by Helen Adams
The place was cramped. But it was neat. My grandfather’s constant nagging had – finally – turned me into a tidy woman.
Scratch that. It had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with my holiday at Her Majesty’s pleasure.
“Good evening, Raz’s Reputable Rides. How may I help?”
“Is Raz about?” I asked. “It’s Daphne.”
My friend held his own against the automotive big boys by opening earlier and closing later; it was nearly half past six, but he wouldn’t finish until eight.
“Just a moment.”
The receptionist, a toothy woman in her early thirties, had instructions to put me through. We had an understanding that I’d only ring if it was an emergency. Most things could wait for a face-to-face conversation.
Lukas and his warning definitely came into the ‘emergency’ category. I listened to the plinky on-hold music for a couple of minutes until Raz came on the line.
“What’s wrong?”
I heard barely a trace of my mentor’s original accent; he’d fled Israel decades ago, a victim of political upheaval, and settled here. I gave him the bare bones as I kicked my trainers off and padded into the kitchen, referring to Lukas as a ‘contact’.
Raz only knew the fabricated version of my trip to London. I’d never felt able to tell him the truth… and that included meeting Lukas. Aside from sleeping with the vaengrjarl, I’d done terrible things. The fundamental lesson I’d learned had been that when the chips were down, there was no such thing as ‘fair’.
“I think they’re coming after you next,” I finished, rummaging through the freezer – stacked with ready meals and bags of frozen veg – for something to eat. I settled on a man-sized lasagne. I pulled it out of the box, stabbed the film with a fork, and threw it into the microwave. I set it to nuke and leaned against a unit.
“How does he know?”
“I was more interested in the ‘who did it’ than the ‘how he knew’, but he wouldn’t tell me.”
“You believed him?”
“Ye-es.” I drew the word out.
“Does he have any proof?” There was a mild rebuke in his tone that I knew I deserved.
“All I can tell you is that I…I trust him.”
I did trust Lukas. That didn’t mean I had to like him.
“Going to tell me why?”
“Nope.”
“Daphne –”
“Look, can’t a girl have a few fucking secrets?” I snapped, frazzled. I’d been tired before I’d even gone into that alley. Now I was tired and annoyed.
“Alright, alright…” He sounded aggrieved. Great. I’d pissed him off, but at least he’d let it drop. “Let’s say we believe your contact. If golems are involved, the warlocks are kicking off again.”
“Why now?”
“We’re berserkers,” he said, as if that explained everything. The trouble was, it sort of did.
“When was the last time that you had trouble with a warlock?” I demanded.
“Hmph. Point taken.”
“If they’re starting something now, it’s because they want us out of the way. How much do you want to bet that the Midnight Conclave are behind this?”
The Conclave was the ruling body of the predator races, in as much as they let themselves be ruled. It was their job to set the Quota, the number of dewdrops that could ‘legally’ be hunted, and they enforced it with glee.
The vaengrjarl hadn’t joined. Their egos were too big to be associated with any organisation they didn’t personally command.
“They’ve never made a direct move against us before,” Raz cautioned. “Basingstoke isn’t exactly a major metropolis, and that isn’t their style. I don’t think they’re driving the warlocks.”
His reasoning was sound. Didn’t mean that he was right.
“So now I guess we start knocking on doors,” I grumbled. “How long will it take before we get someone to talk?”
“Too long,” Raz grunted. “And that’s presupposing that they don’t whip up an elemental or six to rip us to pieces.”
“Ah, crap.”
“Forgot about elementals, didn’t you?”
“No need to sound so bloody smug!”
“I’m your mentor. It’s my job.”
Warlocks were involved in all kinds of weird mystical shit. They stirred up lines of primal energy into knots, and when they got too tight those knots exploded. Elementals, shaped and controlled by the warlocks’ will, were born from that explosion. Things always went downhill from there.
I’d only seen a handful of elementals in town and I’d never had to fight one. Warlocks had turf wars. They sorted themselves out… one way or another.
