The Talon & the Blade

by Jasmine Silvera

  She laughed again. “Soldier, my people know every tribe from here to New York. We know the troop movements.”

  This had all been a test. She would ask, listen to his answers, and confirm with her people. What would she have done to him if he had lied? She did not wilt under the understanding in his glare. Instead, she nodded once—admitting, accepting, unconcerned with his judgment. He looked away first. She offered a plate that sent up an intriguing aroma of stewed meat and root vegetables seasoned with local herbs. Like a dog, his mouth watered. It had been the same thing for days but was leagues better than anything he’d been served in the mess tent.

  He took the plate. “I can leave anytime?”

  “When the weather turns, the boys will walk you down the mountain,” she said as she tucked into her own plate. “Blindfolded, of course. Morristown is a week by foot. Sure, you could get back to your people from there.”

  His belly growled.

  “Eat,” she said without glancing up. “You look like a scarecrow.”

  He flushed, unsure of why he cared about how she saw him. Knowing copper eyes glinted on him before sliding away.

  “Your bones are good,” she said. “Don’t worry. This time of year we could all use a bit more meat on them.”

  Chapter Ten

  The road opened up from zigzagging hills to low-slung coast much sooner than Ana would have liked. She enjoyed watching the man put his car through its paces. She also dreaded the meeting to come. As soon as they were in cell range she made a call, alerting Rathki to be prepared to see them on short notice.

  Her initial decades as the first of Raymond’s Aegis had been spent shaking loose her remaining notions of human mortality and coming to grips with the rest of the creatures who occupied the world just outside of human awareness. Few of the grace blooded were powerful enough to create any problem. But occasionally one—like the naga from the restaurant—thought themselves strong or old enough to test the rules. She wondered if Rathki would be the next. She didn’t enjoy executions. But she’d learned the hard way that compassion could lead to a knife in the back when she least expected it. Literally.

  They wound through one small coastal town after another, the names as optimistic as the hazy bay in the clear autumn sunshine. Ferndale, Fortuna, Eureka. Dreamy names for sleepy towns. Autumn was the nicest time of year here once the inland heat had begun to die down and no longer pulled a marine layer over the coast that gave the towns a soft focus feel.

  She directed Gregor into a university campus, through the maze of small streets to a long set of industrial buildings. The aftereffect flicker of the hilt between his shoulder blades faded as they stepped out of the car into the sunlight. He tugged his lapels.

  She grabbed a single black-lacquered saya from the seat behind her. In tight places Imouto, the short sword would be better suited. As she led the way between buildings, Gregor slipped into step behind her. He kept far enough back to form an adequate flanking guard but close enough to establish that they were moving together. She might have blended in with the coeds moving between classrooms, but no one would mistake him for a student. Even then, the gazes of everyone they passed slid over her, catching on him before dropping away.

  “What do they see,” he asked.

  She bit back a snarky response when she realized he wasn’t referring to himself but the blade she didn’t bother to hide.

  “Whatever they expect to,” she said. “Art portfolio. Or a handbag. Maybe a yoga mat. Who knows. They won’t remember the moment they pass me anyway.”

  “Your gift.”

  She nodded. To see, but also to avoid being seen. Even the girl had understood what a boon it could be to be overlooked. As Raymond ascended and she gained visibility at his side, it had become a true advantage.

  They paused beside a door as a trio of art students piled out, quieting as they passed Ana and Gregor. More than one looked back into the dimness of the studio they’d left behind.

  “Campus security,” Gregor said.

  “Sure, man.”

  Gregor smiled. All three fled. He held the door, extending his hand. Ana entered.

  Her eyes did not so much adjust to the room as switch from the ability to focus in daylight to dimness with a single blink. Another one of her gifts.

  Easels filled the open space. Columns of sunlight filtered through dust motes from the skylights above, casting the room in a pleasantly dim glow. A figure-drawing class must have just finished—the remaining students closed their notebooks and slid sketches into oversized portfolios. The model at the base of a platform adjusted his robe.

