by Lish McBride
Douglas rolled up his sleeves carefully once his hands were free. He pulled out his old athame, the double-edged dagger he’d taken from his aunt, and tested its edges with his own thumb. There were few things he liked more in this world than that knife. Everything about it was so delightfully familiar, from a dried spot of his blood on the blade to the way the groove on the handle bit into his palm. He smiled at it, using a thumbnail to chip off the speck of blood.
Then he got his ruler and stopwatch. “Please write ‘athame’ in the far left column.” Douglas placed the ruler close to Bridin’s spine. “We will be starting with a six-inch incision, shallow.” His eyes never left his work. He sliced along the side of the ruler, making sure it went the full six inches, neither more nor less. He clicked the stopwatch and leaned back slightly. Though no doubt slowed by the aconite, Bridin’s wound still healed at a remarkable rate. Once the skin had fully repaired itself, Douglas stopped the watch. He read off the numbers to Michael, who dutifully wrote them in the journal.
“Impressive,” he whispered.
Michael grunted, not looking up from the paper.
Douglas ignored Michael’s lack of scientific interest and placed the ruler on Bridin’s back once more. “Seven inches.” He waited to hear the scratch of the pen.
Then he brought the knife down.
7
I’m Gonna Keep My Sheep Suit On
Douglas ignored the closed sign on the newly painted door of the Tongue & Buckle and knocked, knowing full well the door would open for him. He waited politely, hand clasping his wrist, as though he could stand there forever.
The door opened a sliver. “Can you not read, sir?”
If he hadn’t known to listen for the slight Irish lilt in the voice, he might not have caught it. He adjusted his cuffs and waited for Aengus to get on with it.
“Was your mother neglectful,” Aengus asked, “or just too busy with the milkman to be bothered?”
“They don’t have milkmen anymore, Aengus. Not commonly, anyway.”
A muffled curse came from behind the thick oak door before it was hastily opened. “My apologies, Douglas,” he said. “Didn’t realize it was you.” He sounded more annoyed than contrite.
Douglas nodded at him anyway and stepped into the dimly lit pub. The Tongue & Buckle looked like it had been around longer than Seattle. The tables and chairs were finely carved, without padding, and stained with age. Worn in the way only well-used and well-cared-for furniture could be. Most people thought the bar was a quality reproduction of a rustic Irish pub. He knew it was the real McCoy, though he hadn’t yet figured out how Aengus’s family had gotten it here. He also knew better than to ask. Most fey wouldn’t give you a straight answer if they could help it. Aengus wouldn’t lie—he couldn’t—but he’d do a damn fine job twisting the truth.
As soon as he was fully inside, a large, thick man leaned out of the shadows, hands ready to pat Douglas down, despite the early hour and the closed sign. Aengus shrugged at him before slipping behind the bar. From the look on the fey’s face, Douglas decided this was more of a test than any real worry that he was sneaking in weapons. He held his arms wide for the guard and indicated that he’d agree to the search. After all, he had nothing to hide, nothing this caveman would find anyway. The man hesitated and looked over at his boss. It appeared that neither of them thought Douglas would give in this easily.
“Go on, Zeke,” Aengus said. “He’s promised not to bite.” The fey filled a heavy pint glass with stout, automatically grabbing a bottle of water for Douglas.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t promise,” Zeke said.
Douglas smiled benignly at Zeke, who grunted back. Benign was the best he could manage. He’d given up trying to look innocent a long time ago. He could mimic the face, but something around his eyes gave him away, so he no longer bothered.
Zeke leveled a stern glare at Douglas, who met his gaze easily. The bodyguard grunted again. “Smile all you want, but keep your hands to yourself.”
“Why?” Douglas asked. “Afraid?” He said it mockingly, though Zeke didn’t rise to the bait. Douglas raised his estimation of the bouncer just a touch.
