Iron and Magic

by Ilona Andrews

  Hugh looked at Aberdine. Post-Shift, magic streamed through the world in currents, ley lines, offering a fast way of travel and shipping. Walking into the current would get your legs cut off, so you had to put some barrier between the magic and yourself, a car, a wooden pallet, anything would do. Once in, the ley line would drag its rider off until it reached a ley point, where the magic blinked, interrupted, and the current would jettison its riders out into the real world. There was only one road connecting the castle and that ley point and it ran through Aberdine. They would have to play nice with that settlement.

  The heavy wooden door opened, and she walked in, followed by a one-eyed older man in a white robe, a black woman in her late forties in a pantsuit, and a petite blonde.

  Hugh tilted his head and took in his future bride.

  Somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. A loose green dress fell almost to the floor, hiding most of her. Nice full breasts. Long legs. Pretty features, big eyes, small mouth, eyebrows darker than her hair, pale brown – probably drawn in or dyed. Tan skin, almost golden. Interesting face. Not exactly beautiful, but feminine and pretty.

  A cold expression stamped her face, a hint of arrogance, some pride, and a lot of confidence. There was something regal about her. Queen of the castle.

  She would be a massive pain in the ass.

  Just get through it.

  Hugh rose to his feet. She held out her hand.

  “Elara Harper.” Her voice matched her, cold and precise.

  He grasped her fingers in his and shook her hand. “Hugh d’Ambray.”

  “Nice to meet you.” She sat in the chair opposite him.

  Her advisors arranged themselves behind her.

  “You already know Dugas,” she said.

  He didn’t, but Lamar told him the druid was his counterpart, “a voice of reason.” Someone had sliced up the older man’s face. Hugh met his gaze. Dugas held his stare and smiled. A tough nut to crack.

  “This is Savannah LeBlanc.”

  The black woman nodded to him. Expensive clothes, professional, well put together, her dark natural hair pulled back from her face and twisted into an elegant bun. She looked like a lawyer. Hugh met her gaze. A witch, a powerful one. He couldn’t feel her magic with tech up, but he’d interacted with enough of them to recognize the bearing. Bad news.

  “She is the head witch of our covens,” Elara continued.

  Covens. Plural. Interesting.

  “This is Johanna Kerry.”

  The blond smiled at him. She had to be in her twenties, but to him she looked too young, almost a teenager. Barely five feet tall, slender, glasses. Petite smart blonds were Stoyan’s kryptonite.

  Her hand flew up to her forehead, thumb pressed against her palm in a kind of a salute. “Hello.”

  She was deaf or mute. Possibly both. His knowledge of American Sign Language was rusty. ASL had its own rules and grammar, but he remembered the basics.

  He raised his hands and signed. “Lovely day.”

  Johanna’s eyebrows rose. “Interesting.”

  Interesting was the right word. He would have to work on his gestures.

  Hugh introduced his people. “Stoyan, Centurion of the First Century. Lamar, Centurion of the Second Century. And Sam. He’s here to assess the horses.”

  Savannah moved to the side, so Johanna could keep them both in her view, and signed as he spoke. Her hands moved fast. She clearly didn’t need any practice.

  Another blond woman in jeans and a T-shirt slipped into the room through the side door. She was young and pretty, and she looked at him a moment too long.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “Iced tea, please, Caitlyn,” Elara said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The woman ducked into the doorway.

  “You need an army,” Hugh said. “We need a base.”

  She nodded. “You have an army, and I have a base.”

  So far they were in agreement.

  “Shall we talk terms?” she asked. “What do you need from us?”

  “My people will need barracks, rations, and equipment,” he said.

  “That’s reasonable,” she said.

  “They aren’t farmers. They won’t be tending the fields or milking your cows. They won’t assist your people in daily tasks unless it’s an emergency.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “So what will they be doing all day?”

  “They will patrol the grounds. They will drill, perform PT, repair and fortify the castle, and take care of any external threats we will face.”

  He slipped that ‘we’ in there. The sooner she saw them as allies, the sooner he would get his people fed.

  “PT?” she asked.

