When he angled his body, the corner of her mouth tugged up in response. Of course she knew. Standing, the top of her head barely reached his collar. The sunlight revealed the deep brown of her hair and the freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.
On the surface, she would have fit in with any of the designer-clad kids burning holes in the credit cards of wealthy parents on business from Tokyo. The whole look should have been garish.
Until she slipped her daishō into the black leather holster with the ease of someone who’d forgotten what it was like to walk around unarmed.
She slid past, leaving the hint of lilacs and steel in her wake. “If you will follow me.”
The slim line of her neck disappeared into the collar of the ridiculous jacket. He noted her upper-body strength in the width of her shoulders and the easy, natural swing of her arms. Even the baggy pants couldn’t hide the curve of hips. Long legs, in proportion to the rest of her, ate the ground in efficient strides. She moved like a fighter—all soundless grace and economy.
In the cool hall of the compound, she cast a single glance over her shoulder as she removed her sunglasses. Every calculation in him came to an abrupt and reckless halt. Black-framed irises of tawny brown enclosed pupils large as a hawk’s and sharp with the intensity of her gaze. The unearthly glare left him flat-footed. Shock raced through him, stirring a distant sensation in his core.
He pocketed his sunglasses, letting his gaze wash over her from top to bottom. Ana Gozen’s face did not change, no blush of anger or approval at his frank appraisal. Instead, her mouth twitched again as if marking his gaze for what it was—an attempt to buy himself time. “You are not curious why you’ve been asked here?”
Marshaling his wits, he shrugged. “Raymond called in his mark.”
She spun on her heel. Azrael had left it to him to develop his own strategy for handling the Nightfeather, cautioning only that he would like to have the other necromancer as an ally if it were at all possible. Provoking his counterpart in Raymond’s retinue was probably not his best first move. Still, something in him courted a fight with her.
And the curiosity rose again. Within seconds of being in her presence, he knew she hadn’t risen to her position due to a necromancer’s favor even if she now shared his bed.
Certainly she was capable of a simple hunt.
He caught her in a few long strides, and they both halted before a set of glass doors tinted a smoky opaque. The hall before them expanded into a small waiting area, low-slung furniture designed not to take away from the expansive views on either side.
A matched set of burly men clad in biker’s leathers guarded the door. Thick rolls of tattooed skin spilled between every joint of leather and cloth. Like Ana, they were members of Raymond’s Aegis, but their matching expressions gave no welcome.
“Little Ana.” The one on the left smirked. His thick Eastern European accent added a condescending strand of e’s to the title.
“Bringing the borrowed hound?” the other finished, showing identical yellowed teeth.
Gregor’s spine stiffened.
The first crossed his arms over his chest. “How does it feel to be replaced?”
“How does it feel to be the glorified doorman, Mitko?” Her voice curled around the name with an edge.
The big man turned red. The second blocked her path.
“Step aside, Petr.”
“The master will call for you when he is ready.”
Gregor tore his eyes away from the downward twist of Ana’s lips in time to catch Mitko’s wink. Petr had Ana’s focus.
“And what happens when he finds you have kept his guest waiting, you overgrown oxen?” Her hand never moved closer to her blade, but again Gregor registered a shift of attention.
Gregor lunged before he was conscious of the attack. He caught Mitko’s thick wrist in one hand, twisting up and around as he planted his foot and yanked the bigger man off-balance.
Behind him, the solid thud of Ana’s scabbard making contact with flesh and the grunt of her exhale signaled Petr’s attack. Gregor jerked the wrist in his hands until it snapped and flung Mitko backward before realizing he’d gotten the drop because Mitko hadn’t been coming at Gregor at all.
They wanted Ana.
Chapter Four
Ana should have known those two meatheads would start some shit. They were strong, savage, and brainless, all qualities which had served her well over the years. Their vow to Raymond might have put them at her service, but they held no love for her. She figured it a quality she could manage—given the brainlessness. All their attempts to undermine her had failed. At the wink Mitko passed Gregor, the pieces of their plan fell in place a moment before the fight began.
