The Talon & the Blade

by Jasmine Silvera

  “Thank you.”

  “At your pleasure,” he said, looking up at her.

  He had meant to shutter his gaze. She stared back for a moment and a wondering look formed in the dark-ringed copper eyes. He stared into the fire instead of lingering on her expression. He placed his hand over his chest where the scar burned like a brand. How many times, awake and unconscious, had her healer’s fingertips settled there—mending him, willing him back from the edge of death. He’d lain in her bed grasping at life, anchored by her scent, her presence. Bayberry and pine.

  Her voice rasped. “Will you go back to the celebration?”

  He shook his head, looking around at her cabin. Where did she sleep while he filled her bed? “Still recovering it seems.”

  The door opened, and he shivered in the gust of night air. The cold startled him, brought him back to himself. He would not long for what he could not have. She paused, closed the door again. When he looked up, she was watching him with those inscrutable eyes.

  “I’m something more than human to them,” she said again, this time rueful. “It is one reason I’m able to hold the position I do. You’re new here, so I should make it clear. I must be above basic things: injury, pain, want.”

  Her voice caught on the last, but Gregor swallowed hard on the sound of the word in her husky voice. “If you were to feel any of those things, would it be the worst? To want something?”

  “I do not want,” she said. Did he imagine the edge of rawness in her voice, the plea? “Not for myself, in any case. It’s just easier that way.”

  He nodded, but it struck him that her bothering to explain just might mean something he didn’t yet understand. He sat up a long time after she left, watching the fire as his own resolve to let her go burned away. He would move in with the other bachelors as soon as possible. He would not be a burden on her or anyone else. In truth, he was not worthy of her. Not yet. But he would be.

  In the car, two hundred years and thousands of miles away, Gregor slid Ana Gozen’s seat into a reclining position and pulled the coat up under her jaw. He warned the part of himself that couldn’t stop thinking about what she was owed and what she had done in spite of its absence.

  His new mission came into stark relief. Azrael would get his intel. The debt to Raymond would be paid. And Ana Gozen would walk away from this intact.

  No matter what it cost him.

  Chapter Twelve

  The image of Takami’s glowing face bathed in moonlight, her tapered fingers twisting around the strands of Ana’s hair, which had been so long in those days, and the scent of lilac and sun-drenched dust grew stronger with age. Takami had used her blanket, tying it at the corners to make a small sack that she now tossed over her shoulder like a drifter.

  The regret bloomed in shining silver droplets under Takami’s dark lashes. “Forgive me, Onee-san. I’ll never forget you.”

  In the morning, the open window allowing in the first dusty, sunlit breeze through the curtains convinced Ana it wasn’t a dream. And there was the bed, stripped of the outer blanket and the doll Takami had carried across an ocean.

  How could she take the doll, Ana wondered, and leave me behind?

  An older memory, a hot summer afternoon reading and watching the buzz of human activity in the streets of young San Francisco. Takami’s eyes, full of unspoken things. “Would you give everything up for love?”

  Ana had paused reading her tale of pony express riders plagued with villains and wild Indians in their quest to deliver the post. She snorted and heard herself parroting Nanny. “Love? Duty is love. Obedience is love.” She looked up from her magazine, assuming the affectionate nickname as her voice softened. “Takachan, no more romances. Ugh, they make your head mushy.”

  Takami had returned to her own reading, a flush high in her cheeks. Ana wondered if she was thinking of the gaijin cowherd who always seemed to turn up during their visits to the shops. His skin, crisped and browned from the sun, and his pale eyes stood out in stark contrast as they followed Takami. Ana found him horrifying as a specter.

  Ana blinked awake as the car slowed to a stop. She couldn’t remember being so warm, and every inhale brought the now-familiar scent of evergreen and male. Predawn light came through the window, muted behind a heavy overcast, but still made her squint behind her sunglasses. Her mouth was sticky with a cottony thickness that must have been her tongue.

  Gregor drove in his vest, shirtsleeves cuffed to the elbow.