  “Physical training. You are hiring us as employees with specific jobs. We must be free to do those jobs.”

  “I’m picturing three hundred people lying about, eating my food, and drinking my beer all day,” Elara said.

  “Only when they are off duty. They will patrol the castle and the outer perimeter in shifts, and if they do choose to drink beer in their off hours, they will pay for it. Which brings me to another point. They will need to be paid.”

  Elara leaned back. “You expect me to feed them, clothe them, equip them, and pay them?”

  “Yes. I expect them to put themselves between you and danger.”

  “If we paid each of your people $500 per month, the bill would come to $150,000 per month. If we had that kind of money, I would hire mercenaries. I wouldn’t have to stoop to this farce of a marriage.”

  Stoop? Oh really. “When Nez slaughters your people like cattle, and you walk among their corpses, inhaling their blood, you should tell them that.”

  Elara drew back. “I’ve taken care of my people until now. I’ll take care of Nez without you.”

  “I can take this castle with twenty people,” Hugh said. “I can burn it to the ground, or I can kill all of you and take it.”

  She leaned forward, her eyes fixed on him, icy with rage. “Try it.”

  He leaned toward her. “I can do this, because my people are professional soldiers. You will treat them like soldiers.”

  “We don’t need you.”

  “Yes, you do. I saw Nez a month ago. He’s coming.”

  The blond Caitlyn appeared in the doorway. Savannah took the pitcher from her hands, waved her off, and set the tea on the table.

  Elara’s eyes narrowed. “And I should take your word for it?”

  “Yes.”

  “The word of a man who betrays his friends?”

  “The word of a man who is willing to marry you with all of your baggage. I don’t see a line of suitors outside this door, do you?”

  She recoiled. “How do I know you’re not working for Nez?”

  “He is the Preceptor of the Iron Dogs!” Stoyan snarled behind him.

  Hugh raised his hand. Stoyan snapped his mouth shut.

  “Nez wouldn’t bother with subterfuge,” Hugh said. “You’re not worth the trouble. You’re easy pickings.”

  She opened her mouth.

  “How many of your people can kill a vampire one-on-one?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Each one of mine can. They’ve been trained to kill them, because Nez and I spent a decade trying to murder each other. He sent me the head of my childhood friend, and then he and I had coffee in Charlotte a week later. That’s the kind of man Nez is. So snarl all you want, princess. But you will marry me, because you have no choice. You won’t win this fight with farmers. You need a cold ruthless bastard like me, and I’m the only one here.”

  They stared at each other in silence.

  “It has to be food, equipment, and board for now,” she said. “Take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll take it. In return, you’ll let me make modifications and repairs to this place as I see fit. You will finance it, if needed.”

  “We will discuss each modification individually,” she said.

  “No.”

&
nbsp; “I may not have the money.”

  “Fine. We will discuss the budget for each modification with the understanding that my requests for materials and labor are to be given first priority.”

  “Fine,” she ground out. “We do not tolerate crimes here. While your people are here, they will obey the laws. If one of them murders or rapes one of my people, you will kill that soldier. If you don’t, I will, and believe me, they will wish you had done it.”

  She’d caved on the upgrades. Hugh had to give her something. “Agreed. I will need fifteen horses.” They were seventeen mounts short, and horses were damn expensive.

  “Done.”

  Shit. Should’ve asked for twenty.

  “And just to be crystal clear,” Elara said. “This marriage is in name only.”

  “Sweetheart, you couldn’t pay me enough.”

  Pink touched her tan cheeks. “If you betray us, I’ll make you suffer.”

  “We haven’t even married yet, and I’m suffering already.”

  “We have that in common,” she snapped.

  They both leaned back at the same time. He was marrying an ice harpy. Fantastic. Just fantastic.

  Dugas stepped forward, leaned, and spoke into Elara’s ear.

  “I’ll need to inspect your troops,” Elara said, her voice precise. “We need to know exactly what we are buying with our food.”

  “Fine.” He gave her a lazy smile. “My men will need to inspect your horses and our quarters in the castle.”

  “Make your troops available to us first.”

