morin wagged a grubby finger at a young woman dressed in a fine satin longcoat and who appeared to be listening like her life might depend on what the girl said next. Jacin pegged the woman as Temshiel or maijin, because she was beautiful, without flaw, and mortals just didn't look like that.
The buzz of conversation was quiet, but more noticeable for the fact that Jacin could hear it at all. No musicians strummed or sang in a corner, no drunks bawled epithets, no doxies strolled the perimeter proffering favors.
It only took a second or two for the poppy smoke to curl into Jacin's nostrils, overlain by the yeasty smell of cheap beer and the more palpable sting of strong liquor. He wondered if everyone here was already stoned. Would that be a good thing, or a bad thing?
No one paid Jacin any mind as he wandered into the dim-lit room, just cut the occasional curious glance his way and then went back to what they'd been doing. He almost wished someone would challenge him, because there was no one tending the shabby bar, there were no maids or lads waiting tables, no clear direction for Jacin to point himself. Jacin was almost beginning to wonder if he hadn't perhaps stumbled into someone's private party when a great, whiskered man detached himself from a pile of low cushions and lumbered toward him with something a little too close to intent in his dark eyes. His hair and beard were as white as snow, both sprouting straight and lank in unkempt tufts. He was bigger than he'd looked while lounging on his cushions, a full head taller than Jacin and at least twice as wide. And nearly every bit of visible skin besides his face was covered in tattoos.
Jacin kept his hands from reaching for a weapon. He didn't want to start anything with this giant unless he absolutely had to.
"There is no magic here.” The man spoke angrily, as though Jacin had offered some sort of offense.
Jacin gave him a wary stare. “All right."
"Take it off,” the man said, overt threat in his deep voice.
Jacin flexed his fingers, body tensing somewhat when he sensed another presence at his back, hovering. Yeah, well, he'd figured it was a trap of some sort.
"Take what off?” Jacin asked slowly.
There was the faintest of stirrings at Jacin's nape; he sidestepped quickly, only catching a minute flash of substance out the corner of his eye before it was gone and he was backing into a very wide, very solid-feeling chest. Where he knew no one had been a half a second ago. Bloody hell. He stilled completely when a great hand roughly gripped his shoulder from behind.
"What kind of magic have you got here, se
yh?” a harsh voice murmured into his ear. “And how did you get it past the wards?"
The chatter had stopped. Every patron of the dingy little tavern who'd politely disregarded Jacin before now stared at him with varying degrees of interest.
Jacin only snapped a glare at the white-haired man in front of him. “I paid your little friend for the damned stick,” he grated. “If he told you otherwise—"
He already had a knife in his hand by the time the man in front of him had completed his lunge forward and snatched away the stick. Jacin let him, countering with a warning swipe of the knife that just grazed the man's beard, but the man behind him prevented Jacin from lopping a hunk of it off like he'd wanted to. Jacin stilled again, the man behind him now gripping his right shoulder and his left wrist while the man in front of him inspected the walking stick like he thought it might explode in his hands. He stroked at his beard with a narrow glare at Jacin and a curl to his lip.
All right. Jacin could still get out of this. The grip on his wrist was pretty firm, but the one on his shoulder was only just firm enough. And his right hand was still free. The man was probably used to being able to subdue anyone he wanted to with size and strength alone. Except Samin was very nearly as big as these two, and had put Jacin in this kind of hold numerous times. And had taught him very well how to break it. Plus, neither of these men had yet tried to disarm him. Jacin wasn't trapped quite yet.
"I can sense nothing from this,” the man in front of Jacin said, looking over the walking stick with a frown cut deep between his spiky white eyebrows. “Is it possible to disguise magic as nothing at all?"
Oh, brilliant. “If there's magic in it, it came from your friend at the stall,” Jacin snapped.
This setup was much more elaborate than he'd anticipated. If they wanted to kick the shit out of him and teach him a “lesson” about disparaging magic in front of the little man's paying customers, why didn't they just get on with it?