In hindsight, she should have given them more credit.
Inviting Azrael’s first to become party in their attempt to usurp her was more clever than she’d given them credit for. The size of Azrael’s Aegis was well known. She couldn’t imagine managing that many warriors and the constant infighting between them. Staying alive must be a daily battle. Perhaps he was using this assignment as an opportunity to scout for positions in Raymond’s Aegis. What better way to prove his value than by taking down the existing leadership? With Gregor on their side, she might have been in trouble.
In this world, she trusted gathered intelligence as far as she could throw it—rumors and nicknames weren’t always reliable. Assessing everyone as a potential opponent had been part of her survival strategy long enough to become second nature. She’d known the moment Gregor Schwarz strolled off the plane he would be hell in a fight. In spite of his height and his long limbs, the soundless way he moved indicated absolute control of his body. In combination, his reach would be punishing. If they ever fought, she marked her best chances in staying close to him and striking fast. Giving him time and distance might end her. Especially if he carried soul steel instead of a human-forged sword.
He watched and listened, but he didn’t pepper her with questions or try to lull her with chatter. He didn’t prod, searching for openings or intel as she would have expected. Even his head-to-toe gaze was not sexual but assessing. It took her a moment to find the word for his expression—curious. Imagine that, after all he must have seen and done, he found her curious.
Answering amusement brought softness to places she hadn’t even considered in years. Combined with the odd warmth left by the lingering pass of his glacier-blue gaze, she considered her own interior with puzzled confusion.
In the half hour she’d been in his presence, she’d realized Gregor would never be party to a coup. She’d anticipated he would step aside, letting the fight play out without interference.
When he moved toward her, she was surprised to have misjudged the man and switched her focus to deflecting Petr as she turned her bare sword to block Gregor’s attack.
The attack never came. Behind Gregor, Mitko crashed over the coffee table, roaring as his wrist flopped at an unnatural angle. Ana’s mouth opened in a small o of surprise. Gregor flicked a glance over her shoulder. She slammed her mouth shut and spun to face the recovering Petr.
Gregor’s tailored suit jacket brushed her back as he slid into her blind spot. The hair on her neck bristled even as confusion kept her from spinning on him. He wasn’t sitting it out. He wasn’t with them either.
It took all her focus to stay on Petr as she deflected the big man again, kicking his knee out from under him. Ana heaved a breath, willing him to realize his mistake and stay down.
The giants regrouped and attacked, fast and brutal, intending to give them no time to consolidate an effort. Too late. Ana bumped elbows with Gregor. She passed a glance to see his teeth flash as he accommodated her stance before he fixed his attention on Mitko.
He was used to this, she realized. Fighting together. Having allies. He didn’t leap to take over the fight in some misplaced attempt at chivalry or in answer to an overblown ego. He followed her lead. He had her back.
Her blade’s song dulled onl
y as it sliced through Petr’s leg at the knee. He hit the floor and she pinned him there with the tip of a blade biting the skin over his jugular. Gregor rested a knee in Mitko’s neck, the shiny glint of a knife blade poised below the bigger man’s eye. Mitko tensed.
Gregor tapped the blade against Mitko’s skin to ensure his attention. “Have you had to regenerate an eye yet? The loss of depth perception is inconvenient. Take it from me.”
Ana almost laughed at the clinical disinterest in his voice.
“Petr, Mitko, you’re dismissed,” Raymond bellowed from within the room. “Ana, show my guest in.”
She shoved Petr away, sheathing her blades. When Gregor refused to release Mitko, she snuck a glance. Confusion knit his brows. Fighting he understood. His speed and reach had been every bit as devastating as she’d anticipated, never mind the strength. He hadn’t even bared the soul steel. Something about this fight was new to him. New and troubling, judging by the downcast turn of his lips. He stood, hands lifted as if releasing a wild animal. When Mitko ignored him, the blade disappeared into an unseen holster in his suit. Gregor stepped clear of the larger man.
