by S. W. Clarke
“Bingo.” I shifted my weight to send us into a divebomb toward the waiting crowd. “Time to hunt us down some Scarred and save a singer’s sweetheart.”
Chapter 2
THREE DAYS EARLIER—
My vodka and Coke had melted away into something like slush. I sat on the barstool, one hand still wrapped around the tumbler and my jaw hung a little open.
“I’ll be damned,” I whispered as Paul the singer got down off the stage. His girlfriend—the lucky gal to whom he’d been singing—waited for him with spread arms. When he walked into those arms, she hugged him like she hadn’t seen him in years. “I’ll be GoneGodDamned.”
I’d heard tell of The Singing Angel being a special kind of bar—one where exceptional talent came to perform for the angel herself, who at this moment still sat cross-legged and unmoving on the edge of the stage, as she apparently had every night over the past four years.
The angel was something to behold, a real radiant beauty with spun-gold hair and a dress as pure white as her skin. I’d been told if you sang to her well enough, she’d bestow her boon on you.
Who knew what that boon was? It seemed none of us would find out, because the angel still sat like she was staring mournfully into a pond and not the edge of a stage.
But me? I knew I’d seen something special.
Because as Paul sang—not to the angel, but to his girlfriend—he signed every word to her, his hands working in a steady, beautiful rhythm like some kind of magical dance.
That was a rare love.
If I’d been a softer woman, it would have brought a tear to my eye. But stakeouts in a bar didn’t exactly make for tearful moments of vulnerability. I had to keep my wits, to be ready for my moment.
And as Paul released his girlfriend, I knew my moment had come.
My target—that ugly-mugged ogre I’d followed all the way from New Orleans—was on the move.
I downed what remained of my drink and set the tumbler onto the counter with a clink.
From behind me, the bartender took this as a cue. “You want another?”
I stood. “I sure don’t.”
What I wanted was to pay my respects to that singer, whether he’d received the angel’s boon or not. Because at this very moment, he was being approached by Grunt the ogre.
I’d been watching Grunt all night. He was one of the Scarred, as I’d learned back in New Orleans, and closely tied to their leader.
Grunt bore a ridged, permanently furrowed brow, overly wide-set, small eyes and a nose like a piece of putty flattened to his face. Anyone with eyes should have been able to tell he was Scarred. I could see it in the way he sat, his thick legs spread as wide as they’d go, his eyes always roaming from one side of the bar to the other as though searching out prey.
He hadn’t noticed me tonight. I doubted he even remembered who I was.
Who knew how many Scarred were present at this bar? I’d been told they often congregated here, but Grunt was the only one who stuck out to me like a fat thumb.
Now, for the first time this evening, he’d gotten up from his table. And who should he start toward but Paul the singer?
A small crowd had gathered around Paul, mostly women who’d cried their bleeding hearts out as he sang (guess none of them were on a stakeout). My guess? They all wished they could have a Paul on their arm instead of whatever beer-bellied Jimbo they’d settled for.
But I digress.
At present, Paul’s most avid fangirl—who gushed in positively tearful praise—looked to be an Other.
“I’ll be damned,” I whispered again, setting better eyes on her. That wasn’t just any old Other—she was a houri, one of the seventy-something virgins promised to the faithful in Heaven. I’d once heard that a houri could see straight through a human’s body and into their soul.
And need I go on about her beauty? If the angel on the edge of the stage was radiant, the houri downright glowed. Crackling whip, she was gorgeous. Her dark hair hung pin-straight, her olive skin and brown eyes a perfect complement to the simple silk dress she wore.
It was just about impossible for Paul not to focus on her. Hell, I wouldn’t have been able to keep my eyes off her, no matter how in love I was with my sweetheart.
And as Paul and the houri spoke, Grunt slipped in amongst the little crowd of admirers.
I wove my way closer, stepping around people, keeping my eye on him. What was he up to?
