by Karen Chance
Like why someone was trying to strip off his trousers.
“What are you doing?” a woman’s voice asked sharply, as John fought his way back to full consciousness.
The tugging stopped. “We gotta find out if he’s a war mage.”
It was a somewhat nasal man’s voice that time, probably the one with his hands on John’s arse.
“Why would he be a war mage?” the woman demanded.
“Cause he just took a crap ton of magic to the face and didn’t even blink? Normal mages would be a shiny spot on the floor right now. So, ten to one, he’s got a silver circle tat somewhere on his body—”
“Who cares?”
“—or a black, depending on which group he’s with.”
“And again, we care about this because?” The woman sounded impatient—and American, albeit with an odd accent hovering around the edges of a few words. Strangely, her voice also sounded distant.
Or maybe that was John. He was trying to concentrate; he was trying hard. But the voices kept fading in and out, close one minute and far away the next, whilst his gut roiled.
At least he was face down, so he wouldn’t choke on his vomit, he thought vaguely, as the man’s voice came again.
“Well, for one thing, if he’s silver, we probably shouldn’t kill him, us being allies and all—”
“I wasn’t planning on killing him,” the woman said, which was news to John, considering the ferocity of her attack. “And will you stop trying to take his pants off?”
“I told you—they all got a tat.”
“On his ass?”
John finally realized why he couldn’t move. His hands were cuffed—in front of him. That made the woman—the master vampire, he assumed—either amazingly careless, or so overpowered that she wasn’t in the habit of needing to worry about little things like captured war mages.
John felt his lip curl.
“It’s usually on one of the arms somewhere,” the man was saying. “So they can recognize each other easy, you know? But maybe he wanted it someplace else.”
“For what?” the woman demanded.
“I dunno. Maybe he’s a special agent or something.”
“Why would that make him put it there?”
“Well, who would check there?”
“You’re checking there!”
John had also been gagged, which did exactly fuck all to stop silent spell casting. As he demonstrated a second later, when a thought freed his hands and sent the gag sliding out of his mouth. It felt like a snake slithering across his tongue, which did not improve his already black mood.
“Because I’m smarter than the average Joe,” the man said, and pulled John’s trousers down. “Hey, that’s nice. Bet he does a lot of squats,” the voice said, turning appreciative.
And then cut off all together when John twisted, lunged and seized the bastard by the throat.
Yes, he was a vampire, John thought, seeing a flash of fang in the panicked face as the creature began scrabbling at John’s arm. It did him no good, since John had used a warded gauntlet to grab the son of a bitch, not being a complete idiot. And even vampires have a problem focusing well enough to drain you when their heads are in danger of popping off!
John pulled his arm out of the ward, but left the ghostly, blue white bit of armor behind, hovering in the air and clenched around the man’s neck, while he looked for the master. He didn’t see her. Not too surprising, as he couldn’t see much of anything with his vision pulsing in and out.
But he could hear, and sounds were coming from somewhere overhead.
Right overhead, John realized, staring at a wooden ledge some eight or nine feet up.
The ledge ran around three quarters of the room and appeared to grant access to higher shelving. The room didn’t have any windows that he could see, but there was some sort of bright light up there, sending a cascade of beams down onto the rubble that were being broken by the woman’s body as she walked back and forth. She was talking on a phone, judging by the distant, tinny sound of another voice, in between arguing with her assistant.
John felt his spine relax minimally. Her distraction gave him a brief respite, which he used to assess the situation. He’d been right before: it wasn’t good.
His body felt like a giant bruise, his left side throbbed with pain—a broken rib, some more lucid part of his brain informed him, maybe two—and there was blood on his face. Along with sweat, brick dust and what smelt like potion residue. But it must have already expended its strength before he fell into it, because it wasn’t eating away his flesh.
Yet, he thought grimly.
He threw a temporary cast around his ribcage—a magical structure like the gauntlet, only lighter and considerably sleeker—and then tried to stand.
Not a good idea, he decided, as he immediately went back to one knee. He shook his head to clear it, but that only made the room skew violently, so he stopped. Possible concussion as well, then.
Protocol in these cases—AKA when a war mage was injured enough to have problems standing—was to retreat. Get to safety, call for backup, and get the damage evaluated by a healer. In other words, recognize when you’re outclassed and get your ass out of there before you throw years of training down the drain along with your life!
It was good advice, and normally John would have followed it. But there was nothing normal about this situation. And no one else to fix things if he didn’t, since all available back up was currently trying to burn the city to the ground!
In situations like these, the rules changed. A war mage was expected to make do, and to expend his life if necessary to save others. Not that there was a lot of choice here: if John didn’t rescue the city, he died along with it.
Hell of an incentive, he thought, and grabbed his T-shirt—only to find that it had been ripped it in two.
John tossed the scraps of cotton aside, threw a couple of bandoliers of potions across his chest, and shrugged into his coat—and paused. It was lighter than it should have been. A lot lighter.
Some of his weapons were missing.