  “Is it casual Friday already?” She yawned, sliding her seat into the upright position. She shifted, testing her limbs. The lingering ache of the demon wound would last a day or two. The rest of her body felt stiff. The car stunk of undead. The soft layers of dark jacket and a coat crumpled into her lap.

  “Thank you.” She smoothed the material with her fingertips.

  “Your teeth were chattering,” he muttered, lifting one hand from the wheel to rub his upper lip. “It was distracting.”

  She stared a moment longer than prudent. The faintest prickle of hair shadowed the hollows of his cheekbones and defined his jawline. It didn’t seem possible that he could look better than he did when immaculately coifed in his tailored suit. It made her wonder what he would look like completely undone.

  “I’m afraid your coat may be ruined,” she said to distract herself from what were surely leftover fever-brain thoughts.

  She traced her fingertips along the rough spots on the collar where ichor had marked the material. When she looked up, he watched her hands, and the intensity in his face stuck her tongue to the roof of her mouth.

  He shrugged and turned his attention back to the road. “I have a closet full of them.”

  She contemplated a sharp retort, then decided better of it and let her eyes close again.

  The Seattle skyline unfolded before them, long and low between hills with an expanse of glittering gray water in the east. The jutting landmark buildings were a recent overlay to her memories of when it was just a ramshackle stop-off for miners on their way to Alaska. She looked back in the rearview mirror for the biggest change since the godswar.

  The iconic snowcap of Mount Rainier floating above the horizon like a woodcutting of Fuji had become a jagged, dark crater. Triggered by gods-powered earthquakes, the dormant volcano had erupted and poured ash and lava for days, and the resulting mud and debris slides changed the landscape from the base of the mountain to Puget Sound forever. To this day the lahar zone remained a track of broken trees and sediment being carved by new water flow.

  The lit marquees of the remaining sporting stadium stood in stark contrast to the uniform gray of overcast. The glossy black Columbia Center tower reminded her of the man behind the wheel, all reflected planes and sharp edges. Trees framed the city in shades of green capped with gray all the way to snowcapped mountains.

  Something in her eased. Home.

  Traffic flowed through the city and Gregor exited, following the navigation past the base of the Space Needle and northwest into a hilly neighborhood crowned with Queen Anne-style houses side by side with sleeker modern ones. He wound his way through the narrow streets, up a steep road facing Puget Sound, and paused before a driveway cut into the hill beneath one of the modern houses. The driveway sloped and he tapped the brakes, waiting for the frosted glass-and-metal door to rise.

  A row of shining vehicles in identical electric blue lined the garage. Halogen lamps lit, tracking their progress toward the central column of an elevator, reflecting off the polished cement floor.

  “Park anywhere,” Ana said.

  Gregor parked close to the elevator and cut off the engine. Ana opened her door, levering her body out of the seat as best she could before reaching for her swords. Gregor grabbed his own bags and the small duffel she had packed before she could reach the trunk. She did her best not to limp as she led the way to the elevator. Inside, she avoided the mirrors, staring at the instrument panel and watching the lights go up one floor at a time.

  At last t
he doors slid open. She bent down, grabbed the grating, and pulled up. Gregor waited and she stepped inside first, shucking her shoes off into the rack beside the door as she went.

  Floor-to-ceiling windows created an expansive panorama of downtown Seattle. A series of masks she’d collected over the years decorated the white walls. She’d been in LA too long; she’d missed this place.

  “The guest bedrooms are down the hall on the left,” she said, padding across the dark hardwood floor to the open kitchen. “Take your pick. The kitchen is stocked, but if there’s anything else you need, let me know. Coffee?”

  “Please.” Gregor made an unabashed study of the place.

  “When the timer goes off, help yourself. If you’ll excuse me.”

  Gregor gave a slight bow. Ana collected her swords and kept her walk steady until she closed her bedroom door behind her. She locked it before letting her body sag with a long sigh.

