Magic Strikes kd-3

by Ilona Andrews

  On the far left a man waited. He was young and dark-skinned, his skull clean shaven. He had the build of a gymnast, wore nothing, and carried two identical swords. I’d never seen any quite like them. Bastard children of a scimitar and a katana, they had the narrow slickness of the Japanese blade and a slight curve with a flare at the point inherited from the Arabic sword. Three feet long and an inch and a half at the narrowest, the blades were both lively and devastating.

  As we entered the Arena, the man changed. A pale sheen coated his strong features. His shape expanded with gray thickness. Armor formed on his shoulders: a textured pauldron on his left shoulder, a thinner one on his right. Huge wrist guards clamped his forearms. A wide metal belt sheathed his loins, dripping down a narrow metal cloth to protect his testicles. His body glistened with moisture and dried in an instant, snapping into sleek gray smoothness. Everything but his eyes was metal. The silver golem.

  The swords pointed in my direction. Just what I needed: a tin man on steroids. Wandering around looking for a heart and singing merrily just didn’t do it for the young and ambitious metal turks nowadays. This dude wanted my heart, still beating and bloody, carved freshly from my chest.

  We paused on the edge of the sand. The magic was in full swing. Dali swallowed.

  I carried Slayer and a tactical sword I had stolen from the Pack’s armory during the flare. I handed the tactical sword to Curran. “Hold it for a second, please?” He took it and I sliced the back of my hand with Slayer. A nice, shallow cut. The blood swelled in red drops. Dali winced and turned away. I let the blood run down the blade’s edge. My father and Greg both were screaming in their graves. I drew a two-foot-wide circle in the sand, leaving a narrow opening, pulled out a piece of gauze, and squeezed my hand, saturating the gauze until it dripped.

  I handed the gauze to Dali. She put it onto her clipboard and stood in front of the circle’s opening. It would take her a second and a single step back to enter the blood ward.

  I slapped a piece of med tape onto the cut. “Just like we practiced. Do what you have to do with the vampire. If it works, or if it doesn’t, step back into the circle and use the gauze to seal it. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Obey her,” Curran said quietly.

  Dali swallowed. “Yes, my lord.”

  We headed to the front.

  The vamp would be drawn to fresh blood. Especially my blood. The navigator would feel the draw and send it after Dali. That left us facing the troll and the golem. As long as they stood, Cyclone was safe.

  “Choices, choices,” I murmured.

  We stood side by side. “We take the troll,” Curran said.

  “Yes.”

  Once the vampire got ahold of Dali’s magic and hopefully not of Dali herself, the golem would strike at her, trying to take her out. If she did everything right, he’d fail, which would give us a few seconds for a tête-à-tête with the troll.

  The troll grinned.

  “Keep smiling, pretty boy.” I swung the swords, warming up my wrists.

  Curran was eyeing the golem. The damned thing was silver.

  “The golem is mine. Don’t screw with my shit.”

  “In this Pit, everything is mine,” he said.

  The sound of the gong was like my heart exploding.

  Magic sliced from Cyclone. The air accreted around me and clamped me down like a wet blanket, growing heavier, compressing, squeezing . . . The air lock. I froze. Across from me, Curran stood still like a statue, a small smile curving his lips. He recognized the spell as well.

  The vamp flew across the sand.

  The golem ran toward me.

  A hard, cold blade of magic ripped through us. Somewhere in the stands a hoarse scream announced a Master of the Dead losing a vampire. Go, Dali.

  The air clamped me like shackles and froze, fixing me in a death hold. Good enough.

  Curran exploded into warrior form. A seven-and-a-half-foot-tall nightmare rose in his place: layered with muscle, dark gray, stripes like streaks of smoke against a velvet pelt. This time, instead of the awful meld of human and lion, a lion head sat on his shoulders, complete with enormous jaws. Only Curran could do this: keep most of his body in one shape while turning a part into another.

