My Immortal Assassin

by Carolyn Jewel

  A great many humans had been here, as was usually the case when a human death was involved: police, emergency medical personnel, detectives, the personnel required to remove the physical traces of death. Dozens of signals were present to examine for signs of magic and to exclude from further consideration if there were none or if the magic was from a human who didn’t know he or she wasn’t completely normal.

  Eventually, he filtered out the extraneous lives and touches and was left with a base set from the day that interested him. Gray, her sister Emily, and three vanilla humans. One of the dead humans he believed was Val Antoniu. The other was the woman he believed Christophe had transformed to look like Gray. Last was the woman whose body had taken the place of Emily Spencer’s. All Christophe would have needed was some hair and a drop or two of blood. And, of course, an alternate body.

  In his state of heightened senses he could smell the blood. The deaths, unnatural as they were, formed an unsettling void in the normal psychic detritus of any space where humans, the kin, or magekind had been. Here, in the living room, quite near the door, was where Tigran had killed the human male. Val Antoniu. Emily had been the next to fall. Then Gray herself, with all the nerve-slivering horror of Tigran’s binding of her. Christophe had known exactly what he wanted to achieve here.

  Tigran, as a mageheld kin, was a complete nullity to him. That void could be a trail to follow, but one had to take care that an absence of resonance wasn’t mistaken for evidence of a mageheld. On occasion, though, Tigran’s presence could be extrapolated where the nullity of his magic intersected with the other traces in the room. And, naturally, the effect of Tigran’s magic on Gray had left behind its own terrible pattern.

  He pushed himself off the floor where he’d been seated and worked his way through the rest of the house. He could extrapolate now. Antoniu dead first. Emily incapacitated. Gray taken down and bound over to Tigran. Then Christophe with, no doubt, the assistance of his magehelds, killed the two women whose bodies he required.

  He thought it likely Christophe had begun his magicking of Emily’s memories long before the mage met Gray. He wondered now if it would ever be possible to return Emily Spencer’s memories. There was no telling how badly she might be damaged from what Christophe had done to her.

  Durian ended up by the wall of pictures—an accident that he should stop here? He studied the Dance Magazine. Her hair was black as ink, her smile brilliant and joyful. Durian wanted to kill Christophe for robbing the world of her talent. Almost more than he hated the mage for destroying her life. In the picture of her and Val Antoniu, they were both smiling. A happy couple. Would she have married Antoniu? He couldn’t imagine any man not wanting to.

  There was another, smaller snapshot of Gray in a studio. She wore tights and a sloppy, short-waisted gray sweater over her leotard. She was en pointe in a breathtaking attitude, making a funny face for the camera. The flash had gone off and the glare in the mirror behind her had obliterated the reflection of whoever took the picture.

  If not for Tigran, she would be dancing still. Perhaps coming to the end of her career, but married to Antoniu. He might even have gone to see her perform, never knowing more about her but her talent and the beauty of her dance. Chances were he would have sat in his orchestra section seats at the War Memorial Opera House and known only that this dancer was human. Nothing more. He would never have known the breathtaking sensation of sliding inside her body or heard the sound she made when he kissed her breasts or when she came or when her mouth was on him and he was thinking of things better not explored. He would never even have spoken to her.

  The door to the granny unit opened.

  Whoever came in meant to be stealthy. If Durian hadn’t come out of his trance-like state, it was doubtful he would have heard. He stilled himself and his magic. And waited.

  “I don’t mean harm.” That was not a young man’s voice wavering in the silent air around Durian. Outside cars passed by on the street. “Please. Show yourself.”

  The interloper turned on the light. Magekind, with that odd reverberation of aborted power that came when a mage had burned himself out. But this wasn’t Rasmus Kessler. This man who came in had never been anywhere near Kessler’s level of magic.

  Durian watched him walk in, from all appearances an older human man with a full head of salt and pepper hair. He wore steel-rimmed glasses, but behind the lenses his eyes were the same pale blue as Gray’s.