"Friend?” said the man behind Jacin.
Jacin was getting pissed now. Adrenaline was pumping, and he was getting impatient to get to the ass-kicking part. He could do with a target or two on which to take out some building aggressions. The man in front of him all but handed him the excuse when he reached up and took hold of Jacin's hand—the one trapped in the other man's grip—and tried to pry the knife out of it.
"There's something coming from that ring—” was all the man got out before Jacin snapped his arm—still in the other man's grip—to the side and down, succeeding this time in swiping at the wispy white beard and taking off a good three inches of length from one side.
The man let go and reeled back. The other one yanked Jacin's arm up and tried to grab the other. Jacin merely spun to face him, and when he was wrenched upward and almost off his feet, he set one boot to the man's knee and the other to a meaty thigh then launched a kick to the side of the man's head. The man let go of Jacin and stumbled aside. Jacin landed clumsily but kept his feet. He spun just in time to duck under the walking stick as it came swinging at his head, then everything went still as a woman stepped into the middle of the semicontained brawl.
She held one hand out in a warding gesture at Jacin's chest, the other behind her where the bearded man was hefting the stick over his shoulder for another go. Her hazel eyes narrowed with intensity over Jacin's shoulder, where he assumed the other man was likely getting ready for another attack.
"Stop,” she said quietly, evenly. “There's been a misunderstanding."
It was the voice. Jacin wasn't sure he'd have recognized her otherwise, but he knew that voice.
We were to take the earth-bound and allow the Catalyst to follow.
Jacin's heart tripped up in rhythm, pounding against his breastbone. Anger and loathing curled together in his gut.
One of Asai's. One of the maijin who'd tried to steal Joori so that Asai's disobedient little Ghost would fall back into line and do his bidding and his killing for him. One of Wolf's who'd been more than willing to ally with Asai behind Malick's back, but had lost her nerve when faced with Malick himself.
"You know this man, Leu?"
Jacin didn't wait to hear her answer; he took advantage of the distraction and the lack of any grip on him. Teeth set tight, he flipped his knife into his palm and lunged. The snatch and hard yank to the back of his collar didn't help. Neither did Leu's quick retreat and dive to the side. Still, Jacin managed to clip her on the arm a good one, and by the amount of blood gushing from the wound, he'd say he'd done pretty well.
Leu yelped and clutched at the gash, trying to staunch the bleeding, but Jacin merely crooked an evil little smirk as he was grabbed again from behind and placed into a hold somewhat more secure than the last one. “Oops,” he said, a little smugly and to no one in particular. “Think I got an artery."
"I guess they do know each other,” someone muttered. Jacin didn't bother to look around to see who it might have been, but he could feel every eye in the place on them now, where before he wasn't even sure he'd remembered anyone else was here.
"Get them out of here,” the man holding Jacin snapped, digging his fingers into Jacin's wrist to try to make him drop the knife as he was abruptly propelled forward, but Jacin didn't let it go. His fingers were numb and would be useless in a moment, but he wasn't about to relinquish any defense he might end up needing any second now.
He didn't exactly go along as he was shoved and manhandled over toward the door, but he didn't fight as hard as he could've, either. Too many large, angry-looking men materialized out of the shadows, glaring threat, and anyway, it wasn't like Jacin was opposed to leaving. Which was good, because apparently, he was being thrown out. Jacin supposed there were worse things that could've happened. He hoped these people weren't thinking of having him arrested. He'd hate to have to kill one of the Patrol. Then he'd really be in trouble. Or maybe not. After all, maybe none of this was real.
"Brilliant, Fen-seyh."
Jacin cut a glance sideways to see Leu being shoved toward the door almost as roughly as he was being shoved himself.
"All of the weeks Kamen spent hiding you, and now look. Now keep your bloody mouth shut."
Jacin merely snarled and let himself be shoved. He could kill her once they were outside. More room and less interfering thugs to hold him back.
