Silver Bound (Sammy Davis Book 1)

by Holly Rutan

  After having a snack at the local Wendy's—three cheeseburgers for me, while Moira watched me eat with a rueful half smile and waved away my offers to share—we headed over to Valerio Street.

  A particularly strong and stable magical current welled upward from under the earth in Valerio Street and flowed for a few blocks before dipping down under the earth's surface, below reach. Wherever a current could be found, mages would follow. Starting some time in the 70s, a permanent encampment had formed, crowding the sidewalks with multicolored tents and even blocking off the street at points.

  Residents, tired of the constant disruption, eventually moved out. The city government also grew weary of losing good officers and tax revenue to wild magic and misadventure, and put up concrete blockades around all sides of the area. Then they washed their hands of the place. If someone wanted in to Valerio Street, she had to go in on foot.

  Mixed in with the unstable mages were druggies and gang members, prostitutes and the homeless. Valerio Street was not safe during daylight and deadly at night. Only a fool went in unarmed. Local law enforcement wouldn't touch the place, so it was left to the DMA. We didn't bother trying to control the encampment, letting the local powers sort out their own difficulties. Every now and then, we needed access to pull out a particularly dangerous criminal, so we tried not to piss anyone off. Sometimes we even succeeded.

  I called Downtown and got clearance through Madeline to pull off my bracelet. I left it tucked in the saddlebags of Moira's bike. The vehicle was so heavily warded that anyone ambitious enough to try to steal it would probably lose the use of his hands. It also required a thumbprint to start the ignition. The bike was as safe as we were..

  The residents of Valerio Street stayed mostly on their side of the barrier, and we stayed mostly on ours. The Department of Magical Affairs had learned a few lessons over the years on how to approach mage encampments. It wasn't much different than approaching a rival pack. I had to move carefully and look as tough as I could, so I had to hurt as few people as possible.

  We parked the bike in the parking lot of a forlorn-looking Rite Aid, and I shifted into battle form. The half-and-half werewolf shape was enough to intimidate all but the boldest of gang members, but my partner added a few extra touches. She ran some gel through my fur to spike it around the neck in a style favored by some of the rougher packs, then jabbed a copper earring through one of my ears. The final touch was a line of metallic paint on my fangs to make them gleam. My uniform altered to accommodate the shape-shift, one of the little fringe benefits of being a mage, even a weak one. Binding equipment was expensive and energy intensive; the Department would provide only the bare necessity to its were agents. I could sing the song on my own. It took a lot of time and prep work, but I would never burst out of my uniform and end up naked after an emergency.

  I swaggered to the knee-high concrete barrier and hopped over it, Moira trailing behind. I could feel eyes watching us from cover. Within moments, a tattooed thug with black ear plugs and an ugly smirk strode up to us, his gun tucked into the front of his pants. He wasn't anyone we knew, and his colors were fresh and clean. Antonio must have been doing some recruiting.

  Most weres aren't able to speak in battle form. Our mouths are shaped all wrong, and the tongue gets in the way, so we use American Sign Language instead. Training in the language was mandatory for agents, and a fair chunk of the general populace had chosen to educate themselves as well, enriching the lives of weres and the deaf alike. Not everyone bothered, though.

  That's a good way to shoot off your own balls, I signed.

  Moira snickered. The thug must not have understood sign language, but my intent was obvious. He narrowed his eyes.

  "Hey, black-coats, you don't belong 'round here. Your pretty little badges don't mean nothing, you hear? Clear out."

  I signed some more, then snapped my teeth together in a suggestive fashion.

  "Loba says someone shipped blood through her territory, and it stopped here. She's come to kill the buyer. She'll kill you if you're stupid enough to interfere." Moira sounded bored as she translated.

  "Blood? We ain't got no blood buyers here. We ain't stupid." The boy's voice was cool.

  I signed a reply, baring my painted fangs for emphasis.

  "You aren't watching your borders close enough. We picked a runner up maybe two hours ago. Miguel Gomez. Short little dude, shaved head. V in a circle on the back of his neck. Quick on his feet, not quite quick enough."