  “It’s been a long time since you sat in on one of my classes, Ms. Gozen,” the professor said, rising from his stool before the foremost easel. He set down his charcoal.

  Most saw a handsome man in his late forties. The trimmed black beard and black-rimmed glasses gave him a studious, distracted air. To her eyes, the disguise lay like a sheen of oil over the truth. Underneath, the real form bulged with fur at the haunches and hocks ending in cloven hooves. Tiny buds of horns rose from his forehead. Raymond had given him the geas to help him blend in as part of his sanctuary.

  “I’ve been busy.” She shrugged. “Work. Work. Work.”

  “That’s too bad.” He removed his glasses, sliding them into his breast pocket. “I do miss your… interpretations. Would you like to come to my office, you and your companion?”

  “That would be good.”

  Though Gregor didn’t have her sight, as with the naga, he seemed content to follow her lead. She appreciated it more than she would have imagined.

  The professor put his back to her because she gave him no choice, and all the while her eyes settled in the places near the base of his bony neck where she might insert a blade. He held open the door to a smaller room sectioned off from the main studio, but she used the hilt of her sword to gesture and he scurried inside.

  Ana made herself comfortable in the seat across from the desk. Gregor prowled the edges of the room before assuming a watchful post just in her line of sight.

  “Tea?” The man looked between them.

  “No, thanks,” she said flaring her elbows out on the armrests. “How’s it been, Rathki?”

  “You should know,” he said, the distracted amiability falling away to reveal his true nature. “Not enough to keep tabs on me? I’ve been minding my manners as you… requested.”

  Raymond overlooked most of Rathki’s less desirable traits because he was old and well-traveled. His knowledge of the world and other necromancers made him useful. But she kept an eye on him as more than once his predilections had brought him close to exposure to humans.

  “Good,” she said, reminding him of their agreement with the flick of her thumb on the blade’s guard, allowing the barest glint of steel. “But I’m not here for that. I need your assistance.”

  An ugly smile creased his face. “Why should I help you?”

  “Because that was your agreement,” she said, as if speaking to a petulant child.

  “With Raymond.”

  “And who do you think brokered the deal? The Nightfeather had other plans for you, you know.” She knew Rathki too well to think this would go easily or quickly.

  He settled into the office chair behind the desk, folding his hands like a penitent. He didn’t fool her for a minute. He eyed Gregor, floor to ears, as if he were a particularly well-roasted piece of meat.

  “Oh, I recognize you now,” Rathki purred. “The Black Blade of Azrael. From the stories I’d believed you to be something of a monster.”

  “What makes you think I’m not?” Danger edged Gregor’s amusement. Judging by the way Rathki’s consuming eyes dropped away, he recognized it. “Some of us are better at controlling our natures, Rathki Demos.”

  Ana glanced at him, unable to hide her surprise.

  Gregor kept his attention on their subject. “There are others who would be interested to know you are, in fact, well.”

  Rathki
swallowed, and his little caprine face paled before he set his jaw. He lowered his head and shook it in Gregor’s direction. “I am protected by the Nightfeather.”

  “Are you?” Gregor leaned forward to meet Ana’s gaze, brows raised.

  She shrugged and relaxed in her chair. “As long as he’s useful.”

  “All right,” Rathki bleated. “All right.” He paused, the malevolence in his slitted pupils clear as his gaze swung between them. “How may I assist?”

  “There have been a series of attacks up north,” she said. “Something from the sea, maybe with an old grudge.”

  Rathki looked bored. “Would you like it single-spaced and typed?”

  Ana planted the heel of her boot on the edge of his desk with a thump, wishing it was his scrawny little neck.

  “Someone who may have had Raymond’s attention once and wishes to have it again,” Gregor said as if to himself.

  Her eyes met his, watched him realize something important. She nodded. Rathki’s eyes darted between them.

  “A friend,” Gregor said. “A lover, perhaps?”

  Rathki’s laugh left a residue on her skin as he fixed his attention back on her. “Is he tiring of you, Ana?”

