Silver Bound (Sammy Davis Book 1)

by Holly Rutan

  "What are you, some kind of one-man arsenal?" I asked after the last knife was out of his boot. Even if I hadn't suspected, Charles's sly grin and my nose both informed me he had more that the bodyguards had missed. The smell of metal and oil is distinct.

  "Hey, you've gotta be prepared," was all he said to my incredulous look.

  Antonio sat upon his recliner in the living room like a reigning monarch on his throne. The usual crowd of young men was hanging out watching sports again. One of them seemed to be standing in as Antonio's hands and was offering him a drink.

  Antonio's left eye was covered by a rakish eye patch, which I thought looked pretty good. All three of his casts were so coated in signatures and bombs that the original white color was completely obscured. Some of the marks were elaborate, more like art than graffiti. Before I could get too busy examining his cast, the gang boss cleared his throat.

  "I see you bring a stranger into my house, loba. Introduce us so we have an understanding." Antonio's voice was as strong as ever, and I noted with approval that his color was good. The gang boss looked Charles over, pausing on Charles's empty holsters.

  I stepped forward and waved to Charles. "Antonio, this is werehunter Charles Smith. Charles, this is Antonio Escobar. He is the boss of Valerio Street."

  Rather than shake Antonio's only good hand, Charles settled for a diplomatic half bow. "Sir, your reputation has preceded you."

  "I trust you've only heard good things?" Antonio's tone was mocking.

  "They say you're a hard man. Dangerous to cross, good to have on your side," Charles answered. Somehow he managed to sound matter of fact.

  "Are we on the same side, werehunter? Here you are, shadowing my loba friend. For your sake, I hope you are her friend also. And where is Moira? She did not visit me at the hospital, and again she is not here with her were." The gang boss raised an eyebrow.

  "Out with pneumonia," Charles answered.

  "My pretty little chica is sick? That's a damn shame. What'chu doing here, loba, instead of taking care of her?" The light mockery left Antonio's voice abruptly as he frowned at me.

  Oh-ho, I thought, amused. Aloud, I answered, "She's a grown woman and can take care of herself. The case doesn't wait."

  "You are right, of course," Antonio answered, waving his good hand. "So. Tell me what you've learned about the murderer of my boys."

  "Looks like there's a whole network of the tricky bastards. We think they're some sort of cult," Charles replied. "Here's a sketch of what the members look like."

  Antonio looked over the composite sketch we'd commissioned. I'd been nervous about ordering it, until it became apparent that an inert picture did not trigger any kind of magic. Santa Cruz now had to make do with pictures after our imported mage agent discovered the runes on the cultists' dead bodies were still live and he'd been unable to deactivate the songs. All they could do was cremate the bodies.

  Apparently, the only reason Irwin and I had been able to end the strange song at the blown-up house was because some of the runes had been destroyed. Without physically removing those marks, the song would reactivate itself with no need for outside direction.

  Antonio's voice dragged me back to the present. "So there's more than one?"

  "We've got ten dead cultists so far. The four from here and six in Santa Cruz. They don't seem to want to stay alive for interrogation." Charles put his hand up when Antonio offered the sketch back. "We have more copies. That one's for you."

  "Ah, good. Hey, Ricardo! Get your ass in here!"

  A younger version of Antonio appeared in the doorway. "You called me, bro?"

  "Take this. Make copies. Get it to my boys. We find anyone like this, take him. Alive if you can, and keep it quiet."

  For a moment I'd been afraid Antonio would have the sketches posted like wanted posters. My opinion of the gang leader went up a notch.

  "They're violent," I reminded him. "The ones up north had assault rifles."

  "Don't worry about us, loba. These fuckers owe me some blood," Antonio assured me with a feral smile.

  "Just make sure the bullet holes are on the front." I growled, dipping my chin in assent.

  "We need to head out. We've still got a few more places to drop these off," Charles said.

  "Before you go, I have more information for you." Antonio's voice halted us as we turned to leave. "The mage who did this wasn't one of mine. The deadhead who lives at that house turned up in the gutter this morning, stinking of dope. He says a man offered him a good stash to leave his place for a month."