  "Never heard of him." His response came lightning fast.

  I reached over and plucked his gun out of his waistband before he could react. With a jerk of my hands, I snapped it in pieces. A ripple of pain spread between my shoulder blades and disappeared when I damaged some muscles performing that show of strength.

  "Oh, right. Miguel. Come to think of it, I haven't seen him in a couple days," the boy said, quickly changing his tune. I could still smell metal on him, maybe a knife. He wasn't moronic enough to threaten a were with a steel knife, though, I gave him that much.

  "Why don't we have a chat with your boss?" Moira suggested. I nodded and crossed my arms.

  "Lemme call him, okay?" The kid whipped out a battered old cellphone, dialed, and spoke to someone in rapid-fire Spanish. I could catch about one word in five, enough to know he was playing us straight. He went back and forth in conversation for a few moments and then put his phone away.

  "He says, come to him. Blue building on the right, two blocks up," the boy reported.

  I nodded. We'd been there many times before.

  Moira and I were sent in with no escort. Presumably, if we were not worthy to speak to the gang's boss, someone would take us down before we made it that far. We brushed past the border guard without a second glance, strolling down the trash-strewn pathway to the Street proper as though we owned it.

  Valerio Street was quite a sight. The old, cracked pavement had not been repaired in many years. Trash and dry leaves blew in little eddies and collected in piles next to decrepit buildings. Tents had been erected with no plan or reasoning that I could follow, and residents scurried back and forth, doing business.

  It was more crowded than I expected, and the current was heavier than usual. The last time we'd had to come on business, there had been a few loitering groups of street toughs and a scattering of dead-eyed mages living in patched tents, selling knickknacks and charms that might turn the buyer into a ferret or perform as advertised. Buying from a current-drunk mage was always a gamble. The whole place reeked of despair and decay.

  Today the Street was bumping. Brightly colored tents had replaced or overcome the older dwellings, and animated mages hawked their wares to a crowd of humans. What appeared to be a man carved from black glass stood in solitary glory on a street corner, displaying his sculptures on a tattered blanket. The sunlight made rainbows shimmer under his flawless obsidian skin. I slowed to watch him, curious. Elementals were usually private beings, easily the farthest withdrawn from their once-human roots. Seeing one in public and out of his element was rare.

  Encountering any snap aside from a were or a mage was unusual. The ones that could not hide their nature kept to themselves, wary of human prejudice. The most dangerous beats for DMA agents were the ones that were adjacent to national parks. I’d heard that the three teams assigned to the Angeles Forest area were contending with a cannibal mountain troll. I silently wished the weretiger over there luck; when they found the monster, she’d have to be the one to take him down.

  Someone was playing pipes, the melody a glorious counterpoint to the wild music of uncontrolled magic roaring in my skull. The current was close here, and stronger than it should be. My fur shivered and bristled. I caught my breath in little pants.

  Moira put a steadying hand on my elbow, and I shook my head, my fur falling back flat. Hopefully, this wouldn't take too long; the atmosphere was crushing. A half block to go—I could see a blue house through the trees. Almost there. I breathed air that tasted as thick
as syrup and fat with magic. We turned down the driveway, strutted past a group of teenage boys wearing Valerio colors, and stopped at the front porch.

  The door swung open. A little old woman, wrinkled and bent with age, beckoned us inside. Moira thanked her, and I nodded to her, eyes cast down. Grandmother Maria Escobar was reputed to be strange, steeped in the current of Valerio and powerful in ways that I did not understand.

  The front door opened straight into the living room. A TV on a stand in the corner blared sports news to an audience of yet more teens in gang colors sitting on a mishmash assortment of couches. We wove around them and into the kitchen. Antonio was sitting at the kitchen table, cleaning a gun.

  Antonio was of medium build, with short black hair untouched by white. His tanned, leathery face had seen many hours in the sun. No stranger to hard work, Antonio's fingers were calloused and stained with oil. I had heard he enjoyed working on old cars, restoring them to pristine condition before auctioning them off. He had a reputation for being dangerous but fair, something that I could confirm from our previous encounters.