  “You should hope not,” she said, smiling. “It doesn’t bode well for you if I am replaced.”

  Gregor folded his arms over his chest and contemplated his fingernails. “I’d be happy to put you in touch with someone who can take him off your hands, Ms. Gozen.”

  Rathki bleated alarm before returning his attention to Ana. The words tumbled out of him. “There was one once. A woman. But she couldn’t let old wounds heal.”

  “Old wounds?” Ana said.

  “Raymond promised her a chance to move on. But she wouldn’t forget. Wanted vengeance.”

  “When?” Ana said, the hair rising on her arms.

  Rathki regained his composure. “Before your time, Ana Gozen.”

  “She’d be long dead then.”

  “She had a little power, you know.” His lips curled in a sly smile. “Not as much as him. But maybe he helped.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re not the first to get a gift from the Nightfeather.” Now he looked to be gloating.

  She stood. Rathki jerked back, but he wasn’t as frightened as he should have been.

  “What was her name?” Gregor interrupted.

  Rathki snorted and lowered his horned head.

  Ana’s hand went to her sword. “Answer him.”

  Rathki turned to her, and the look in his eyes was the only sign she needed.

  Ana spun to face the coming attack. Gregor started moving before she could warn him. Broken glass and projectiles sliced through the air where he had been standing a moment before. She dropped into a roll and came up with Imouto bared. The first demon charging through the door lost its jaw on the edge of her blade. Black gore spattered as she spun again, using the demon’s momentum to propel her out of the path of the second. Now she understood the dimness of the office and the studio. It took a lot of power to summon a demon in daylight—shadows made it much easier.

  But even Rathki wasn’t powerful enough to do such a thing.

  Gregor came to his feet, firing a semiautomatic toward the studio, the blade still an afterimage between his shoulder blades. Two of the undead leaping through the broken window dropped in midair, sliding to a stop at his feet. He had impeccable aim—the only way to end an undead with a gun was a bullet to the brain. He sprang off the chair and through the window, disappearing into the studio.

  The second demon managed to hook her bicep with one jagged horn. Ice streaked Ana’s arm, numbing it for a moment too long. She hissed, stabbing at an eye. The demon roared in pain, shaking her free. She landed, rolling and sliced up as she passed beneath the twisting demon. Its gut opened in one long line above her.

  Back on her feet, she caught the first demon, still gibbering and wailing, on the backswing. The blade sank between its ears and it buckled to the floor. It collapsed into a wet mass of spent flesh, swirling into a mist of vapor.

  The second bellowed, thrashing its horned head as it circled out of her reach. Even half blind and trailing its own guts, it could be deadly. She darted around the cloven hooves and avoided the swiping scorpion tail in search of an opening. The tight space of the office limited her options. Gregor shouted.

  “Rathki, I am going to gut you myself,” she promised, sure he was hiding under the desk, content to let his allies do the dirty work.

  His laugh came from somewhere in the larger studio. “I’ll take a rain check, dearest Ana.”

  Then the smell of smoke and burning paint hit her lungs. She coughed. The demon snapped in her direction. She tossed the scabbard, using the clatter of the wood on the desk to draw its attention.

  It lashed with tail first and she swerved, severing the stinging tip with the sword before vaulting onto its back. She grabbed a handful of the greasy pelt for purchase with her sword hand, knowing she would leave the skin of her palm behind, and slipped the thin stiletto from the holster at her spine free. With a single thrust, she buried the stiletto to the hilt in the dark mass beneath her where a spinal cord would have been, severing it.

  The demon collapsed, spilling her in a pile of guts that evaporated as they fell. The icy vapor burned her hip and leg where she landed in the muck. She staggered to her feet and almost went down again. Rebounding off the desk with a cry, she collected her saya and kept her body low as she fled the office.

  Smoke filled the studio, blocking the light and casting everything in an opaque gray cloud. Gregor finished off the last of what appeared to be a dozen undead, though scattered body parts made a count impossible. He looked up, as cool in clouds of billowing chemical smoke as he had been at the fast-food restaurant a few hours ago. If anything, he looked like he was having a good time. The black blade in his hand sent wild curls of power into the air around it; she fancied it too was enjoying itself.