“Look, I’m just going to shove some food in my face and then I’ll come over. Can you close early tonight?”
The silence on the other end of the line was pained. Raz’s profit margin was slim.
“You’re sure about the risk?” he asked.
“As sure as I’ll ever be.” Lukas knew that I was capable. If he was giving me a warning now, it was because he thought I was about to face something that I couldn’t cope with alone… but he didn’t care enough to intervene directly.
“OK.” He still sounded reluctant. “It’s only Hisham and me here now.” Hisham was one of his elder sons. “I’ll send him home and lock up.”
THREE
I changed out of my grubby – but thankfully not torn – work clothes, exchanging the skirt and blouse for tatty jeans and a Meatloaf T-shirt. I shoved my feet back into the scuffed trainers. My personality said rock goddess, but the job said office frump. Unfortunately for me office frump paid the bills.
The microwave went ‘ding’, telling me that my dinner had just gone apocalyptic. As I eased the food out of the plastic carton and onto a plate (just managing to avoid third-degree burns in the process) I pondered what we’d do when we found our bad guy.
There were two possibilities. I could beat the stuffing out of him – a bright point in what had otherwise been a shitty day – and take personal revenge. Or I could do what a berserker was supposed to do, which involved subduing said warlock and giving him the iron.
Berserkers only killed monsters. Vampires, trolls, dryads – they were all Mythic Racers, and they all turned to goop when we killed them. But we also protected dewdrops from black witches, warlocks and necromancers, and that was a very different kettle of fish.
They were people. We did not kill people.
You did, came the unwelcome thought as I carried my irradiated food to the table.
Yes. I had. But that was before I’d become a berserker, and though I was no longer in prison I was still living my punishment.
Outright murder was a line we didn’t cross. We wouldn’t kill humans – but we wouldn’t stand by and let them hurt others, either. So we ‘gave them the iron’, iron rings, crafted by wizards, that subdued a practitioner’s ability to access their magic. Once it was fitted, tiny spikes shot into the flesh of their finger. It could only safely be removed by its maker.
Unless, you know, you wanted to cut off your own finger.
Scrabbling sounds at the window made me look up. Lorl’s wings were a blur as she hovered outside. Her fur was yellow with excitement, glowing in the sodium lights.
I never questioned how she knew that I was about to eat. In my experience all pets – mystical or otherwise – just knew. I opened the window a crack to let her in and she settled on my shoulder.
I plonked into a chair and started forking processed lasagne into my mouth. Lorl stuck her nose in my ear. I stifled a giggle. Her fur rippled green and blue, tinged around the edges with the delicate lavender tones of love. For me, or the food?
I loaded up the fork, blew cool air across the mess, and waved it in front of her face. She slid her tongue out and took a delicate nibble.
Seconds later the fork was empty and Lorl was looking at me expectantly, waiting for more.
“Anyone would think you never got f
ed,” I said, taking another bite and offering her the next. “Right until they look at your fat little belly, that is.”
Lorl patted her stomach – and opened her mouth for another bite. Feeling very much like a mother bird, I fed my taufrkyn.
When we were done I slipped into a second-hand denim jacket, grabbed my duffel and opened the door – only to find Lee, my boyfriend, hand raised and finger extended to press the bell.
I felt Lorl, stealing the warmth underneath my jacket, crawl across my torso. She was stealthy as a ninja as she slipped out from under my clothes. I knew she’d take herself off somewhere until Lee left. He couldn’t see her and she knew that, but she also seemed to understand the concept of privacy.
“Sixth sense, babe?” he asked, mouth curving into a grin. God, I loved that mouth.
“I wish,” I laughed, sliding an arm around his neck and going in for a kiss. He tasted of the mint chewing gum he’d spat out… no, wait, there it was. My tongue battled his for possession of the gum. I won, of course.
“If you wanted some you only had to ask.”