  Hugh poured himself a glass of tea and nodded at the doorway. “Look outside your walls.”

  She would strangle that man. No, she would do worse.

  Elara strode outside of the gate onto the top of the hill where the castle sat. Soldiers filed out of the forest, running three to a row. They wore black uniforms, some in armor, some without. Each carried a large backpack, a bedroll, and weapons. They moved in unison, their feet striking the ground at the same time.

  She hadn’t detected them in the forest, which meant they had to have been far behind.

  The soldiers began to form a block, eight soldiers in a line. All of that equipment had to weigh at least twenty pounds. Probably a lot more.

  “How long have they been running?” she asked and wished she hadn’t. Any show of interest was an opening, and d’Ambray would wedge his big dumb shoulder through it and hold it open.

  D’Ambray shrugged, looming next to her, a darkness shaped like a huge man. “From Aberdine.”

  “Ten miles?”

  “Yes.” He turned to her, his dark blue eyes calm. “Would you like them to run back and here again?”

  He was completely serious, she realized.

  “No.”

  He turned to face the soldiers. They formed four separate blocks, each eight soldiers wide, ten lines deep and froze, like dark statues against the green grass of the lawn.

  “Do you want them to rest?” she asked.

  “Are you tired?” d’Ambray roared next to her, his voice carrying across the field. She almost jumped.

  The three hundred and twenty people roared back in a single voice. “No, Preceptor!”

  “They’re ready for your inspection,” Hugh said.

  Elara had to admit, they looked impressive. Guilt pinched at her. This wasn’t about d’Ambray’s people, she reminded herself. This was about keeping her people safe. If d’Ambray put his troops in jeopardy, it was on him.

  The creaking of a wagon came from behind them. Slowly, carefully, George, Saladin, and Cornwall came into view, leading Dakota, a massive Clydesdale, as he pulled the wagon forward. A brown tarp hid the contents. She knew exactly what was in the cart.

  Elara stepped aside to let the wagon pass. D’Ambray didn’t appear concerned.

  The three men guided the wagon down the hill, slowly, as if it were made of glass. Dugas walked behind them, silent. Each of the men carried a shotgun.

  The wagon came to a stop. Saladin unhitched Dakota and the three men walked away, back toward the castle.

  Elara raised her head. “You said each of your people could take a vampire.”

  Dugas pulled the tarp off the wagon. An undead sat in a metal cage. The moment the tarp came off, it lunged at the metal bars, its eyes glowing with insane bloodlust.

  “Prove it,” Elara said.

  D’Ambray nodded at his soldiers. “Pick.”

  Elara stared at the rows of soldiers. She was about to sentence one of them to death. A human, even a skilled human, had very little chance against an undead.

  She had to do her job. He would put his strongest people in front and in the rear, so she had to pick from the middle. “Fourth row on my left,” she said. “Third soldier.”

  “Arend Garcia,” d’Ambray ordered, his voice rolling. “Step forward.”

  The third man in the fourth row took a step back, turned, and marched to the edge of the line, turned, marched toward them, turned again… Dead man walking. He was in his late twenties, dark hair cut short, light eyes. Like all of them, he was lean, almost underfed. A scar crossed his face on the right side of his nose, slanting to the side and barely missing his mouth.

  He was about to die. If she showed any care at all, d’Ambray would use it to get out of this test.

  Arend Garcia came to a stop.

  She checked d’Ambray’s face. It might as well have been cut from a rock.

  “Kill the undead,” d’Ambray ordered, his voice calm.

  Garcia dropped his bedroll and backpack, stepped forward, facing the cage, reached behind his back, and pulled a brutal-looking knife free. It looked like a slimmer version of a machete, its blade black.

  Dugas picked up the chain attached to a heavy metal bar securing the trap door release on the cage and backed away. Garcia watched, impassive. The undead hammered itself against the bars.

  Damn it. “You’re going to let your man face an undead with a knife?”

  D’Ambray glanced at her. “Did you want him to kill it with his bare hands?”

  “No.” She barely knew the man, and she already hated him. “At least give him a sword.”

  “He doesn’t need a sword.”