“Not my job to be afraid.” Zeke patted him down firmly, but in a way that told Douglas Zeke didn’t feel the need to prove himself, at least not physically. “My job is to protect this bar, that man”—he jerked his head toward Aengus—“and the guests.” Zeke’s hands sorted through Douglas’s pockets, blue eyes never breaking contact. “After that, I look after myself.” He knelt and motioned for Douglas to take off his shoes. His eyes flicked between the shoe and its owner as he examined the soles for anything dangerous. He handed them back to Douglas. “A wise man doesn’t overestimate himself.” He stood and stretched to his full height. “But he doesn’t underestimate the little guy either.”
“Are you a wise man?”
“Wise enough to not let you touch me.” He stepped away from Douglas.
“Then you’re on your way,” Douglas said softly.
Zeke nodded and knuckle-tapped the sign posted behind him, which read no fighting, NO STEALING, NO DEALING, AND WE HAVE THE RIGHT TO THROW YOU OUT ASS FIRST AT ANY TIME—MANAGEMENT. “Hope you enjoy the Tongue & Buckle, sir,” Zeke said before he folded back into the shadows by the door.
Douglas followed Aengus into the back room. He couldn’t help but notice that, much like his bodyguard, Aengus kept a healthy gap between them.
Some people found Council meetings to be tedious. Douglas never had, but of course he held the gavel, metaphorically speaking. He did not, however, sit at the center of the crescent. He preferred to sit at the end of the table, where he could keep an eye on everyone present. Naturally, Brannoc sat at the other end, presumably to keep an eye on Douglas.
Douglas wondered who Bridin took after, her fey hound father or her were mother. Douglas couldn’t see much resemblance between Brannoc and the girl back home in the cage. Not physically. They both held themselves the same way, like they expected everyone to sit up and listen when they talked. Douglas wasn’t sure whether that expectation annoyed him or not. Part of him respected it. Still, he wished he knew more about the man. Brannoc wasn’t keen on answering any of his questions, and for obvious reasons Douglas was hesitant about throwing him in a cage.
He stared back at Brannoc, ignoring the random chatter of the others as they waited for Pello, who was late. Again. He was all for starting without him—Pello was next to useless—but the others might snatch at any excuse to call foul. Ariana especially seemed to be watching Douglas for false moves. The fury was a new member and didn’t seem to trust him. But unless she found something beyond rumor that proved Douglas had done wrong, she was powerless. Until then she would just keep watching him. She was doing it now, one hand pulling on the tip of the braid at the small of her back as she talked to Kell. Douglas bet she had a weapon in there somewhere, patted down or not. Not that a fury needed one, but she probably carried one out of principle.
Ione, on the other hand, talked to no one, though she did peek out from behind her thick black hair to smile a little at something Aengus had said to her. Douglas looked away. Ione didn’t strike him as being powerful enough to be on the Council. He suspected that the only reason she had a chair was that no one wanted to take her spot. That suited him just fine. Given the choices, he’d take a meek witch any day.
Kell was the one other member who consciously chose his seat, though he made the decision seem arbitrary. Douglas noticed that he always picked a chair far from him. Most of them kept their distance, but Kell more so than the rest. It was only natural. If Douglas pushed his will on Kell, it would impact him heavily, strong willed or not. Vampires were more Douglas’s domain than humans were, since they too were connected to death and, despite popular mythology, had souls. The idea that they didn’t was ridiculous. Vampires were a lot of things, but truly dead wasn’t one of them. They also weren’t truly human, either. The idea intrigued him, but he’d yet to find a vampire w
illing to let him experiment. Perhaps after he was finished with Bridin, Douglas would alter his cage design for new quarry.
Pello finally showed up with a jolly wave and an apologetic glance at Douglas. He shook his glamour off as soon as he passed through the doorway. The glamour was either a gift or purchased from someone, as Pello didn’t really have one of his own but needed it to get to the meeting from wherever he was nesting these days. With it, Pello looked like just another dirty hippie. His hair hung in long dreads and his stained Hawaiian shirt was unbuttoned, framing his slight paunch for everyone who did, or did not, want to see it. Without the glamour, Pello looked the same, but instead of the illusion of jean shorts and flip-flops, Douglas could now see Pello’s goat legs and hips jutting out under his shirt.