  This was her sanctuary and everything the rest of the house wasn’t. The room was awash in colors, the deep gray chaise setting off the vibrant red walls, dashes of cream and peach accenting the rugs and the odd flashes of gold threads in the throw blankets and pillow cases. The wrought iron bed was a re-creation of the one she’d shared in San Francisco, but as authentic as she could find and piled high with pillows and a plush down comforter, framed in netting. Whenever she’d had time to spare, away from Raymond and the machinations of his house, she came here. A pile of paperbacks teetered on the nightstand, begging her to curl up and read as rain slapped the window overlooking the water. When she and Gregor completed the job, she would return for a few days. She’d earned it.

  Twin scarlet and-gold vases as tall as she was marked the entrance to the bathroom. She headed to the shower, leaving a trail of ruined clothing in her wake. She flipped the water on hot as she passed on her way to the elevated sink.

  Her reflection in the panoramic mirror wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. Dark smudges under her eyes and the remnants of fading bruises marked the price of her recovery. She spent a moment working the bandage loose from her arm. Crusted blood flaked away, and with a tug the cloth came free and revealed the puckering white of a scar. Demon wounds seemed to be the only ones capable of scarring an Aegis. She touched one on her thigh, and her fingers found a third on her back, the long whip lash of a barbed tail. That had been her first.

  The scar came with a name, Hamish, the last member of the Aegis she had considered an ally, a friend. He’d done knife tricks in the traveling days and she’d never met another who could hone a blade so well. Child of Goibhniu, he claimed with a mischievous grin, blessed metal runs in my blood. Knowing what she did now, it might have been a version of the truth. Most mortals exceptional in some way or another had a god in their bloodline to thank. It was that extra boost, the grace, that made them special.

  Grace blooded or no, it was his always-laughing face she remembered most. It had made the years they fought together go so fast. Until that demon. Her opening—the moment her blade had found the beast’s heart—had been when it buried its jaws in Hamish’s abdomen. Its parting strike had been the lash against her back.

  It had bitten him nearly in half—shock and blood loss took him even as his body struggled to heal itself. She’d held his hand as the last light had gone from his eyes. Raymond had dismissed his death as an unfortunate loss.

  She counted it another mark against her.

  Steam clouded the glass and she shook off the memory, limping into the shower. Hot water did a world of good, and any pain it inflicted seemed a suitable punishment for the reminder of lives lost due to her shortcomings.

  She scrubbed her hair until it squeaked between her fingers. When the water ran clear, she shut off the taps. She wrapped herself in the nubby blue towel and shuffled into the bedroom.

  She should talk with Gregor, and check in with Raymond, but right now she just wanted to close her eyes for one more hour and let her gift do the last of its work while the memories battled in her head.

  She’d almost reached the bed when she heard a knock at the door.

  When she opened it, Gregor had gone. A tray sat just outside her door. A cup of coffee, toast. Beside it, a scrap of red paper had been twisted and folded into the shape of a crane. She peered down the hall into the silent house.

  She carried the tray to the bed. The crane’s wings flapped at the tug of the beak. She smiled. It was an old trick, one taught to children, but the precision in the folds amused her. Unfolding the bird, she smoothed the paper flat to reveal the small, economic print.

  You’ll need your strength. Let’s go hunting.

  Ana emerged, ready to go to war in jeans that hugged her legs and leather boots with a solid sole, daishō at her hip. She’d long ago given up the traditional obi in favor of a custom saya and holster that allowed a quick, single-handed draw of either blade, because fuck tradition. A second low-profile back sheath cradled her shoulders, buckling below her breasts for the stiletto she kept along her spine. She tossed a collarless black leather jacket onto one of the kitchen barstools.

  At the other end of the long kitchen bar, Gregor presided over a small armory laid out on a sheet of cloth as he inspected and prepped each weapon. He wore yet another suit, not a hair out of place in the sweep of dark hair. A slate-gray tie was knotted at his throat, the tail buttoned into his shirt to keep it out of his way as he worked.

  “I see you found the dry cleaner,” she said on her way to the refrigerator.