John couldn’t see them anywhere in the dust and detritus on the floor, and a quick search of the flunky revealed that he didn’t have them, either. So the master must have taken them. But why?
As trophies like Hye-Jin’s necklaces? Because John couldn’t think of another reason. She certainly didn’t need them against him!
Or maybe she did. Had he hurt her worse than he realized? He’d been fairly certain that she’d gotten that damned shield up before any of his spells connected, but magic was treacherous. Magical battles were famous for doing as much damage afterwards as during, thanks to lingering spells, potions’ residue and drifting clouds of poisonous gas.
She was powerful, a first or second level master at a guess, which meant she was deadly. But she was also out of tricks. That infernal duffle had been destroyed along with the magic it contained, while John had magic to burn.
He also had something else.
He sized up his captive, who was fighting with the ghostly gauntlet and losing. He was Asian, or partly so, scrawny, with a shock of dark hair falling into unremarkable blue eyes. And, considering that he hadn’t found a way out of the trap yet, fairly pathetic.
Unlike his master, John thought, looking up again.
“I haven’t been spelled,” the woman was saying.
“You wouldn’t necessarily know it if you had!” A frantic voice on the other end of the phone informed her. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you! Do you feel numb anywhere?”
The vampire sighed. She was facing away from John as he jerked his captive up a ladder, and didn’t turn around at his approach. Possibly because she thought his footfalls were those of her servant.
Or possibly because of what lay bleeding at her feet.
John stopped abruptly.
The light he’d seen cascading over the balcony wasn’t coming from a high-powered lamp, as he’d supposed. It was coming from the human-like
figure he’d expected to find downstairs, after seeing his blood everywhere. And who, even crumpled on the ground, was damned imposing.
Standing, he’d easily he’d top eight feet, maybe a bit more. He had long, dark hair that was currently spread over the boards around him, a handsome, deceptively kind face, and more muscles than he needed. Which was none, considering what he was.
The Irin were a species of demon that humans called fallen angels, that demons called Watchers, and that John called royal pains in the ass. They were constantly lurking around the hells with their oily smiles and their butter wouldn’t melt expressions, spying on any and everybody because that was their stock in trade: knowledge. They collected it, poured over it, lusted after it more than any incubus had ever lusted after a conquest.
They were basically hell’s version of MI6, except they didn’t usually share their information, even with each other.
Was this who Caleb had led him here to find? If so, the Irin seemed to have been hoisted by his own petard. The amount of golden light puddled beneath him was a sizeable and spreading stain, and one arm had already started to fade, to the point that the planks of the balcony were visible through his flesh.
He was dying.
It shouldn’t have surprised John, considering what he’d found downstairs, but it did. Perhaps because the Irin always seemed so inscrutable, so formidable, so immortal. But there was nothing that lived that couldn’t die; not if faced with an opponent powerful enough.
The thought caused John to re-evaluate the vampire, because none of her kind should have been able to take down an Irin.
He remembered the strange, Picasso-like face she’d shown him for a moment during the fight, and felt a shiver crawl up his spine. But before he could figure out what he was dealing with, or beat a hasty retreat, her servant managed to gasp out a name. “Dory—”
The vampire sighed again. “Ray! Just put his butt back where you found it and get up here! We’ve got to—”
She broke off because she’d finally turned around, her face back to normal but her eyes widening at the sight of her hapless companion, flailing about on the other side of the railing. Where John’s gauntlet was holding him by the neck, like a misbehaving puppy. John met her shocked eyes with a stoic look, since the game was now up, and jerked her servant a little closer.
“Time to talk,” he rasped.
Chapter Twenty-Six
T he talk didn’t go well, and neither did anything else. Including the mirror that John was currently working on, which gave a squawk and turned black for an instant, before abruptly going silver again. And shocking the shit out of him in the process!
He quickly pulled his hand back and Ray, the vampire’s servant, scowled. “Thought you knew how to do this.”
“Give me a minute.”
“Yeah, only I’m not sure he’s got one,” Ray hiked a thumb at the Irin.
It seemed that John had been wrong. The vampire hadn’t attacked the creature, after all. On the contrary, she was trying to save him.
It wasn’t working.
And it wasn’t going to as long as he held his current form. He was being drained of power by the body he was projecting into this realm, one he no longer needed considering how many holes it had in it. It looked like he’d been ambushed in the storeroom, and while he had vanquished his attackers, he’d hardly emerged unscathed.
He’d made it this far, then collapsed into unconsciousness, leaving his power unguided. It was attempting to heal him, when what he needed was to drop his physical form and conserve what energy he had left, before he was drained dry. Unfortunately, he was in no condition to make that call.
John was and could easily finish off the body and save the soul.
The question was, did he want to?
He tried a different spell on the mirror, this time getting a longer flicker, one he immediately cut off. He was attempting to have it reflect the image on Ray’s phone, which had been specifically designed to work in this crazy place. The idea was to allow the healer whom the dhampir had been talking to earlier to get a better look at her patient, or so John had promised.
In reality, he had something else in mind.
“Don’t you think your master might need assistance?” he asked Ray, after a moment.