  I launched myself into the air. The air lock shattered with a sound like torn paper. It was designed to restrain a panicking victim. The more you struggled, the harder it held you. But let it settle and you could shatter it with sudden movement.

  The golem veered left, heading for Dali instead. Cyclone stumbled, momentarily woozy from having his spell broken.

  The troll was on us. I darted close, under the troll’s gut. Wood or no wood, he walked, which meant his knees bent. I thrust my swords between his legs and sliced the backs of his knees. He didn’t go down but he grabbed for me. That’s right—look at me, you overgrown log.

  A sick stench of decomposition spread through the Arena. My eyes watered.

  The demonic monstrosity that was Curran landed on the troll’s back. The awful lion jaws gaped wide and clamped on to the troll’s thick neck. White teeth flashed, bit, sliding between the cervical vertebrae, and sliced the spinal cord like scissors. The troll’s head drooped to the side, dark blood bubbling gently to stain his shoulders. Curran grabbed the skull and tore the head from the neck. His face snapped into the horrible chimera of half-human, half-lion, and he hurled the troll’s head at Cyclone.

  The mage made no move to dodge. He just stared, stunned. The head smashed into him, taking him off his feet. He fell limp. I whipped about.

  Dali slumped inside the ward, her hands crossed protectively over her head. Her face and shoulder were wet with blood, tracing the long rip in her shirt. But the wound had already sealed.

  The golem struck at her, his blades a whirl of metal, and bounced from the ward, each hit sending a pulse of burgundy through the spell. A pile of putrid flesh sagged next to Dali with a small rectangle of rice paper stuck to its top. A lonely kanji character glowed pale blue from the paper.

  She’d done it. She’d taken out the vampire.

  “You okay?” I shouted to her, too late remembering that she couldn’t hear me.

  She raised her head, saw me, and held out her thumb.

  “Hey, tincan boy!” I barked. “Bring it!”

  The golem turned, raising a cloud of sand into the air, and charged me. I waited with my swords raised.

  He lunged. The blade slid by my cheek, fanning my skin. He was preternaturally fast. But it wasn’t my first time. I matched his speed.

  Strike, strike, strike.

  I blocked him every time, letting his blades glance off mine. A familiar welcome warmth spread through my body. My muscles became pliant, my movements easy. He was fast and well trained, but I was fast too and trained better.

  The blades became a whirl. I laughed and kept blocking. You want to go there? Fine. Let’s go.

  My only chance lay in tiring him out. It was hard to put a blade into a man’s eye. Unfortunately, that was the only part of himself he’d left human.

  Minutes flew by, sliced to shreds by the cascade of gleaming blades. The crowd had gone so quiet, only the ringing pulse of our swords breached the silence. He couldn’t keep this up indefinitely and I was just warming up.

  Curran loomed behind the golem. The glance cost me—a well-placed thrust sliced my left shoulder.

  “No!” I barked.

  Curran clamped the golem in a bear hug, trying to crush his throat. Silver flowed and metal spikes punched from the golem’s back into Curran’s chest, impaling him.

  Curran roared in agony.

  The sound shook the Pit. Pain and thunder rolled and combined, nearly bringing me to my knees. In the crowd people screamed and covered their ears.

  Gray streaks slid through Curran, eating up his fur. The idiot just held on tighter. The golem spun, his movement slowed slightly, his spikes still protruding through Curran’s back . . .

  The universe shr
ank to Curran and his pain. I had to break him free. Nothing else mattered.

  I attacked, leaving a slight opening on the left side. The golem committed. He thrust, throwing himself into a lunge. I didn’t try to block. The slender blade sliced between my ribs. Ice pierced me, followed by a sharp, painful heat.

  I plunged Slayer’s blade into his left eye.

  It slid perfectly into a sheath of flesh. I buried it deep, putting all my strength behind it. A one-in-a-hundred kind of strike.

  The golem’s mouth gaped. His silver skin shook, draining from his body, and as it drained, a scream was born in the depths of his throat, at first weak, but growing stronger. Finally it burst forth in a howl of pain and surprise.