Mitko rose, eyes for his fallen comrade. He fashioned a quick tourniquet.
“You will clean up the mess you’ve made,” Raymond barked from the depths of the office.
“Sire,” the unbloodied man said through gritted teeth. He hauled the wounded man to his good leg and dragged him down the hall.
Gregor tugged his suit and tie back into place as Ana held the door. He paused. “After you.”
Smart man.
“Mr. Schwarz.” The necromancer who controlled North America rose from the recycled-steel desk and stepped around to meet him, hand outstretched.
If he was close to Azrael’s two thousand years as intelligence suggested, Raymond Nightfeather had been on the continent centuries before the first Europeans landed. He offered no tribal identification and only the name Raymond Nightfeather when he’d been asked to join the Allegiance. Gregor had never seen him in anything other than battered jeans, a white T-shirt, and motorcycle boots. Raymond smiled without showing teeth and gave a little nod. Waist-long black hair slid over his shoulders as he moved, as straight and heavy as the long, sharp features of his face.
Obsidian eyes with the rainbow metallic sheen of an oil slick pierced Gregor as they shook hands. Waves of power made the contact prickly, but he resisted the urge to flinch. For any necromancer but Azrael, physical contact would range from uncomfortable to painful.
“I apologize for the obstacle course.”
Ana exhaled, stalking to the window with arms folded. His awareness of her was a constant thing, tugging at his attention in spite of the fact that the most dangerous person in the room had a firm grip on his sword hand. She muttered something under her breath that must have been familiar to Raymond because his teeth flashed.
“Those two remain somewhat unbiddable, wouldn’t you say, Ana?”
Her glance skated over her shoulder before returning to the thin sliver of ocean visible between brown hills. “But predictable.”
Raymond knew about the power struggles within his Aegis and did nothing? What fresh hell was this? Serving necromancers was difficult and dangerous enough without constant challenge from within.
Raymond released him, gesturing to one of the modern chairs upholstered in brindle cowhide across from his desk. “It’s been a busy morning. Will you take coffee?”
“No, thank you,” Gregor said.
One of the walls rolled away to reveal a hidden door from which an undead servant emerged bearing a tray. Her bland, expressionless face was as empty as a corpse. At home, Azrael used the sentence of undead servitude as punishment for humans who violated the laws. He thought of the limo driver. What were Raymond’s rules?
Raymond gestured at the desk, and the undead woman deposited the coffee and departed the way she had come. Ana didn’t change her position.
Time moved differently for necromancers. In spite of Raymond’s assessment of his own schedule, he seemed to have no particular hurry to assign Gregor to a task. Then again, if he had been urgent in any sense, it would have also been a flag. Raymond tended to his coffee, allowing Gregor to prowl the room with his eyes.
Like the rest of the house, it was a testament to modern design. But the sepia-tinged prints hanging on the wall reflected a much older time. He recognized the strongmen first with their neatly trimmed beards and handlebar mustaches twisted to meticulous points. Hands fisted on hips, they stood guard beside a caravan-style wagon hitched to two draft horses. The sign in curlicue scroll declared Nightfeather’s Hall of Curiosities. Other photos captured the rest of the curiosities of the traveling village, the wagons and tents and livestock and performers.
Two characters in full costume caught his attention—one in an elaborate if not accurate approximation of Tatami dō armor, and Lysippe wearing a loincloth, breastplate, and a complex arrangement of holsters for blades. The women rode a pair of matched horses. Gregor had known Lysippe long enough to detect the trace of amusement in her stern expression. Motion blurred the other rider’s face, but it must have been Ana. Raymond stood between horses with feathers in his hair and wearing buckskin leggings, his chest bare except for a reed vest. Beside him a sandwich board advertised Amazon versus Samurai: Wonders of the Ancient World.