  The mage walked to a sidetable and switched on the lamp. “Forgive me. My vision isn’t what it once was.” He returned to the center of the room where he stayed, looking around him. He slid his hands from the pockets of his cardigan sweater. A wedding ring glinted on his finger. He looked harmless. A human man nearing the last years of his life, yet Durian knew he was looking at a trained mage. “I know you are here,” he said softly. “Fiend.”

  Durian didn’t move.

  Gray’s father held out his hands, palms up. They trembled in the air. “I burned out my magic,” he said. “Years before Anna was born. I will not attack you. There’s almost nothing left of what I used to be. As I am sure you have ascertained by now.” The tremor of his hands increased. He laughed. “At this point, I doubt I could do you harm even if I wanted to.”

  Durian kept a firm hold on his magic, but he let himself be seen; in his non-human form lest there be any mistake about what the mage faced if he were lying. “Tonight,” he said, “is a good night to kill a mage.”

  “No doubt you are correct.” He cocked his head and the light flickered off his glasses so that Durian could no longer see his eyes. “These days, I’m known as Richard Spencer.” Slowly, he lowered his hands. The tremor didn’t stop. “I’m Anna’s father, in case there is any question.”

  “I know who you are.”

  Spencer frowned. “That was you here before, I presume. My wife said she felt our daughter.”

  Durian didn’t reply.

  “Curious,” Spencer said. He tipped his head to one side. “Unless I am mistaken, you are not mageheld. Am I wrong about that?”

  “No.”

  “Who are you?”

  He reacted to the man’s magic, trivial though it was now, and he had to be cautious lest the thrill of that magic seduce him into a mistake. Durian gave him not a name, but the title that would mean the most to a mage. “I am Nikodemus’s assassin.”

  Oh, yes, Richard Spencer knew that name, though he tried to hide his reaction.

  “Nikodemus?” He smoothed the sides of his sweater. His hair was a bit wild. He must have gotten out of bed and come here without doing anything but throwing on a change of clothes. “Did he send you to kill me? After all this time?”

  “No.”

  “If he has, it’s too late.” He seemed old and frail. Experience and the natural process of aging unslowed by ritual murder had etched deep lines in his face. “Is Anna alive?”

  Durian bared his teeth. Like hell was he going to tell a mage anything about Gray.

  “She’s my daughter.” The mage took a step toward Durian. “Is she with you? Is she all right?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Losing the girls almost killed my wife. The violence of it. What those animals did to them—It’s beyond comprehension even for me. And my wife? She’s human, you see. No magic in her. She doesn’t know what I am.” He checked himself. “What I used to be. Nor did Anna. Emily knew, of course. She had to be told once she came into her power. Things would have been easier if they’d both been talented.” He slid two fingers under his glasses and pressed them against his eyes for a while. “I teach Medieval History. A bit eccentric. Absorbed in my studies. Publish or perish. Nothing more. In declining health now.” He lifted a trembling hand into the air. “My physician suspects Parkinsons’ but as I’m sure you’ve guessed it’s the copa that’s done this to me.”

  “Yes.”

  “I was once a young and foolish mage.” He pushed his glasses higher up on the bridge of his nose. “Well. No more.
” He gave a dry, mirthless laugh. “Anna had no magic, but then she was always crazy about dancing. It’s all she ever wanted. Emily was different. I thought she had escaped notice. I trained her myself, as far as I could. I didn’t want—well. I’m sure you can imagine. Though she would have done quite well, I think. I thought that would keep us all safe. Whoever did this—” He swept a trembling hand around the room. “Whoever it was used magehelds, so please. I know it was not you.” He took another step closer to Durian. He squeezed the bottom of his sweater. “Please. Tell me. Is she well? Safe?”

  “You are aware Emily is alive?”

  Spencer paled. “I know Christophe dit Menart has her.”

  Durian regarded the man. He was working a minor spell to make himself seem less threatening.