His arms closed around my waist. He bent his head for a deeper kiss and I forgot how to breathe. Who needed oxygen, right? My free hand reached up to cup his rough cheek, fingers teasing the hard planes of his face before smoothing over his shaved scalp. I could do this all day. Except I didn’t even have all evening.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he groaned, gently pushing me back into the flat. He closed the door behind us and I let the duffel drop. He kissed me again, his hot, wet tongue sliding sensuously over my jaw. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t keep you locked away while we fuck like rabbits.”
We’d been dating for eight months, after he’d come to the library to return a stack of overdue books. We’d got talking and one thing led to another. Lee was thoughtful and even-tempered, nothing like the guys I normally picked. Nothing like Lukas, I sometimes thought. Usually in the dead of night when he had to work, and I was alone and horny.
Lee was pure magic. Not the real kind – I knew all about that – but the good old-fashioned human stuff. And he had enough stamina to keep up with a berserker’s sex-drive. Work hard, play hard… something like that.
Lee was inches taller than me and built like a mountain, all muscles and crags and quite possibly a couple of billy-goats on the higher peaks. Tattoos marched up his arms and across his hairy chest, Celtic and tribal designs interspersed with some kind of weird mathematical shit he’d told he was an ‘Escher tessellation’.
And we shared a connection deeper than attraction. We each knew the other had done time. I didn’t ask him why, and he didn’t ask me. We both had plenty of scars; prison was a handy cover. We respected each other’s secrets.
That didn’t mean that I was ever going to tell him what I really was, though. What was the point? He wasn’t physically able to see my world, and I didn’t want to drive him away.
“You haven’t given me a reason yet, babe…”
Lee pulled me hard against him. His erection pressed against my belly. His hands slid into my jacket and underneath the T-shirt, palms spreading over my back. His skin was warm. Desire – hot and insistent – pooled between my legs.
“I promised Raz we’d have dinner…”
So I lied to my boyfriend. Regularly. Did that make me a bad person? I didn’t think so. By not telling him the truth I was keeping him safe, keeping him out of the world beyond the aura.
“I don’t like you seeing him,” he grumbled. One hand slid out from underneath the T-shirt. He grabbed my arse, hard and possessive.
“How many times do I have to tell you that there’s nothing going on?” I gasped. I ground against his erection – just enough to tease – and drank in his startled hiss.
There really was nothing going on. Raz was the closest thing I’d ever had to a true father. My real dad was long gone.
“Can’t you just cancel?” Lee begged, trailing kisses down my neck. “Just blow him off and stay here?”
“I’d rather blow you,” I said, sliding a hand between us. His erection strained against the fabric of his jeans.
“Dirty mind, babe.” His voice was more growl than speech.
“But you won’t hold it against me, right?” I worked at his zip.
“I’ll hold this against you.” He grabbed my hand and pushed it inside his jeans, inside his boxers. My fingers closed around his cock. His skin was hot and silky soft. I stroked him. He twitched.
“Naughty.” Definitely a growl now. The hand on my arse slid over my hip. He pulled my zip down as deftly as I’d pulled his, and seconds later his fingers slid between my legs. I was already wet for him. Those questing fingers found no resistance. I moved my legs further apart, giving him more room.
His eyes met mine and there was so much feeling in them that I couldn’t look away: - heat, passion, lust; even trust and understanding. Prison had taught us not to rely on anyone but here we were, trusting each other.
I stroked him faster. His fingers sped up. We matched each other’s pace. I couldn’t hold still and bucked against him, the nails of my free hand digging into his neck and shoulder. He was thrusting against me, desperate. His lips seized mine. His kiss was hard and dangerous, his tongue invading my mouth. I moaned, unable and unwilling to stifle the sound, until everything turned white and I came.
A second later Lee let out a harsh groan and stiffened. A hot spill over my hand signalled his own release.
“Sure you don’t want me to stay?” he panted a minute later.
I wanted him to stay the night. I wanted to see him naked on my bed, spread-eagled and waiting. But I also wanted to find the warlock who’d tried to kill me.