The vampire scowled. “Dory can handle herself.”
Understatement of the year, John thought savagely, as literally every part of his body throbbed in sympathy.
“Yet she wouldn’t have managed the fight half as well without you,” he flattered, gritting his teeth. “What if those dark mages went for back up?”
“You just want to get rid of me,” Ray said, surprisingly perceptive. Perhaps he was smarter than he looked. But then he frowned, and climbed down the ladder. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“I’ll be here!” John said cheerfully, as the mirror fritzed and flickered.
“Just get that damned thing working!” the vamp said, obviously unwilling to play Happy Families with the man who had almost choked him out.
John just waved a hand and tried to look like he was concentrating until the creature left the room, off chasing windmills with his master. Or, to be more precise, off chasing the spell that John had sent ricocheting around the alley, hitting garbage cans, breaking windows, and generally making as much commotion as possible. But it wouldn’t last much longer, which was why he needed—
Yes! he thought, as Jonas’ office flashed into view.
Only, this time, it appeared to be empty.
“Special Agent Armitage?” he asked, as what sounded like an explosion rocked the image in the mirror, sending an overhead light fixture swinging.
“N-not exactly,” someone said, from offscreen.
The view slurred and dipped as whatever the Corps was using for a reflective surface was dragged off the desk. A moment later, a skinny, freckle faced ginger appeared, his curly hair sticking out from under a World War II era helmet. “J-Jonas Marsden’s office. C-can I help?”
The boy—he didn’t appear to be over fifteen—looked like he could use some himself. Especially when another explosion went off nearby, causing him to flinch and give a high-pitched bleat, like a startled sheep. He grabbed the top of his helmet and hunkered down under the desk, as smoke drifted into view.
“Where is Betty?” John demanded.
“Er, she’s busy?”
“Doing what?”
The sound of machine gun gunfire came from off screen.
The boy flinched again. “That?”
“What the devil is going on there?”
“I—it’s hard to explain—”
“Try.”
“Well, s-some war mages have—” the boy began, when the view was suddenly jerked to the side, to show John a close up of the wrinkles on old Betty Armitage’s face.
“Well?” she demanded.
“Well what?” John asked, trying to see behind her. “What’s going on?”
“What do you think?” Betty snapped. “Those mages you sent are causing no end of—”
Something blew a hole in the wall, causing the young man to yelp and flatten himself on the floor, and Betty to throw up a shield. Through the drifting clouds of smoke and dust, John could see what appeared to be a fierce battle taking place in the corridor outside the office, as war mage fought war mage. Although why the hell, he didn’t know!
“They were drained!” he pointed out.
“Not after medical got finished with them,” Betty snarled. “Should have left them unconscious ‘till we figured out how to remove the spell. Regulations clearly state—”
“You haven’t found a counter spell yet?”
Betty gave him the look that deserved. “Does this look like we’ve found a counter spell?”
“Damn it, you need to hurry up! We don’t have time for—”
He broke off, because Betty’s roof had just caved in. Jonas’ war time office was underground, many levels below the Stratford countryside. Much of whi
ch had just poured through the ceiling, burying the desk and the two people huddled underneath it.
John grabbed the mirror, sending the reflection skewing about and threatening the spell, but right then he didn’t care.
“Betty! Betty! Damn it, are you all right?”
There was no answer, just wildly swirling clouds of brown dust. John felt his heart seize, wondering how many people he’d just helped to kill. The wards on the lower levels of HQ were supposedly the best in existence, with the Circle’s wardsmiths constantly revising and upgrading them. If the assault could break through those, it could take out the whole damned complex!
“Damn it, Betty! Answer me!”
Someone coughed.
“If I’ve told you one time,” an annoyed voice wheezed. “I’ve told you a hundred. My name—”
“Is Special Agent Armitage,” John finished for her, feeling massively relieved.
Betty’s now dirty face coalesced out of the dust to frown at him, probably because of the expression on his. She hated sentiment, even when it was directed at her. “Did you want something?” she demanded. “We’re a trifle busy at the moment.”
“To speak to Jonas—”
“He isn’t in.”
“What do you mean, he isn’t in? You’re under attack!”
“Yes, well. That seems to be a regular feature of the job of late,” she said sourly. “But the fact remains that he hasn’t been here all week. He’s on an errand—”
“An errand?” John didn’t bother to keep the disbelief out of his voice. “What sort of errand?”
The sour look intensified. “That’s classified. Now, if there’s nothing else?”
“Of course, there’s something else! I need to make a report—”
“You can do that when you get back,” Betty said, as the office shuddered around her. The tremors caused her image to flicker and bounce, and created little avalanches in the dirt behind the desk, which she regarded balefully. “Assuming you do. And assuming that we’re here to take it.”
“Damn it!” John exploded. “You don’t know what—”
“And I don’t need to know.” It was flat. “We’re doing everything we can, but we can’t get anyone into the city, and even if we could, they’d likely only be enthralled, too. If and when that changes, we will send you aide. Until then, you are the senior officer in charge. It is your responsibility to find a solution.”