Ray’s unsmiling expression made Gregor wonder about the fate of the photographer brave enough to capture it. He dragged his attention away. He’d come to do a job and gain what information he could about Raymond as ally or enemy. In that order. Not to be distracted by the past—his or anyone else’s. His gaze drifted to the compact, muscular woman at the window.
And he wasn’t here to tell her how to run her Aegis. Her bargain with her master was her own.
“There is a creature hunting its way down the Pacific Coast,” Raymond said at last.
Gregor’s brow slid north at the peculiar choice of phrasing. It would have been ridiculous, for instance, to ask what sort of creature it was. If it were known, Raymond would have announced it. But if it was a grace blood and mortals had been among its kills, his task was clear.
After the godswar and the ascension of the Allegiance, mortals had been at the brink of chaos. The necromancers’ first and most important effort was to calm the population, subdue them if necessary. Keeping them ignorant of the greater presence and threat of grace bloods was key to forming one of the few rules all members of the Allegiance enforced without question. A grace-blooded creature revealing itself or its powers to mortals would be subject to death.
It wouldn’t be the first time he served as executioner.
This time Raymond did smile. Ana nodded without turning, giving Gregor a distinct indication there had been a telepathic exchange between them.
“You will explain what you know and what you require of me,” Gregor said. “Understanding my position in Azrael’s retinue, you will not knowingly endanger me more than you would your own first. Unknown risks are assumed by the gravity of my presence here. Excess questions at this juncture are superfluous.”
He caught the look Ana cast Raymond but couldn’t decode it. His words had surprised her in some way. Knowing questions were superfluous didn’t mean he didn’t have them.
The necromancer’s amusement faded, though his smile did not. “Ana, the briefing.”
Chapter Five
Ana reached into her jacket as she returned to the desk. “Juneau, Alaska, eight weeks ago.”
She slid a glossy set of photos onto the table. They’d gone through considerable effort to control what information got out about the attacks, which included the inconvenience of going old school with film. Gregor trapped the pile with one long finger.
Raymond leaned back against his chair. With the press of an unseen button on the surface of his desk, the windows dimmed, casting the room in deep shade.
“Impressive for a single creature.” Gregor thumbed through the images of the fishing boats found
adrift, their nets shredded, their decks coated in the crews’ frozen blood and remains that the gulls hadn’t feasted on.
Three other vessels had been reported missing and their crew presumed dead.
Raymond sat with ankle crossed over knee, elbows on the armrests of his chair and fingers steepled. He followed the proceedings silently. Some combination of power and the strangeness of necromancer features brought on by age made him beautiful. He could be charming in his way, and there was no accounting for the way mortals were attracted to the edge of danger in the mystery of his power.
Ana provided the next images. “Tsimshian Federation Territories. Near the city you would know as Prince Rupert, Canada.”
The creature made land. Buildings smashed, cars ripped apart, mortals torn limb from limb or crushed in the effort to flee. This one had been much harder to contain as word spread among the survivors and into the small town. Stories of a massive beast come out of the sea and destroying everything in its path. Ana declared an epidemic—after godswar-induced biological weapons and the resulting years of unpredictable viruses humans respected quarantine.
But the story spread. In the end, Raymond hadn’t hesitated to give the order to wipe the town from the map. The news that there were no survivors and the town had to be destroyed for the sake of containment went over with little protest from the human population.
Ana been Raymond’s cat’s-paw for almost two centuries. She knew him better than anyone alive. It would be wise to seek an accord with Azrael. Especially now that the Suramérican necromancer had been replaced by one of Azrael’s progeny. But in refusing to give up the dancer as his consort, Azrael had fractured the fragile peace in the Allegiance. That also made him a liability.
Ana had her own concerns when it came to an alliance with the European necromancer. Azrael had formed an unheard of emotional bond with this consort. Would he be hard enough to do what must be done to win the war he’d started? Or would he drag them down with him when he fell?
The Talon & the Blade Page 3