I passed behind a trio of wasted guys, lost sight of him a moment. GoneGodDamn, how many times I’d wished I were taller. It would make hunting Scarred massively easier—even if I was just average height. As it was, I had to make myself known in order to squeeze past.
Maybe, beneath all the bravado, this was why I’d become a dragon rider—so I could be taller. When you got down to it, most of us broke down into simple, primal components. Desire for love. Desire for power. Plain old desire.
I tapped one guy on the back. “Pardon me.”
Of course, once men did notice me, they usually got real nice. Just like this one as he turned, his eyebrows shooting up and a smile appearing on his face. “You’re pardoned.”
I knew the effect I had; I was a nineteen-year-old blond darling, the kind whose carpets did match the drapes … and once they got a whiff of my Southern sass? Well, oftentimes they melted right into puddles.
I winked up at him as I squeezed past. “I appreciate that.”
By the time I’d gotten up to the table where Grunt had been seated, he’d fully disappeared. As had the singer’s girlfriend. A bad sign.
But Paul and the houri were still in animated conversation.
“I tell you right now,” she said with solemn reverence, “your soul shines nearly as brightly as Franklin’s.”
“No way,” said the singer. “I haven’t got anything on Frank.”
Both of them turned to a small, dweebish guy seated at a nearby table. “It is true that Franklin outshines all others,” the houri agreed. “His soul is so bright, if he were to die this night he would be admitted straight through the gates of Heaven … If there was still a Heaven, that is.”
The guy called Frank gave a sheepish little wave. “Good singing tonight.” A second later, Franklin was gesturing for the singer and the houri to stand together so he could take a picture of the two of them.
Apparently they all knew each other, motley crew that they were.
I came forward, scanning for Grunt. Still no sign of him or the girlfriend. A really bad sign.
Paul glanced my way, and I took my opportunity. “Well I’ll be damned,” I said. “I come from a circus family, and I have never seen anything like that.” I contorted my fingers, spelling out my name—the only sign language I knew.
He smiled. “Your name’s Tara?”
“Don’t wear her out.” I swept a hand through the air. “You’ve really got the whole kit and caboodle here. You singing, your fingers moving, your pretty girl with her hands pressed to her chest in the audience.” I paused, my eyes flitting left and right. “Say, where did she get to, anyway?”
Now that I’d broken the houri’s spell, Paul turned almost a full circle. “I … I don’t know. She was just here, and there was an ogre talking to her.”
Son of a motherless goat.
↔
Paul the singer had forgotten about the houri at his side. “Annabelle?” he called over the crowd, which had now begun to sing in a raucous, off-key chorus to some rock song playing over the speakers. “She’s deaf,” he said to me as his eyes traveled the length of the place.
An obvious thing to say. An unthinking thing to say—the sort of thing you said when your heart tightened with worry over someone you loved. He really did adore the girl.
“What is it?” the houri asked him. “How may Franklin and I be of assistance?”
“Annabelle,” Paul repeated. “I don’t know where she went. Sometimes she gets anxious in big crowds.”
The houri straightened. “Annabelle’s
soul radiates like the flames of Kerak Castle during battle. I shall use my sight to find her, dear Paul whose soul is nearly as unblighted as Franklin’s.”
Frank looked around awkwardly. “Cool. I’ll just sit here and nurse my drink.”
The houri glanced down at Frank with narrowed eyes. “Your drink needs no medical attention and … Oh, I see, this is one of those ‘human expressions’ you mentioned to me. Very well, Blightless Franklin. Nurse your drink back to health.” And with that she gave Frank the most awkward wink, bending over and kissing him firmly on the lips.
Three minotaurs who had been doing the very opposite of nursing a drink—they were hammered … as in, beaten down with Thor’s hammer, Mjölnir—scoffed at the sight. Not that Frank or the houri noticed. Whatever it was, it was clear she loved Frank. And Frank … well, he knew GoneGodDamn well how lucky he was.
With that, the houri disappeared into the crowd in search of Annabelle.