  “Rathki?” She coughed, sheathing her sword.

  The silk sageo wrapping the top of the scabbard burned her raw palm, but she gripped it even tighter to keep her mind fixed on the present and a quick escape. Healing powers aside, burns were the worst.

  “Long gone,” he shouted over the smoke alarm.

  She dragged the corner of her coat over her mouth but could not stop herself from coughing. Her eyes teared and ran. “Let’s go.”

  He nodded without question, holstering the blade but leaving the semiautomatic at his hip. They met in the center of the room, and he fell into a guard position at her flank as she led the way to the doors. The doors refused to budge. She threw her good shoulder into them, then fell back.

  “Locked.”

  The black blade sent the handle clattering to the floor in pieces. She threw herself at it again. It burst open, sending them both tumbling into sunshine wreathed by billowing gray smoke. She took a knee. Cool coastal air filled her lungs. Then Gregor had her under the arm, lifting her to her feet and half walking, half carrying her toward the car.

  He muttered a few words of a geas. She glanced over her shoulder at the surge of power with the spell. Behind them, the studio groaned as the walls collapsed in on themselves and the flames leaped even higher. Sirens grew closer. The firemen wouldn’t arrive in time to save anything but the surrounding buildings.

  “Nice trick,” she said to cover her surprise.

  Tension drew the skin tight over his cheekbones, making them even more pronounced. The cold blue of his eyes scanned around them for combatants, and finding none, he slid the blade home even as it vanished in curling trails of power.

  He caught her watching, and the corner of his mouth lowered. “That went well.”

  She coughed a laugh, wiping her cheek with her free hand. It came back coated in a sticky, oily residue. Man, she hated demon ichor. Her jeans were ripped—well more than before—and her shoes ruined.

  “You’re still bleeding.” He sounded surprised, the h
and on her elbow tightening to bring her injured arm closer for inspection.

  She yanked it free. “Drive.”

  Whatever wounds he’d sustained sealed before her eyes with astonishing speed. In her experience, bruises vanished quickly, but cuts and breaks took more time. Demon wounds took longest of all. How was it possible that he healed so fast? She slid into the passenger seat as he brought the car to life with a roar and peeled out of the parking spot. She tore a strip of her shirt and wound it around the gash in her bicep. The demon’s horn had gone clean through skin and muscle to bone. It ached, a cold, dull throb. Shivers rose beneath goose bumps.

  She tried to sit up in the seat, to maintain her composure. She slipped her sunglasses on over her eyes and turned the vents away from her.

  “That was an ambush,” he said as he pulled onto the highway.

  “You don’t say,” she muttered, keeping her teeth clenched to avoid chattering.

  “You took on two demons,” he said, changing the AC to heat.

  Overwhelming weariness tugged at her. She forced herself to concentrate. “Sorry, didn’t mean to deprive you.”

  “That’s not—” He squeezed the steering wheel hard enough to make it groan. “I’d like to get my hands on that satyr.”

  “That makes two of us.” She hissed when a bump in the road jostled her shoulder against the seat. “I didn’t think they were grace blooded enough to call demons.”

  “They’re not.” He switched hands on the steering wheel to shrug out of his suit jacket.

  The highway blurred in front of the car. She didn’t realize she’d closed her eyes until the weight of body-warmed fabric settled over her thighs.

  “Gozen,” Gregor snapped. “Who do you think he was working with?”

  She blinked hard, rattling off names of those she kept an eye on. The short list consisted of young necromancers who might crave power, a few powerful grace bloods Raymond had pissed off, and in both categories, an ex-lover or two. None had any known connection to Rathki. Gregor’s glare skated over her—no longer ice but fire—and she did shiver.

  “Raymond’s enemies know they have to go through me to get to him. It’s not the first time one has made a run at me. Probably shouldn’t have called. Should have just shown up. I was trying to be courteous.”