  He looked up at us, giving us both a quick once-over with hard brown eyes. "Hey, DMA chicas, what are you doing on my turf?"

  Someone's having blood shipped into your territory, Alpha Antonio. We caught a runner earlier today on his way in. I signed with quick gestures of my hands. Antonio knew sign and valued a quick and straightforward response.

  "What are you doing in battle? Looking for a fight?"

  I grinned, showing my gleaming teeth. Of course not, do I look like an idiot? The Department's been stingy with my runs lately, and I've been getting itchy. I am just enjoying my freedom while I have the chance.

  "I can respect that. All right. Blood coming in, you say. What proof do you have?" Antonio asked.

  Think we'd come into your territory uninvited unless we had a good reason? A kid by the name of Miguel Gomez was carrying. He had it in his shirt and your mark on the back of his neck. When we dropped him off at the station, he was singing like a bird, I signed.

  Antonio frowned. "You think I'm dealing in blood?" He started sliding the various pieces of his gun back together without looking.

  You are neither crazy nor stupid. Blood's too dangerous to import. I think you have a user in your territory, someone with enough pull to turn some of your boys. We're hoping you agree blood's bad business and will let us find the fool and take him out before he blows something up. I looked him in the eyes and slid my gaze away deferentially, showing respect but not submission.

  Moira's phone rang, a sudden, high-pitched trill. I snarled in surprise. Antonio and I both stopped our conversation and looked at her. She picked up the phone and listened for a moment, mouthing "HQ" to us, and I nodded. The gang leader waved at her to continue, listening in. His black eyes gave no clue about his thoughts.

  "Madeline, this is a really bad time. What? No, we're down in Valerio, why?" A pause. "How soon? Now? Shit. Madeline, we're in the middle of negotiations down here." Another pause. "No, someone else can't do it... How many missing? Oh God."

  I looked at Antonio. Somehow I think we're going to have to cut our ritual posturing short. Listen. We intercepted a lot of blood. I exaggerated the gestures for emphasis. Four vials worth, about this big. Maybe six ounces each?

  Antonio swore softly. "Shit, that much?"

  I nodded. Beside me, Moira continued talking with Madeline. She made "hurry up" motions at me.

  Yes, that much. You've probably got a wild mage hiding out in your territory. That's bad for you and bad for us. He'll start cannibalizing his own kind before long. Less taxes for you, and you know how we hate it when they get crazy. Remember last time?

  By the tightness of Antonio's lips, he did.

  "Loba, I will let you do me a favor and remove him. Only a fool wants a wild mage on his property, and no one has yet claimed me to be a fool," Antonio said curtly. "It looks like you two have to leave. Pick someone to take your place and send him in tomorrow morning at six."

  I nodded, and he waved his hand in dismissal.

  We departed with hasty, cut-off handshakes. I followed Moira, who was practically running. That was dangerous in this neighborhood, but no one bothered us. Antonio would be death on anyone who made trouble for us without his say-so. Even with his blessing, I could feel still feel the gaze of many residents, seen and unseen, burning holes in our backs as we hustled our way down the decrepit street and back over the concrete barrier to our own territory.

  Back at the bike, I shifted to human, snagged my bracelet from the saddle bag, and climbed aboard. "What's so important we had to cut that short?" I asked as I shoved on my helmet.

  "The area around Santa Cruz has been experiencing torrential rains for two weeks straight. About an hour ago, there was big-ass earthquake and the whole side of a mountain gave way. Half a suburb has been buried. Early estimates have more than a thousand people missing, and everyone with search and rescue training is being called in." She started up the bike.

  "Holy hell."

  "Yeah, that."

  We spent the ride back to the Van Nuys station in grim silence.

  The two of us asked for, and got, a tough pair by the names of Georgia and Tamara to take over our case, and fed them as much information as we could by phone while assembling our gear. They would be there for the meeting in Valerio the next morning, and I was determined to leave them as prepared as possible. No one wanted to drop the ball on this one; a big-ticket blood buyer was too dangerous to leave hanging around, but my nose would be more valuable to the people buried in uncaring earth.