No one came toward them, neither the patrons of the place nor the apparent...guards? Bouncers? As far as Jacin could tell, the patrons were all still sitting at their individual tables and watching the ruckus like it was a show put on for their casual entertainment, while one of the big guards waiting for them at the door reached out to inspect Leu's bleeding arm.
"You know the rules, Leu,” the man said in a chiding tone, mouth pinching down as he peered at the wound. This one had tattoos that crawled right up his neck in the shapes of spiky flames, curling up from under his clean-shaven chin. “No magic and no fighting. This is a neutral house.” He cut an irritated glance at Jacin on that last then nodded at the slash on Leu's arm. “This is mortal,” he told her, somewhat blandly. “Better find yourself a healer. Outside."
"Bloody hell,” Leu hissed and rolled her eyes. “I just got back from spirit, damn it!” She scowled at Jacin then shot her glance to the white-haired man, still holding onto her but bright-red with anger beneath his all-over tattoos, and glaring at Jacin like he'd just taken a piss on his cat. “Seb, I need Rihansei,” Leu told him. Seb opened his mouth to say something but Leu cut him off: “Don't argue with me and don't give me any shit.” She leaned in close and dropped her voice. “If I go to spirit now, you'll be stuck with this man and every single maijin and Temshiel who wants him. Do you want to be the one to tell Kamen you lost his Untouchable?"
Jacin didn't even have time to react; he was abruptly locked in a hold so strong and tight it threatened to crush his chest, and Seb went from flushed to pale by the time Leu had finished speaking. “Well, bloody damn,” was all Seb breathed, stricken, as Leu reached out and snatched the knife from Jacin's
hand.
"I wouldn't spread that about, if I were you. Rihansei can only protect you so far.” Leu shook her head and looked between the gathered bouncers. “Bloody idiots. That's why your wards didn't catch him. They can't. And you can't see him with magic. Now get the rest of his weapons and take us downstairs before I bleed to death. I'm starting to get dizzy."
Jacin didn't know what most of that meant. He didn't much care. And he didn't have time to suss it. A blur of movement to his right caught his eye, a flash of metal. All Jacin saw was dark eyes and dark hair, and a surge of fury moved his body before his mind could insist he'd killed the bastard twice now, and he still wouldn't stay dead.
With a snarl and a move that would have done Samin proud, Jacin broke the hold on him and met the charge with blades twirling.
* * * *
Imara peered up at the stately home Naro-yi had acquired for Kamen and wondered exactly who Kamen thought he was fooling. He was the bloodier end of Wolf's long arm, and Imara knew quite well that Kamen liked it that way. He wasn't some country lord, he was a killer, and as much as he was trying right now to pretend he could be something else for “his” Incendiary, Imara had no doubt whatsoever that Kamen was merely setting himself up for yet more risks.
Maybe he'd at least learn that lesson during his time with the spirits.
Imara snorted.
Right. Sure. It was Kamen, for pity's sake.
She didn't have to go into the house to know it was empty. They'd been there, though, she could feel them still, could follow a faint trail of vivid color in her mind's eye that she recognized as Kojoi Shig, but the trail was too faint, and she couldn't catch a hint of any of the rest of them. Nor, strangely, could she seem to latch onto the thread that would lead her to Naro-yi.
New wards, Imara supposed, and she was glad, but annoyed too. Maijin couldn't veil. She could find Naro-yi—and, therefore, Kamen's mortals—if she took the time and effort to meditate and look, but it was irritating that Naro-yi hadn't left her some hint so she wouldn't have to. Didn't he know she had things to do? Bad enough she'd had so little time to hand down Dakimo's orders to Xari in the first place, but it was all the worse for the rush, and Imara had been forced to leave Xari to look for her son's spirit alone. It was not something anyone should have to do alone, and Imara was anxious to get back and make sure her initiate did not falter on her final steps to Wolf's path.
Wolf's-own: Koan Page 28