  I straightened and turned back like a hound on a scent. "Did he have a description?"

  "Nothing good, but I'll have some of my boys hustle him over to the station as soon as he's sober enough to walk," Antonio replied.

  "Anything's better than what we are working with right now. Thank you, Antonio."

  The gang boss waved an acknowledgment and dismissal, and we left. Charles made his recovered weapons disappear like magic. He hadn't said a word at Antonio's promise of lethal force, which pleased me. But then, he killed people for a living.

  We were weaving our way back through the crowds when a commotion erupted outside a patched, red tent. A thin, wild-eyed mage was whistling and juggling wisps of fire for his appreciative audience, a battered hat sitting at his feet. I could hear him drawing on the current, and much like several of the other sensitive passers-by, my steps slowed.

  "He's pulling too much," I shouted to Charles over the noise of the crowd and ran for the juggler.

  People were crowded too close for me to easily push my way through, oblivious and half-lost themselves, drunk on the magic-rich air. Even the humans were slow to get out of my way, despite warning barks that tore their way out of my throat, and my gleaming yellow eyes. Halfway there I stopped, sensing a change, and backpedaled into Charles, bouncing off his chest with a surprised grunt. He caught me before I could fall, and I shoved at him.

  Something in my face must have warned him, because he didn't protest. Instead, he grabbed the closest bystander and pulled him back with us.

  I howled, drawing on my years of singing to call a full-throated alarm.

  "He's drowning!" Charles shouted to the offended civilians and then yanked away someone else as the first man's eyes widened in realization. "Get back!"

  "Drowning! A drowning! Everyone get back!" I yelled, cupping my hands over my mouth to make an impromptu megaphone.

  The juggler stopped whistling, but his hands blurred as he continued juggling. The little sparks of flame grew into fist-sized fireballs, blurring and spinning through the air. I could hear the current reverberating from the dissonance of the mage's warped melody, a clear indication that the whistler was no longer playing in the same key as the rest of us.

  The crowd finally began to catch on, and as the mage laughed, people ran. Charles and I worked in concert to haul away the slow ones, taking advantage of my strength and the kind of pain tolerance that comes from knowing a black eye will heal in moments. When someone tripped, I picked the woman up bodily and carried her away, unwilling to witness a trampling. It was bad enough we were about to witness one death without courting another.

  The juggler's fireballs sped up even more, and his open eyes filled with a flickering orange light as he tilted his face up toward the heavens. His gaping mouth dripped flame onto the cracked concrete. It trickled like water or blood, leaving black marks on the ground. A sudden memory of how the blasted ground outside the Vault had felt under my shoes made me blanch and drop, covering my head with my arms. Everyone but the most clueless in our vicinity mirrored me.

  Charles, a grim look on his face, remained standing. Instead, he drew one of his service revolvers from his belt, aimed carefully, and shot the juggler in the chest.

  The excess current dissipated in a puff of harmless fire and a jangle of discordant notes. The drowned mage's empty skin fell to the concrete like a discarded shirt, eye holes still staring up at the sky.

  "
Werehunter," I said, using the term in a tone of profound respect.

  He put away his gun and offered me a hand up, face drawn and eyes sad. We left as the crowd gathered around the corpse in morbid fascination, and neither one of us looked back. The mage had lived in Valerio. No one would investigate his passing.

  Chapter Twelve

  Our next stop was an alley not too far from the courthouse, in the heart of Van Nuys. A wererat by the name of Tim frequented the area, panhandling and working the crowd. He was one of Moira's favorite sources of information on the street. When she paid him, he stayed bought. It was a point of pride for the twitchy fellow, who informed us that disloyalty was the fastest way to lose a customer.

  We found him loitering in the dirty alley, smoking a joint. His bushy brown beard twitched when I approached with Charles lurking in the background. "Hey, lady, this spot's taken. Take your john somewhere else," he rasped.

  "Funny, Tim. Real funny," I responded drily. "As it happens, I have business for you. Unless you'd rather stand around cracking jokes?"