  Curran broke off, snapping the spikes.

  The last smudges of silver drained from the golem’s skin. He toppled to his knees. I put my foot onto his shoulder and pulled my blade out. He fell facedown. I walked off, across the sand, and thrust my hand through the blood ward.

  It solidified around my hand in a flash of red. For a moment a translucent red column enclosed Dali, and then it shattered, melting into nothing. I grabbed her and hauled her out of there. Behind us Curran staggered to his feet.

  The crowd erupted. God damn harpies. I turned on my foot, stared at them, and yelled, “Fuck you all!”

  They just cheered louder.

  I marched out of the Pit.

  At the gates, Jim took one look at my face and moved out of my way.

  I stomped into our quarters, straight into Doolittle’s makeshift hospital. Curran followed me, slapping the door closed. I whirled around. The beast melted and Curran stood before me in his human form. Black spots peppered his chest where the spikes had pierced his flesh.

  I stared at him for a second and smashed my fist into his midsection, right over the solar plexus. He grunted.

  Doolittle took off.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I looked for something heavy to hit him with, but the room was mostly empty. There were surgical instruments but no heavy, blunt objects capable of causing the kind of pain I wanted.

  He straightened.

  “He was silver!” I snarled in his face. “I had it under control. What was going through your head? Here’s a toxic silver golem; I think I’ll jump on his back! That’s a damn good idea!”

  He scooped me up and suddenly I was pressed against his chest. “Were you worried about me?”

  “No, I’m ranting for fun, because I’m a disagreeable bitch!”

  He smiled.

  “You’re a moron!” I told him.

  He just looked at me. Happy golden lights danced in his eyes. I’d learned exactly what those sparks meant. Fury fled, replaced by alarm.

  “Kiss me and I’ll kill you,” I warned.

  “It might be worth it,” he said softly.

  If he held me a moment longer, I’d lose it and kiss him first. I was so damn happy he was alive.

  When drowning, grasp at anything in reach. Even a straw will do. “My side is bleeding, Your Majesty.”

  He released me and called for Doolittle.

  DOOLITTLE CHANTED THE WOUNDS CLOSED, fussed, pricked my legs with hot needles, and declared my responses normal. “A glancing wound. Does it hurt?”

  “No,” I lied.

  He sighed, wearing the patient expression of a martyr. “Why do I bother?”

  “I don’t know. Would it help if I cried like a baby?”

  He shook his head. “On second thought, keep your composure.”

  The spots on Curran’s chest were growing. I pointed to him.

  Doolittle handed me the scalpel. “I need to see to Dali. She’s in shock.”

  Funny. She didn’t seem to be in shock when I saw her.

  Doolittle left in a very determined fashion. I stared at the scalpel. Curran sat on the floor and presented me with his huge muscled back. Oh boy.

  “Just do it,” he said. “Or are you going to faint?”

  “Settle down, Princess. It’s not my first time.”

  I put my fingers on the first spot. The muscle under my fingertips was hot and swollen. I pressed down, defining the target area the way I was taught, and sliced. He strained. Black blood poured from the wound and a chunk of silver surfaced. I grabbed it with forceps and plucked it free. Three quarters of an inch wide and two inches long. Shit. Enough silver to make an average shapeshifter violently sick. How many spikes did he have in him?

  I dropped it into a metal tray, wiped the blood from his back, and went to the next one as fast as I could.

  Slice, pull, wipe. Over and over.

  He growled once, quietly.

  “Almost done,” I murmured.

  “Who taught you to do this?” he asked.

  “A wererat.”

  “Do I know him?”

  “Her. She died a long time ago. She liked my father.”

  Nine spikes.

  His wounds were closing, the muscle and skin knitting together. I rose, wet a towel, and cleaned his back. He leaned back a little, prolonging contact with my fingers.

  I wanted to run my hand up his back. Instead I forced myself up, rinsed the towel, and tossed it into the bin Doolittle had set out.

  “Good to go,” I told him and walked away before I did something seriously stupid.