  “If I contact her he’ll kill them. Emily and my wife. He told me that quite specifically.” The man rubbed his face with a hand, briefly dislodging his glasses. “I was the one who found the bodies.” He expression hardened. “The place stank of magic. When I confronted Christophe, that’s when he threatened me. My wife and Emily. He made it quite clear he had the power to carry out his threats. To whom could I turn for help in such a case? The police?” He drew a slow breath. “All this time, I’ve assumed Christophe had no interest in Anna. That she was dead.”

  “Gray is alive,” he said at last. “Anna.”

  The old man bowed his head. “Thank God.” When he lifted his head, tears glistened in his eyes. “Where is she now? Is she all right? Can I see her? Will you take me to her?”

  “It would not be safe. Not for either of you.” He stretched out his fingers, making no effort to hide the talons.

  Spencer took off his glasses to wipe at his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater. “How is it that you, a free fiend, are here? In this house? How do you know anything at all about my daughters?”

  “That is a long story, mage.”

  “Has Emily bound you somehow?” His lips moved in a silent series of words, but the result was a trivial spurt of magic. “Have you been compelled to come here?” Whatever magic Spencer had been trying to work ended with—nothing.

  “No.” Durian didn’t bother moving. “Tell me about your daughters.”

  “And in return, you’ll tell me what?”

  Durian wondered how old Spencer was if he knew the traditional way of dealing with the free kin. Always an exchange. Tit for tat. “In return,” Durian said, “I will tell you what I can about the daughter you thought was dead.”

  “I warned Emily against Christophe. She was quite strong in her magic but so young. Compared to Christophe, she was almost completely untrained. I didn’t care for dit Menart showing up, I’ll tell you that.”

  “But not Anna.”

  Spencer ran his fingers through his hair. “What possible interest could a mage have in her? Naturally, I assumed he was here sniffing around Emily. I was right, too. All that beauty, and the magic. Of course Christophe wanted her.”

  “Did you ask anyone for help? Another mage?”

  “You’ve no idea how difficult it is for someone like me to gain access to the practicing magekind. The kind who would have had the power to help.” He gripped the bottom of his sweater and pulled. “They don’t care to be reminded of what might happen to them. We magekind do not help our rivals or those less fortunate.”

  “My heart bleeds,” Durian said.

  He focused on Durian, and he bared his teeth. “I’ve told you all I’m going to. Tell me about Anna.” His voice softened. “Please.”

  Durian laughed and the sound made Spencer take a step back. “Your daughter, mage, belongs to me.”

  CHAPTER 27

  10:20 P.M. Cow Hollow, San Francisco

  Iskander was downstairs in the Vallejo Street home he hardly ever stayed at because he still had trouble being alone. But he was making headway with his issues. In the last few weeks he’d found himself coming here more often and staying longer than he used to. He even had furniture and a few other things he liked. Some Japanese woodblock prints on the walls, a stylized carving of a giraffe in one corner. A Wii.

  His bare feet were up on the coffee table and he was drinking root beer and watching an episode of some vampire show on his plasma TV, looking forward to someone getting bitten when his doorbell rang.

  Scared the hell out of him because he didn’t get many visitors. He knew it wasn’t any of the kin because he didn’t feel anyone, and he would have if it was one of the kin out there. A mageheld, he figured, wouldn’t bother knocking. Magehelds would already be in the house trying to kill him. The only person who ever knocked on his door without trying to sell him candy bars or magazines was his tenant. One hundred percent human vanilla. She was a recluse, too. Had to like that in a tenant.

  Still, who else would be ringing his doorbell? Must be her. He got a kick out of vampires on television and didn’t want to be interrupted now that he was all set to watch. But he had these pesky legal responsibilities toward his tenant. He paused the show and got up, though not without pulling enough magic to kill a dozen attackers if he had to. There might be times when his mind didn’t deal well with the loss of Fen, his blood twin, but he wasn’t stupid.