  He straightened. "Eh, business? What'cha got for me? Keep it quick, I ain't got all day."

  I rushed forward and shoved him against the wall, leaning up close. Using the action as cover, I slipped a sketch and five Benjamins into his jacket. My face in a snarl for any potential audience, I whispered, "Dudes done up like this one offed one, maybe two, other agents if Tamara doesn't wake up, and a few hundred civilians near Santa Cruz. If you see one, get the fuck out of the area and call me."

  Tim put up his hands defensively. "I didn't mean no harm," he squealed. One eyelid lowered in a wink. He was bought.

  I let him go, wiping my hands on my pants. "Clear out," I ordered. He scurried down the far end of the alley and around the corner.

  "Can you trust him?"

  I jumped, startled. Tim was a bit fragrant, and I hadn't realized Charles had come so close.

  "Oh, sure, as much as you can trust any rat. He'll stay bought, and he'll take to the sewers if he thinks someone's on to him. Can't ask for anything better than that," I answered.

  Charles accepted my answer without comment, steering me toward a Mexican place for lunch instead of the car. He added a second burrito to my order over my protest and paid for it. I picked at the tortilla until he shoved the food into my hands.

  "I don't care if you're full, eat more. Your ribs are showing. Did you have breakfast?" At my head shake, he rolled his eyes. "Quit skipping meals."

  "Sorry, I just haven't been that hungry," I said. I took bites, chewed, and swallowed with mechanical motions, not taking any joy from the food.

  He sighed. "I know you're worried about your partner and the case, but don't get so wound up in it you don't take care of yourself. If you keel over from hunger, you're no good to anyone. You do know that, right?"

  I grimaced. "Yeah, I do. It's hard to eat when I'm on the hunt, but I try. You wouldn't think a were would be capable of forgetting food."

  "The very concept is absurd," Charles said, and handed me the other burrito.

  Charles ordered some enchiladas to go for Irwin and some tacos for later. We finished up our meal and walked the rest of the way to the car. When Charles handed the bag to me, his fingers brushed mine, making them tingle. A wave of heat rolled through my body. My expression must have changed because the werehunter's green eyes widened in concern, and he lifted a hand.

  "Now is not the time," I growled, drawing air in through teeth clenched to keep me from dragging his scent over my tongue.

  "We have to talk, and soon, but I'll wait," he said, after a long pause, letting his hand fall to the steering wheel.

  I let my breath out in relief, rolling down the car window and allowing a shock of air hit me, washing away the werehunter's kin scent with the stench of the city. He'd felt the heat, too; I was sure of it, and I wondered just how much like the weres their kin cousins were. Did they feel the same drive to bond? I had no mother or pack to tell me, and some things simply weren't committed to paper. The DMA only had bare bones information on were behavior, and the weres themselves didn't talk to outsiders. No one would broadcast our weaknesses to the humans in charge, for fear they would be used against us.

  The heat retreated to a tight core in my belly, and I shivered at its loss.

  By the time we got back to the station, the grease from our take-out had soaked its way through the brown paper bag. I left it waiting on Irwin's desk for when he'd have time to address it. The mage was still working intently, slender fingers dancing over the keyboard while he muttered to his familiar.

  The San Francisco DMA Headquarters had no records of siphoning songs or runic magic in its jurisdiction aside from the cabin outside of Santa Cruz. That incident appeared to be isolated, or maybe a diversion. The current up north was still recovering, so the cult had managed to siphon off an incredible amount of power, which wasn't good no matter how we looked at it. There was still no sign of where that power had gone or what it was doing.

  Over in Eagle Rock, our agents were narrowing down potential locations for the blood farm from which Moira and I had intercepted a shipment. They hoped to have a site to raid within the next few days. Considering their only lead was the now-deceased runner Moira and I had secured for them, they'd made a decent amount of progress.

  I drummed my fingers on the edge of my desk and frowned in thought. "There has to be some angle we're missing, but I'll be damned if I can figure it out," I complained.

  "This den, this burrow, is well hidden," agreed Pygmalion. "Covered with leaves, buried deep." The little rodent was standing up and staring at the map I'd hung on the wall. He squinted, and I realized Pygmalion was shortsighted. The thought of a tiny pair of glasses perched on his snout made me smile, despite our serious mood.