  CHAPTER 28

  IT WAS LATE. I SAT IN THE HOT TUB, SUNKEN DEEP in a windowless room. Moisture beaded on the ceiling and weak electric lamps provided hazy illumination. The jets didn’t work with or without magic.

  My whole body ached. My side, my arms, my back. The golem had dished out a lot of punishment.

  I contemplated emerging from the hot tub. My feet were wrinkled and I was really warm. But that would mean going back into the bedroom. We had made it to the championship fight and the Red Guards kept a very tight watch on us now. The only way out of our rooms was through a first-class interrogation and with a huge escort. Even now, as I sat here, a couple of Red Guards lingered outside the door.

  A pale, sweaty Corona bottle invaded my field of vision. It was clamped in a hand attached to a muscular arm with pale blond hair.

  “Peace offering,” Curran said.

  Did I hear him come in? No.

  I took the beer. He paused on the other side of the tub. He was wearing a white gym towel. “I’m about to take the towel off and hop in,” he said. “Fair warning.”

  There are times in life when shrugging takes nearly all of your will. “I’ve seen you naked.”

  “Didn’t want you to run away screaming or anything.”

  “You flatter yourself.”

  He took the towel off.

  I hadn’t exactly forgotten what he looked like without clothes. I just didn’t remember it being quite so tempting. He was built with survival in mind: strong but flexible, defined but hardly slender. You could bounce a quarter from his abs.

  Curran stepped into the tub. He was obviously in no hurry.

  It was like walking on a high bridge: don’t look down. Definitely not below his waist . . . Oh my.

  He sank into the hot water near me. I remembered to breathe. “How’s your back?”

  “It’s fine,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.” It had to be sore.

  “Does your side hurt?”

  “No.”

  His smile told me he knew we were both full of it.

  I drank a bit of my beer, barely tasting it. Having him at the other end of the hot tub was like standing face-to-face with a hungry tiger with no fence between us. Or rather a hungry lion with very large teeth.

  “Are you going to sack Jim?” I tried to sound casual.

  “No,” the lion said.

  Exhaling in relief was completely out of the question—he’d hear it.

  Curran stretched, spreading the breadth of his massive shoulders against the tub wall. “I concede that if I was paying attention, I would have nipped this in the bud. It never should have gotten to this point.”

 
“How so?”

  “Jim took over security eight months before the Red Stalker appeared. The upir was his first big test. He blew it. We all did. Then there was Bran. Bran stole the surveys three times, waltzed in and out of the Keep, attacked you while you were in our custody, and took out a survey crew, Jim included. Jim considers it a personal failure.”

  “The guy teleported. How the hell are you supposed to guard against someone who pops in and out of existence?”

  Curran shifted along the tub wall, sinking a little deeper into the water. “Had I known how hard Jim took it, I would’ve pointed it out to him. You remember when he tried to use you as bait?”

  “I remember wanting to punch him in the mouth.”

  “It was the first sign of trouble. His priorities had shifted to ‘win at any cost.’ I thought it was odd at the time, but crazy shit kept happening and I let it slip. He became paranoid. All security chiefs are paranoid, but Jim took it further than most. He began to obsess with preventing future threats, and when Derek screwed up and got his face bashed in, it pushed Jim over the edge. He couldn’t handle being responsible for Derek’s death and for my having to kill the kid. He had to fix it at any cost. Basically, there was a problem and I missed it. And he sure as hell didn’t bring it up.”

  Dear Beast Lord, as your chief of security, I must warn you that I have deep-seated inadequacy issues . . . Yeah, hell would sprout roses first.

  “I can’t keep up with everyone all the time,” Curran said. “And Jim’s the one who never went nuts on me. It was his time, I guess. So to answer your question fully, there’s no reason to demote him. He has a talent for his job and he’s doing reasonably well considering what he’s up against. If I sack him, I’ll have to replace him with somebody who has less experience and will screw up more. This is a lesson. Three months of dragging giant rocks around will help him get the stress out of his system.”