I pointed toward the restrooms. “Maybe she’s gone to the ladies’ room.” Even though I didn’t think so; I knew it had something to do with Grunt, because I couldn’t find him, either. My sweet-as-pie southern charm served me best when I wanted to disarm, when I wanted to lower tensions and tempers. And right now, that was exactly what I wanted to do for Paul. He didn’t need to know his girlfriend might have disappeared with a member of the Scarred. “I’ll have a looksie.”
I stepped into the hallway leading to the bathrooms and, to my surprise and dismay, spotted Annabelle at once. She stood at the end of the hall, her blue eyes wide, her curls gleaming white-gold under the light as Grunt spoke to her in low tones. Whatever he was telling her, she was captivated.
I took two steps forward. “Pardon me, folks.”
The ogre’s face lifted the moment I’d spoken, Annabelle’s only following when she saw he had become distracted. I could see it in his eyes: Grunt didn’t remember me.
“Ah, Annabelle?” I gestured over my shoulder. “Your fella’s looking for you.”
By which I meant, Get the hell away from that ogre.
Something between a smile and disappointment crossed her features, like she didn’t want to stop talking to him, because she looked back up at him and said something soft and breathy I couldn’t make out.
He nodded, and Annabelle returned her attention to me. She came forward, and I knew in the instant she reached out, gripped my hand in one of hers, her eyes twinkling with appreciation, why a man would sing to her instead of an angel.
“Thank you,” she said, before slipping past me. I watched after as she passed down the hallway and back to her singer.
Which left just me and—
“GoneGodDamn it,” I muttered as a gust of crisp, late-summer air washed over me. I turned back around to the now-empty spot where Grunt had once stood. The only evidence remaining of him was the slowly-closing back door leading into the alleyway.
I sniffed the air as it swept in toward me, made a face. Ogres always smelled like shit. And now I had to follow him out into the night.
Well, I thought as I started toward the door, Percy’ll be glad to see me, at least. He’d been out there three hours already.
Raised voices stopped me. Behind me, I heard the distinctly inebriated voice of a man saying something disgustingly Otherist. Something about seventy virgins and how many holes a man could fill.
Someone was surely harassing that sweet houri, the one who’d been going on about the purity of people’s souls.
As much as I hated the Scarred—many of whom were ex-vampires and all sorts of nasty, socially awful Others—my best friend was a dragon. To top it off, I had this tiny GoneGodDamn decent streak I couldn’t seem to get rid of.
This is your chance. You’ve been watching Grunt all night. You know what he is. He could lead you to them. To Valdis.
My motto speared into the fore of my mind: Numquam obliviscar. Numquam propitius eris.
Never forget. Never forgive.
From down the hallway, a voice slurred, “Look at this guy. You’re really dating him?”
Now the minotaurs were ragging on Frank. Poor, dweeby Frank with his beautiful soul and probably not a fighting bone in his body.
Still I hesitated—Never forget. Never forgive—until I heard a chair scrape and fall over.
I sighed. Turned back. Stalked toward the epicenter of what was sounding more and more like it was about three seconds from evolving into drunken fisticuffs.
I emerged into the center of the bar, sloughing off my leather jacket. The scene was just as I’d guessed: three douchebro minotaurs picking on Frank, who’d at some point had his chair upended and was now pinned to the floor by a minotaur’s hoof. Beyond him, Paul the singer looked completely out of his element.
I came forward, tossed my jacket to Paul, who caught it with surprise. “All right, my bovine gentlemen.” I was using my performer’s voice—my circus voice, honed since I was a little girl. It came as natural to me as breathing. “If you don’t remove that hoof, I’ll have to remove it for you.”
The minotaur who’d pinned Frank turned toward me, scanning me up and down. A smile spread across his face, but he didn’t otherwise move. “You know this guy?”
I delivered a single kick to the back of the minotaur’s knee, and his leg crumpled as fast as a human’s. In the same motion, I grabbed Frank’s arm and tugged him aside before the minotaur kneed him in the face as he fell.
“I sure do.” I pulled the houri’s boyfriend to his feet. “Frank here’s got a beautiful soul.”