  Charles sighed. "Sometimes these things just take time. Another lead will surface, we just have to keep looking until we find it."

  It seemed silly to have Charles and Irwin sleep at Headquarters and drive up to Van Nuys every morning, so I invited the two of them to stay at my apartment. I'd indulged in a two bedroom, and between a futon in the den and the spare couch in the living room, there was enough room for everyone. The den was where I worked out new melodies if I wasn't going down to the lab and was shielded every way I could think of. Irwin would be able to sleep without fear; all I had in there were notes from a few of my olfactory experiments. The new melody I was working on would be useful for gathering evidence but had no residue that would interrupt the mage's rest.

  Darkness was thick in my dreams that night. I dreamed of it often, both regretful and relieved that it hid a childhood that had left scars all over my body and an aversion to closed in places. Nothing good hid in the shadows of my past.

  In my dreams, the things that hid in the darkness grasped at me. They hurt me, and I was as helpless as a pink human cub to stop them. When something inhuman took me in its cruel, clawed grip, I finally mustered the courage to fight back. It screamed, a sharply repetitive trill.

  I woke with a spasm, throwing Charles halfway across the room to land in a heap. My phone was ringing, my wrist was burning from silver and my body from heat. I gasped for breath, trying to get my bearings and calm my leaping heart.

  Charles picked himself up off the floor and dived for the still-ringing phone. Somehow, he managed to catch it before it went to voice mail and proved himself more or less unhurt in the process. My hearing was keen enough to hear both sides of the conversation, so I pulled my covers to my chest and sat up to listen, letting my mouth fall open to pant. That didn't cool my body in the slightest; Charles's wolf musk was thick in the air.

  "This is Charles." He sounded muffled, trying to staunch a nosebleed with his spare hand.

  "Hey, Charles, this is Joe. What are you doing with Samantha's phone? No, never mind. I guess it's not the time. I've got a call in. Samantha's favorite rat's just been found dead. You're being called to the scene." Joe rattled off an address and disconnected.

&
nbsp; I swore and rolled out of bed, reaching for my clothes. "What the fuck are you doing in my room? Joe's a terrible gossip. He's going to have you in my bed and the news all over the district in an hour."

  Charles's eyes widened, and then he turned his back, letting me dress. "You were having a nightmare, and I thought I'd shake you out of it. I could hear you from the other room. It woke me up."

  "Sorry about that. Just yell at me next time, there's less risk for bodily harm." I got my shirt mostly buttoned and went to have a look at his nose. "Doesn't look like it's broken. Lucky."

  After pushing him over to sit on the edge of my bed, I got a washcloth from the little attached bathroom. I wet it and cleaned the blood off his face gently, frowning. His eyes, I suddenly noticed, weren't just green, but a deep emerald green ringed with a thick line of black. They were gorgeous and not quite human. My breath caught as a wash of heat flushed my cheeks, and I broke our gaze first.

  Charles took the washcloth from my suddenly nerveless hand. "I know. There's no time. Why don't you finish getting dressed while I wake up Irwin?" he suggested.

  I nodded, grateful for the escape. I hadn't been with a man since I'd graduated Academy, and never with another were. Moira had ordered me to be chaste, not celibate, but there never seemed to be any time for even a casual fling. Going into heat meant a fling would be anything but casual, and I wasn't sure how to handle it.

  He left the room to go get his partner while I occupied myself finding and putting on my boots. By the time both men returned, I had myself mostly under control. Pyggie, who was perched on Irwin's shoulder, sniffed the air, then snickered.

  I glared at him. "Shut up."

  Irwin blinked. "What?" he protested.

  "Wasn't talking to you," I muttered, clipping on my badge. "Let's go."

  When we arrived, they hadn't cut down Tim's body yet. He was hanging upside down from a streetlight by one foot, tied up with a hemp rope. His throat was slit. No blood dripped from the opening. Fortunately, it hadn't been a warm night; no flies were circling his corpse yet.