  Dugas yanked the chain. The bolt slid free.

  The undead tore out of the cage, lightning fast, and charged Garcia.

  At the last moment, the slender man stepped aside, graceful like a matador, and brought the machete down. The blade cleaved through the undead’s neck. Its head rolled onto the grass. The body ran another ten feet and toppled forward, the stump of the neck digging into the grass.

  Elara realized she was holding her breath and let it out.

  Garcia pulled a cloth from the pocket of his leathers, wiped the blade, slid it back into its sheath, and stood at parade rest.

  “Are you satisfied?” d’Ambray asked.

  “Yes.” The word tasted bitter in her mouth. She should’ve been happy. She wanted crack troops and she got them. Elara forced a calm expression over her face like a mask. “Thank you, Preceptor.”

  He smiled. He was clearly enjoying every second of this. “Anything for my betrothed.”

  She almost punched him.

  D’Ambray nodded to Garcia. The man pulled a small knife out of the sheath on his belt. A woman broke ranks and ran up to him. Together they knelt by the fallen undead.

  “What are they doing?”

  “Harvesting the blood. It stays viable for quite a while when properly stored. I’ll see those barracks now.”

  “This way.” Elara turned and led him inside the castle.

  “About this marriage,” he said.

  “I meant what I said.”

  “Good, because I liked the blond that brought us tea.”

  The nerve. “My people aren’t slaves, Preceptor. If Caitlyn wants to let you climb on top of her, that’s her business.”

  “Excellent. Am I going to get a bedroom, or should we come up with a rotation schedule?”

 
He was baiting her. He had to be.

  “You’re getting your own bedroom, Preceptor.”

  “Splendid.”

  She couldn’t kill him. She needed his troops. But she really wanted to.

  “One last thing. Does the castle have a name?”

  “Baile.” She pronounced it the right way, in Irish Gaelic, Balyeh.

  Hugh smiled. “Home. I think I’m going to like it here.”

  “We’ll do our best to make you feel welcome, Preceptor.”

  4

  The void had finally caught him. Hugh stood at the window while it pierced him with needle teeth and shredded him, skinning one thin layer at a time. He’d known pain before. He’d been shot, cut, burned, broken, tortured, but this was different. This was the same pain he felt when Roland had sent him into exile.

  He was on the fifth floor of the keep. It was midafternoon, three or four, he wasn’t sure. The sky was blue, without a shred of a cloud. The wind cooled his skin. The sunshine played on the stone walls. Below him a sheer drop promised a speedy trip to the stone bailey. If he jumped now, even if he lived for a few seconds and reached for his magic in desperation, it wouldn’t save him. Besides, the tech was up. His ability to heal was barely there.

  It would solve all his problems. A brief flash of pain, almost an afterthought compared to what he felt now, and everything would be over.

  If Hugh turned, opened the reinforced wood and steel door and strode down the long hallway, he would arrive at his bride’s bedroom. She was in there, getting ready. They were going to be married today. Neither of them had wanted to delay. They’d been at each other’s throats for the past week, but one thing they both agreed on: they had to marry fast and it had to be a real wedding, with a cake, flowers, gowns, and a reception afterward. They hired a wedding photographer and a videographer, because they planned to plaster the pictures everywhere they could. Which was why the wedding had to take place today, while tech held. The marriage had to appear real, because without it their alliance wasn’t worth the forty some pieces of paper they had signed once their advisers finished bargaining with each other over the exact terms of it.

  Hugh leaned on the windowsill. He never expected to get married. The thought hadn’t occurred to him. The need for marriage came when a man realized he was getting older and wanted to start a family or when he wanted to prove a commitment to a woman or get one from her. During his decades as a Warlord, Roland’s magic had sustained him. He didn’t age. Back then, Hugh had centuries ahead of him. Hugh would stay at his peak, and if he wanted a woman, he got one. There had been a few that had resisted at first, but he had patience and experience, he knew how to listen and what to say, when he chose to do it, and power was one hell of an aphrodisiac. He was Roland’s Warlord, the Preceptor of the Iron Dogs. Eventually, he won them over and they ended up in his bed.