Self-preservation won out over sex…but it was a close-run thing.
After we cleaned up, my boyfriend promised that tomorrow he’d take me out for lunch. He dropped me off at Raz’s garage so that I didn’t have to walk through the cold and dark. Lorl had gone off again, flitting through the door ahead of us.
Lee dropped me off in the forecourt, letting the car idle while he pulled me close for a good-bye kiss.
“Promise you’ll think of me when I’m working tonight,” he whispered. “When you’re all alone in bed…”
“I will,” I said, biting his lip. That promise would be easy to keep.
I broke the kiss – with great reluctance – and got out.
After Lee drove away I made my way through the ranks of second-hand vehicles to the back of the garage. There was a smaller car park here for the staff. Raz’s was the only car left, starkly lit under bright white spotlights.
He had company.
I nudged the spring release on my duffel. I grabbed the falchion’s hilt as it popped out and dumped the bag, then raced across the tarmac toward my mentor.
Raz, a tall, lean man, was fighting off three pale figures, each taller than him. A lot taller. I upped my run to a sprint.
Raz was a blur as he moved, fighting for his life and already bloodied. We’d sparred many times before and he was an excellent swordsman. He wielded twin shamshirs – swords like scimitars but with extra curve – as if he was a dancer.
But he was losing.
Now I was closer I saw what we were up against. Eight feet tall, their bodies were a nightmarish mish-mash of bones. I spotted human bone among the mix, but beyond that I recognised nothing. The skulls were freakishly large, out of proportion with the rest of the put-together bodies, with jaws that gaped to reveal rows of needle-sharp teeth. Long arms slashed at Raz with devastating speed, elongated hands tipped with curved sickle-claws.
I’d seen prints of them in Harpy’s Bestiary. They were bone golems. But even if I’d never seen them before, I would have known what they meant: - death.
I dropped and rolled as two sets of massive claws whistled over my head.
“Go for the joints!” I yelled to Raz, surging to my feet in time to block a smack that would have sent me flying.
The creature threw it
s misshapen head back and roared, a deep, blood-curdling sound that made my pulse jump and twitch. Easy, girl, easy.
“Go teach your grandmother to suck eggs!” Raz’s voice was a hoarse pant. Sometimes I wished he didn’t have such a good grasp of English colloquialisms.
I dodged another blow and struck at the thing’s twisted, malformed wrist. My falchion sheared through gristle and connective tissue as if it were paper, and the whole hand – claws and all – thudded to the ground.
I let out a triumphant yell. I’d hack them apart bone by bone if that was what it took.
The golem roared, maimed arm waving as if it were in intolerable pain. I hoped it felt pain, because I was about to make it suffer. The world narrowed around me, just me and the beast. It was still screaming.
Then I realised it wasn’t just the golem screaming. I was, too.
Ankles, knees, hips. Wrists, elbows, shoulders, and the golden spot, the neck. I catalogued joints in a second, picking my target as the thing slashed with its good hand. I weaved to the side. A hair too slow – one massive claw caught my forearm, ripping a gash several inches long. Hot blood spurted out and splattered over me. That was my denim jacket and another T-shirt ruined. I cursed and tried to ignore the pain. Lucky it wasn’t my sword arm.
I had to take out the remaining claws. Then I could cut it off at the ankles and stop it moving around, buying the time I needed to hack off the head.
The thing slashed again. I swerved back – steady, steady – and dived, sliding between widely spread legs. I rolled onto my back as I slid, feeling the tarmac tear my blood-soaked clothes and ow ow ow the skin on my back. As I skidded out the other side I put my falchion through its wrist, trying to ignore the burning pain.
The hand hit the ground inches from my head. I scooted out of the way.
Searing agony bit deep into my side. I screamed, curling around the pain, trying to work out what the hell had just happened.
The claws, the first hand I’d cut off. It was detached from the body but it was still moving. It had inched its way toward me, waiting for the right moment to strike. Now I was bleeding like a stuck pig, more blood soaking my ruined clothes.