The first minotaur hit the ground with a rumbling thud and a mournful lowing, clutching his knee. The other two spun on me.
“Hey”—the first minotaur pointed up at me from the ground—“that’s assault.”
“Oh, now you’re citing assault?” I tilted my head. “Boys, if you don’t leave this here fella alone, I’m going to redefine your definition of assault.”
One thing I’d learned about minotaurs: you didn’t challenge them unless you were ready to bruise your knuckles. And that suited me well enough; between the drink and their arrogance, my blood was up.
A hoof jabbed me right in the shoulder, and I turned slowly, my eyes rising up the massive length of him until I was staring straight up into the caverns of one of the minotaur’s nostrils, now flaring with anger. “Don’t you touch my little brother,” he mooed.
I reached up, gripped his hoof and twisted until he lowed with pain and practically dropped to his knees. “Your little brother started this parade. I’m finishing it.” A pause. “And if you put your hoof on me again, you’ll lose it.”
I shoved the second minotaur away. But even with my strength, he was still a minotaur, and I was still five foot two. He stumbled a few inches back, clutching his hoof to his chest.
Frank stepped forward. “Hey, it’s no big deal. Everything’s forgiven.”
I shot him a Don’t be a wimp look. “It most certainly is not forgiven, Frank. Not until they apologize to you and your—”
The angriest mooing I’d ever heard sounded in front of me. I spun just in time to duck under the “little brother’s” enormous, furry arm swinging at my head.
Evidently minotaurs didn’t like having their hooves handed to them by cute young women.
Chapter 3
I burst through the back door of The Singing Angel and into the alleyway, the three minotaurs hot on my heels.
I set two fingers between my teeth and poured out a high-throttle whistle. Typically Percy would growl back at me to let me know he hadn’t wandered away. Now that he’d turned five, Percy had developed the temperament of a twelve-year-old boy. Which meant he got distracted often.
And as I feared, I heard nothing. Absolutely nothing.
“GoneGodDamn box of frogs,” I spat, unhooking Thelma—my five-footer bullwhip—from the back-end of my belt and clearing two yards before I spun toward the bar’s back entrance.
Thelma didn’t need much space, but she needed some. This alley w
as probably eight feet wide, which would suit her just fine.
“Percy!” I yelled into the sky. “Get your blue hide down here.”
The minotaurs barreled through the door, all of them trying to press their way out at the same time. They got stuck in a cluster before the biggest one pushed his way through, his bullish nature emerging.
The other two came after. At this distance, under the moonlight, I could truly see that the three minotaurs were brothers as they stood shoulder to shoulder. They were all brown-furred and probably on steroids for those muscles, each of them blowing air so hard through those nostrils they sprayed snot.
I let Thelma’s cracker drop to the cement beside me, widening my stance. “All right, then. I enjoy me a good steak. Which one of you wants to serve as an appetizer?”
GoneGods, it was painfully easy to rile up a drunk minotaur. With one hoof scraping across the ground, the biggest charged at me—a true bull rush.
I waited, Thelma dangling lightly from my right hand. She was a short one, easy to hide amongst my clothes, but meant for close range. Which gave me a real small window in which to act.
But then, I didn’t need a large window. I didn’t even need to see him.
I could do this with my eyes closed.
He came at me fast, gathering speed. Twelve feet. Ten feet. Eight. Six. Four.
By now I should have cattleman’s cracked him right in the face. But that wouldn’t stop a minotaur’s forward momentum. No—to deal with that, you needed evasion. Too bad he didn’t know he was dealing with a circus gal.
Two seconds before he was on me, I rushed toward the wall to his left, leveraging off it with my foot and thrusting myself right up over the minotaur’s head and into an open backflip. As I did, I sidecracked Thelma square on his bare back.
Fortunately for me, young male minotaurs didn’t often wear anything on their upper halves. They had fur to keep their decency, but it wasn’t much protection against the sonic boom of a whip’s crack.