  Chapter Five

  I hadn't been out on many rescue missions, just a few relatively minor incidents around Los Angeles. Missing children, vanished hikers, that sort of thing. The two most major incidents were a hostage situation in the Angeles Crest where I sneaked around in the woods, finding the victim, while agents negotiated with an irate wood elemental, and an extremely nasty kidnapping case. I didn't like to think about the kidnapping case—sometimes a success feels more like a failure.

  I fussed around with the bag Moira had already packed until she shooed me away. "Go find something productive to do before I smack you. Call your parents or something."

  "Sorry," I muttered and retreated to the staging area to watch people prepare for departure. Moira was taking care of that for both of us; I didn't need much that would not be provided on site, and was too nervous to think.

  She was right, though; calling family would be productive. My former foster parents would already know I was leaving, so I dialed my friend Jorge first. He answered on the first ring.

  "Hey, bruin. Sorry for calling so late."

  "No problem, loba. Oh, Maria is waving hello."

  The mention of his wife brought a little pang.

  Maria was a sweet woman, a no-nonsense Mexican lady with style who wielded a mean spatula. I loved her, and especially her enchiladas, but somewhere down deep I was jealous of her relationship. She never reciprocated that emotion. A were's mating bond is immutable, and Jorge wouldn't stray. Instead, she sympathized with me; sometimes we would go out together and mourn about my lack of a love life over coffee.

  "Ha, wave hi back. Look, I'm not going to be able to make dinner Sunday. Turn on the news," I suggested. In the background, I could hear the television start up.

  "Sweet Jesus," he swore after several long moments of silence, the tinny news anchor from his television an unending stream of commentary in the background. I heard Maria scold him for his language, then promptly swear herself when she saw what he was watching.

  "They're shipping us out for S&R. Send your prayers, okay?"

  "You got it, loba. Keep yourself safe. We will mention you in church," he promised.

  "Thanks. Calling Mark and Simon now, gotta let you go."

  Mark's mate Simon answered the phone on the first ring. He'd already seen the news. The steady werewolf was a wonderful ballast to Mark's flighty behavior. It was a good thin
g they'd finally decided to move in together. I loved the little werefox, and I could hear him yelping excitedly in the background, but didn't want him to wind me up. I kept the conversation brief.

  "Simon, they're shipping us out. I'm going to miss dinner at Jorge's on Sunday, sorry."

  "More food for the rest of us. Be careful out there," the wolf answered practically.

  "Thanks. Kiss Mark for me, I have to get going." I hung up.

  Jorge and Maria, Mark and Simon. I listed them all wistfully in my head. They were my little, mismatched pack of tag-ends and solitary weres—a kodiak, a black bear, a fox, and a wolf. Bears and foxes were solitary by nature, but we wolves were rejects. Simon's family threw him out, and I had no blood relatives left. We both clung to our little makeshift pack with a sort of quiet intensity. Missing our weekly dinner hurt.

  I boarded the van that would take us all to the airport, joining the pack of search and rescue operatives already crammed in the vehicle. Everyone was talking at once, and the stench of nervous sweat and stress made my nose wrinkle.

  It was too loud to talk on the phone, so I was punching in an e-mail to Karen when Moira plunked down in the seat next to me with our bags. We nodded to each other. She reached across my lap to grab my right wrist and pulled off the silver band, tucking it away in one of the duffels.

  I finished my message and leaned back in the seat, closing my eyes. The melody of the local current seemed muted, somehow. I was so anxious and miserable that focusing was an effort, so I put the discrepancy down to stress and let Moira feed me beef jerky until I calmed down.

  We had to make a landing at San Jose. There was a closer private airport that the Department had been planning to borrow, but the rain was coming down so hard that our plane was forced to detour. We took the rest of the way in big military vehicles, plowing through flooded roads. Water gushed out from the wheels like miniature tidal waves. The water poured down from the sky in a relentless deluge that sounded like the banging of drums on the roof.