  What his wardrobe lacked in variety, it more than made up for in tailoring. The suits fit him in every way, and she had to admit he wore them well.

  He paused, looking up at her for the first time, all business again. A wave of relief washed over her. She could not have borne his pity. Especially when she didn’t understand why they healed so differently.

  As if reading her mind, his eyes darkened. “Is it that bad when you get injured?”

  “Demons are the worst. But a couple of hours of sleep and I’m good as new.” She flexed her bare arm with its new white line under the thin merino sweater.

  His lips compressed, but he went back to work. “That’s inconvenient.”

  She snorted, retrieving orange juice from the fridge and making a mental note to have her usual complement of groceries delivered during their stay. “I just make sure I don’t get hurt. Demon got lucky.”

  He snorted.

  She poured herself a glass of juice and leaned on the counter, watching him. “You heal fast—faster. How is that?”

  He met her gaze. “Maybe it’s because I’m older.”

  She rolled her eyes, grabbed the glass, and perched on a stool at the counter, inventorying his armory. Not bad. He favored guns more than she did, but then a jäger would.

  “I spoke with a contact who has knowledge of Rathki,” he said. “Turns out he’s been quiet—here—in his sanctuary until a few months ago.”

  “A few months ago,” she repeated, idly. “He’s got to be in on this somehow. Getting info out of him is always a dance, but something was different. Like he was keeping us there until the reinforcements arrived.”

  Gregor raised a brow but didn’t look up from his prep work. “I think someone who’s spent a long time planning revenge on Raymond wouldn’t be sloppy. Rathki’s failure to take you out of the equation might be of particular interest to whomever is running this parade.”

  “He’ll go to ground,” she said, admiring the businesslike manner in which he loaded, sheathed, or holstered each of the weapons in his arsenal. To the credit of his tailor, his suit showed nary a hint of a bulge or ripple when he finished assembling himself.

  “Maybe,” he mused. “Or maybe he’ll try to get back into their good graces by sharing information useful to his boss.”

  “Like that Raymond’s brought in the Black Blade of Azrael,” she said, sliding from her perch.

  His lips pursed. “It does have a nice ring, doesn’t it?”

  She blew a raspberry and sli
pped the glass into the dishwasher. She rolled her head on her neck, shaking out her shoulders and hands. Time to go to work.

  She looked up to find him watching her. “And the Nightfeather’s Talons isn’t a tad… dramatic?”

  “Takes one to know one.” She tugged on her jacket.

  Gregor checked his watch and straightened his tie. He met her at the elevator.

  “After you.” He gestured to the door.

  At their approach, the soft sound of the doors unlocking echoed through the silent garage. He paused by the hood as she deviated. She grabbed a helmet and slipped a key into the first of two bikes parked in the row of vehicles.

  “We’re wired up,” she said, tapping the low-profile protrusion on the side of the helmet. “It’s the first night of the full moon, and lots of the grace bloods will be feeling it. There are a few clubs we should visit before dawn.”

  “You realize if the weres are involved, there’s a good chance we’re going into a trap,” he said. “Again.”

  She kicked her heel over the saddle and settled into the seat. “I should hope so. That means we’re on the right track.”

  The lights on the Audi flashed a dull red behind smoked lens covers as the car came to life. The telltale rumbling of an artificial exhaust had been replaced by the silent vibration of the powerful electric motor. The windshield had been dimmed, but even though she couldn’t see him, she could feel his eyes on her. Eagerness thrummed in her chest, an unfamiliar sensation. She gave a nod, slid the mirrored face shield into place and led the way into the Seattle dusk.

  The city came to life as the fall day gave way to full dark. This far north, daylight would last until as long as it did in the middle of summer farther south. Seattle had always been her favorite city—the crisp, rain-soaked air and abundance of seawater called to her.

  She eased the bike into traffic, getting a feel for the engine and her own recovery. Satisfied, she clung to the tank and opened the throttle, letting the bike’s motor hit the sweet spot of power and control. He would keep up or he would catch up. Scars fell away, and she exalted in the nimbleness of being astride again.