Iron and Magic

by Ilona Andrews

  He no longer exhaled rage. Clearly, he’d changed his strategy.

  “Compromise,” he said. “What is your biggest need as a settlement?”

  “Metal,” she said. “We need iron and steel.”

  “There are several smaller towns around here that were lost to the forest. There is metal there. Used cars, a factory in Brownsville, and so on.”

  “That’s not a friendly forest. A lot of those places are infested with magic creatures. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Not for my people. I’ll start making salvage runs. You will authorize the gas for the moat.”

  Elara shut her eyes. “Fine. You’ll get enough gas for three days. More when you bring in your first load of salvage, and our smiths sign off on it.”

  “There may be hope for you yet.”

  “Rot in hell, d’Ambray.”

  “I love you too, darling.”

  Elara turned to Johanna and signed. “We are fine.”

  Johanna gave them both a bright smile. “Good job.”

  She turned and went down the stairwell.

  Elara didn’t slam the door. She closed it very carefully, walked to her vanity, sat down, and shut her eyes, trying to control her fury. And there he was, coming out of the darkness. She knew exactly why Vanessa had climbed into his bed. Up close, Hugh was overwhelming. The size, the breadth of his shoulders, the muscle, the hard stomach. Power. So much male, brutal power and strength. And she hated every inch of him. If she could’ve pushed him out of the hallway window, she would’ve. He’d splatter on the stones below, and she would smile when he did.

  That was the wrong thought. She checked herself.

  A hesitant knock came.

  “Come in,” she said without turning. “I decided what to do with my hair.”

  “Yes, my lady?” Beth asked.

  “We’ll leave it down,” Elara said.

  Hugh stood at the altar under an arched trellis dripping with white clematis flowers. A gentle fragrance spiced the air. The castle rose behind him and slightly to the left. The hill leveled here before rolling down, and beautiful Kentucky countryside spread in front of him: the blue-green hills and pastures, with dense forests encroaching on them like waves from a rising tide, and in the distance, more hills, each lighter than the next, fading into the beginnings of what promised to be a hell of a sunset.

  He turned slightly. Benches had been set up in front of the altar, with a path between them, and they were filled. On Elara’s side were women in pastels and men in suits or jeans, whatever qualified as their best. His side was black. The Dogs wore their uniforms, just as he wore the black of the Preceptor. It was the only formal clothes they had. They’d stowed their weapons under their seats, grim faced and quiet. He wasn’t taking any chances on Nez crashing the wedding.

  Hugh surveyed the Iron Dog ranks. All the family he would ever need.

  “Where is he?” Bale growled next to him.

  “He’ll be here,” Lamar said quietly.

  “He better,” Bale said.

  The townspeople ran out of seats and formed a loose group, standing to one side of the benches. They waited, murmuring and shifting. Children chased each other. There were flowers everywhere. Looking down the center aisle, he could see the large white tent to the right where Elara hid, probably surrounded by her women, fussing over every inch of her hair and dress. Past the tent, tables had been set up with a three-tier black-and-white cake towering in the center.

  Stoyan shouldered his way through the crowd. A fresh narrow scar crossed his neck.

  “Speak of the devil,” Lamar murmured.

  Stoyan ran down the aisle to them, reached into his pocket, and offered a small black box to Hugh.

  “Any trouble?” Lamar asked.

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  Hugh opened the box. A white gold ring lay inside, a half-eternity band of glittering pale-blue aquamarines between two rows of small diamonds. That was more or less what he’d described to Stoyan. A jeweler in Lexington had owed him a favor for over twenty years. He’d remembered it three days ago during one of his moments of clarity between trying to get his people settled, fighting with Elara, and fucking Vanessa to keep the void at bay.

  A year ago, if he’d chosen a wedding ring, it would’ve been a work of art shining with diamonds, steeped in magic, and costing a fortune. This one couldn’t be worth more than three grand, but the metal was white like her hair and something about the pure fire of aquamarines and diamonds reminded him of her. It showed some thought, which women valued. An olive branch.

  They hated each other’s guts, but there was no reason they couldn’t coexist, at least until the threat passed. Hugh had no desire to battle to the death with her over every little thing. And Elara would fight to the bitter end. Although if she insisted on fighting with him half-dressed again, he was reasonably sure he could tolerate it for a couple of minutes. She wasn’t the worst-looking woman in the castle, and, for a brief moment, he’d enjoyed the show.

  She’d also confirmed something he’d suspected when she discussed the arrangements for the wedding. Elara didn’t want him to see her in the wedding dress. It was a stupid tradition, but she clung to it. It was her first wedding, Hugh was sure, and like most women, she likely planned it since childhood, complete with sappy music and the release of doves.

  The void bit at him. He blocked it off.

  The castle harpy wanted a special moment. The ring would demonstrate that he took it seriously. For all he knew, she’d throw it in his face. His gaze snagged on the videographer filming the crowd. Maybe not in front of the cameras.