“Ugh,” Ariana said, looking away and blocking the sight of Pello with an outstretched hand. “Filthy satyrs. Can’t you wear pants?”
Pello winked at her. “I am as nature made me.” He held his arms out. “Why, baby, you like what you see?”
“No,” Ariana and several others said. “And I don’t like what I smell, either,” she added. “What will it take to get you covered and clean before a meeting?”
“You’re too removed from your heritage if nudity bothers you, sister,” Pello said, taking the empty seat at the table.
“It’s not nudity in general that bothers me, but yours specifically.” She grimaced. “I don’t want to sit where your dirty ass has been.”
“Pants are too constrictive,” Pello mumbled.
Ariana’s grimace softened to a look of impatience. “What if I get you a kilt or something? You’d only have to wear it to meetings.”
“Deal,” Pello said. He sneaked a look at her. “Can I model it for you?”
Ariana sighed and tugged on her braid. “Satyrs.”
Aengus and Kell laughed, and Ione gave another rare smile.
“Enough time wasted,” Douglas said, and the laughter died, everyone in the room going still.
Except Brannoc, who took a single long sip of his beer. He set the pint glass down gently onto a coaster. “Let’s get the meeting going, shall we?”
Douglas stared lazily at the petitioning were. The girl was thin, willowy, and didn’t have an ounce of Alpha in her. She stood before the Council practically shaking.
“So,” Douglas said, “you want us to approve your brother’s transfer in from New Jersey?”
The girl nodded. “He”—she had to stop and start again, her eyes never leaving Douglas as she stuttered—“he wants to help me with the rent. I’m—I’m trying to go back to school.” Douglas stared back at her, keeping their eyes locked, watching her sweat. He grinned. That made the trembling much worse.
“What are you going to school for?” Brannoc asked. The girl turned to him, visibly relieved. Her shaking slowed a little.
“I want to be an art teacher.”
“What age range?” Brannoc gave her a reassuring smile and rested his chin in his hand. He glanced at Douglas and his smile grew slightly larger.
The girl eased some more, obviously more comfortable with this subject.
“Young,” she said. “Pre-K to second or third grade if I can.”
“That’s a good age,” Brannoc said.
Douglas cleared his throat, attempting to bring the attention back to himself. He wasn’t going to let Brannoc take over the meeting. Yes, Brannoc would have to deal with her more than Douglas would. Yes, she was weak and so Douglas had no real worry about whether or not her family moved into the city. But he refused to give Brannoc any opening. He did a quick scan around the room. He could tell by their faces how they all were going to vote, and could see no gain in exercising his dominance in this particular case. But if he made it seem like accepting the girl’s petition was his idea, well, that he might be able to use. Especially since another weak wolf in the area would stretch Brannoc’s resources even more. And Douglas wanted Brannoc to be spread as thin as possible, spending most of his time rebuilding the pack. What did he care if some were from Jersey moved into a loft in Belltown?
Douglas pursed his lips and pretended to be thinking about it. “Well,” he said slowly, “I don’t know how the rest of the Council feels, but I see no reason why we wouldn’t approve your petition.”
The girl blinked at him with surprise. She turned toward the rest of the Council, who nodded at her. Brannoc stood up and grinned, extending his hand. The girl let out a short sob before falling to her knees in front of Brannoc and grabbing his fist in both of her hands. She bowed and placed her forehead against his knuckles. He pulled her up and whispered something to her. Then he handed her off to Aengus, who escorted her to the door.
“Have Zeke get you something from behind the bar, miss,” Aengus said as he slipped an arm around the girl. “You must be wanting to celebrate. And to calm your nerves, of course.” He turned the grateful-looking girl over to the bodyguard.
The meeting went normally after that. A few skirmishes to settle, and a petition or two to move into the territory that Douglas vetoed unless the applicant was weak. He couldn’t do much about the few strong ones who were here already, but he could keep any more from coming. No one argued against him much, beyond Brannoc. That was normal as well. As it was, today Douglas only half argued, concerned more about watching Brannoc for effects of Bridin’s disappearance than anything else.