  He was finally learning to cope with not having access to his twin. The connection between blood twins was complete. They shared their magic, their thoughts and their emotions. For years he hadn’t needed anyone but Fen. Her betrayal of him had nearly destroyed him.

  He opened the door to the cool night. Most of the time he spent alone here, the city felt like it was wearing him away. But not tonight. Tonight he was liking the traffic sound and glare of the street lamps. He even liked that he was sane enough to help his tenant out of whatever housing-related jam she was in.

  He looked down. “You’re not her.” Which was one of the stupidest things to come out of his mouth in some time. The thoughts in his head started whirling around like there was a tornado in there.

  He had a few favorite fantasies about why Maddy Winters would bother to find out where he lived and then show up on his doorstep looking good enough to eat. Unfortunately, he was enough in command of himself that he recognized the stupidity of thinking she’d come here for that.

  “Oh.” Maddy closed her eyes. Her lashes weren’t long but they were thick and inky black. When she opened them a second later, she said, “I’m sorry. You’re expecting someone. A date. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

  She could have called instead of just dropping by. Interesting that she hadn’t. “I thought you were the woman who rents the unit above my garage. Her garbage disposal is always breaking down. Or some damn thing anyway. Why the hell are you masking, Maddy? You thought I wouldn’t answer if I knew it was you?”

  She blinked at him. “You have a tenant?”

  Iskander leaned against the doorway. He took his time looking at her. She was wearing jeans that flared toward the tips of her high-heeled, pointy-toed shoes. Her button-down shirt fit close and had just enough buttons undone that he got a little distracted thinking about her cleavage.

  “Yeah, I have a tenant. Helps me pass.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Who the hell thinks their landlord isn’t human?”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Maddy smiled, and his heart did a little flutter. She kind of took his breath away when she smiled. Brunettes weren’t his thing, but hell, she was gorgeous no matter what color her hair was. She also never gave him the time of day, so he tried to get his mind out of the gutter. Not hard enough, though. “You’d be surprised.” She kept smiling. “Is anyone else here?”

  “No.” He stared at her for a while until she rolled her eyes and pushed him out of her way. Since he turned to watch her, he got a great view of her ass when she walked inside. She was too short for him. Too small. Nothing like the kind of woman he went for but, damn. He knew what she looked like in a bikini. She was smoking hot.

  He followed her inside and almost didn’t remember to close his own front door. He sure as hell didn�
��t forget to reset his proofing, though, and she waited while he did. When he was done, he felt her magic, and that got him worked up. He was used to being around the magekind now, and he’d gotten good at controlling that particular instinct.

  She dropped her purse by the door and faced him, that smile on her mouth again. He wasn’t used to her smiling at him quite that way. Right. When someone you knew came to your house, you were supposed to ask them in and give them food and beverages. Before he could offer, she said, “I’m not sure it was Christophe dit Menart who sent those magehelds after us.”

  “No?”

  “I’m not the first witch to be attacked, either. In the last two days, three other mages, lesser ones, are dead. Here and in the East Bay. I don’t think it was Rasmus Kessler, either.” She adjusted her purse on her shoulder. “Does Nikodemus know some mage or witch is trying to remove the competition? Because I can see him getting blamed for this. Not keeping the magekind safe.”

  “That’s outside his territory. Come on in.” As he led the way to his living room, he said, “Why come here? You could have talked to Nikodemus yourself.”

  “I suppose.” She looked away. “But I’d rather not.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’d rather talk to you.” She hesitated and Iskander wasn’t sure why, exactly. “You can tell Nikodemus what he needs to know.”

  “You don’t like him, do you?”

  She lifted her eyes to his. “I think he’s unpredictable.” She sat on his couch and slipped off her pumps. She was barefoot. She had tiny feet and high arches. Her toenails were a glittery pink. He tried to think what he had in the house to offer her. There hadn’t been much to eat when he got here, and he hadn’t felt like shopping. The cheese doodles were gone. “You want some toast?”

  “Toast?”

  He shrugged. “I have bread in the fridge. And root beer. Want some?”