He couldn’t find any clue that told him something was wrong. Brannoc must know by now. At the break—Pello had to “drain the lizard”—Douglas couldn’t help approaching Brannoc. He needed to know how much the pack suspected. Were they missing her yet? “When are you going to bring in that successor of yours?” Douglas asked, sidling up to Brannoc at the bar.
Brannoc accepted a beer from Aengus and took a drink before he answered. “I can’t see how that’s any of your business, Douglas.”
“I assume she will take your place on the Council someday. Isn’t it natural for me to be curious?”
“Nothing about you is natural.” The man returned to his beer, the conversation clearly over in his opinion.
He couldn’t help himself. “Surely you won’t keep that lovely girl secreted away forever?” Brannoc stared at him, his fingers tapping slowly on the pint glass, but Douglas pretended not to notice as he paid Aengus for a bottle of water.
“I didn’t realize you were so interested in my daughter,” Brannoc said slowly.
“Like I said, the path of the Council and this territory concerns me deeply.”
“I see. Well, then, you should know that my Council seat will be in very capable hands, because my daughter is a lot like me.” Brannoc’s eyes followed a drop of condensation as it slid down the glass. “Except less warm and fuzzy.”
Aengus laughed at that.
“Takes after her mother, too,” Brannoc said, finally glancing at Douglas. He slapped a few bucks on the bar. “Her ma would tear out your jugular as soon as look at you.” He seemed wistful for a moment. “Unless you were on her good side, of course. Then no worries.” He smiled before heading for the back. “But, then, there weren’t a lot of people on her good side. And there aren’t a lot on my daughter’s, either.”
Even to Douglas, the pride in Brannoc’s voice was unmistakable.
8
Hold Me Closer, Necromancer
I parked my car near the west entrance of Woodland Park Zoo thirty minutes before I had to be there. The promising weather from this morning had made a bipolar shift to gray and cloudy on my drive, so I dug around the back seat for my blue zip-up hooded sweatshirt. If you’ve lived in Seattle for any length of time, you carry a jacket with you anywhere, especially in spring. You get used to the moody weather and give up on umbrellas. Umbrellas are for tourists. Natives know that the rain doesn’t come straight down here like other places. Seattle’s rain slips in, tricky, like a ninja, and attacks from all sides. I pulled on my sweatshirt and dug out my wallet so I could pay for a day pass.
I loved the zoo. I hat
ed seeing animals in cages, but I still loved to walk around listening to the grunts of sea lions and the bloodcurdling shrieks of peacocks, getting closer to a polar bear than I ever would on the outside. My mother used to take me and Haley all the time. The way the zoo used to be, before massive remodeling, many of the animals were in cramped cages smaller than my bedroom.
When I was a little kid, I asked my mom if the zookeeper ever let any of the animals out to run. My mom, tired from walking and carrying her pregnant stomach around, leaned into the railing in front of the tiger cage for support. She looked at my dad instead of answering me, a pleading expression on her face. Haden had only been my dad for a few years, but he was the only real dad I’d known. Before he married my mom, he told me I could call him Haden if that made me more comfortable. Adults don’t usually make those kinds of offers to kids. When they’d married, I’d asked if I could have his last name too. I didn’t want to be the only Hatfield in the house, a hazy connection to the past. LaCroix was my solid present. I had wanted to be a LaCroix so badly I would have asked Santa for it at Christmas.
My dad handed her a soda and fielded my question, giving her a much-needed breather.
“No, Sam,” he said, “they don’t let any of the animals out. Why, you afraid the tiger’s going to get out and eat you?”
“No, it’s just…” I dug around for words. “The tiger is so big, and the cage is so small. Doesn’t he get bored?”
My dad eased his giant frame down to my level so I didn’t have to crick my neck up at him. I loved it when he did that. It made me feel special.
He looked at the tiger pacing around and then back at me. The truth never seemed to be what I wanted when my parents had to think before answering me. It meant they were trying to figure out a nice way to explain something terrible.