  Stoyan took his place on his right. Bale handed him Hugh’s sword, and Stoyan held it in front of him, point down. A long-standing tradition among the Iron Dogs, established by Voron, Roland’s previous Warlord, who’d begun the order. Another void bite. Voron who had raised him.

  The ghost stared at him from his memories.

  I killed you because Roland willed it.

  Hugh forced the memories down, concentrating on the weapon to keep them at bay. He missed his old sword, but the one Stoyan was holding for him now wasn’t bad. Thirty-three and three quarters of an inch-long blade with a simple cross guard and a four-and-a-half-inch grip wrapped with cord. At two and a half pounds, it was meant to be used from horseback, but it was lively enough for him until he found something better.

  He glanced over at Elara’s side. Johanna stood in the Maid of Honor spot in a pastel-pink gown, holding a bouquet of pretty white flowers. She smiled at him and gave him a little wave with her free hand.

  He shrugged.

  Johanna tucked the bouquet under her arm. Her fingers moved. “Scared?”

  He mimicked laughing.

  The flaps of the tent opened. Music came from the speakers. It sounded vaguely familiar, but it wasn’t the wedding march he’d expected. Hugh frowned. He’d heard it before…

  Walking in My Shoes by Depeche Mode.

  Lamar smiled.

  “Your idea?” Hugh asked.

  “It was a joint effort between me and Dugas. You said to pick something appropriate.”

  Elara stepped out.

  She wore a simple white gown that hugged her waist and cradled her breasts before flaring down into a wide skirt. Her white hair fell on her shoulders in loose waves. A silver circlet studded with shiny stones rode on her head.

  He saw her face.

  Wow.

  Elara glided down the aisle, feminine and graceful. Regal. She walked alone, and he realized the significance of it. She was giving herself away of her own free will. There was no father. Nobody had the right to walk her down the aisle.

  Every gaze followed her. As she moved between his people and hers, the unease vanished from the Dogs. They watched her the way they would watch a clear sunrise after a night storm. Elara smiled at them, and they smiled back.

  That’s why her people followed her, Hugh realized. This was it, right here.

  She wal
ked up to the altar, beautiful like a vision. He was marrying a queen from a fairy tale.

  Hugh held his hand out to her. She put her fingers into his and together they walked up three steps to the altar. She smiled at him, and something in his chest moved.

  He had to break the illusion, so he made his mouth work. “Nobody to walk you down the aisle?”

  Elara didn’t look at him, her eyes fixed on the pastor. “I don’t need anyone to give me away.”

  He needed more. She was still too beautiful, too regal, too much.

  “Aren’t you supposed to have some little kids running around throwing flowers? Or did you sacrifice them on the way?”

  Her face jerked. “Yes, I did. And I devoured their souls.”

  There she was. “Good to know. The photographer is snapping pictures. Say cheese, love.”

  Elara gave him a brilliant happy smile. “Cheese, dickhead.”

  He did his best to look the way a groom might if he was actually marrying this creature and imagining getting her out of that gown tonight. “Rabid harpy.”

  “Bastard.”

  The pastor, a man in his thirties with dark hair and glasses, stared at them, his mouth slack.

  “Start the ceremony,” Hugh told him, putting some menace into his voice.

  “Before we kill each other,” Elara said.

  The pastor cleared his throat. “Dearly beloved…”

  Elara turned to Hugh, her face glowing with happiness. If he didn’t know better, he would’ve thought it was real.

  “…in matrimony commended to be honorable…”

  Hugh reached deep, looked back at her with the same affection and saw a flicker of doubt in her eyes. Ha.

  “…these two people decided to live their lives as one.”

  Perish the thought, he mouthed.

  Shut up, she mouthed back with that same dazzling smile.

  “If any person knows of a just reason why these two should not be joined together, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

  Silence. Good. Perhaps he would get through this without killing anyone.

  “Hugh d’Ambray, do you, with your friends and family as witnesses, present yourself willingly and of your own accord to be joined in marriage?”

  “I do.”

  “Elara Harper, do you, with your friends and family as witnesses, present yourself willingly and of your own accord to be joined in marriage?”

  There was the tiniest pause, then she said, “I do.”

  “Hugh, repeat after me. I, Hugh d’Ambray, take you, Elara, to be my lawfully wedded wife. I promise to stay by your side in sickness and in health, in joy and in sorrow. I promise to love you, comfort you, and cherish you above all others.”

  He repeated the words, infusing them with the same sincerity that let him convince people again and again to trust him despite their best judgement.

  “With this ring, I give you my heart. From this day forward you will no longer walk alone. I will be your shelter in the storm of life.”

  She held out her hand, and he slipped the ring on her finger. Her eyes widened. That’s right. Surprise was good. She was off balance now.

  “Elara, repeat after me…”

  He heard her swear to love him. Then he held his hand out and she slid a ring on his finger, a white band with a braid of black and silver running along its length. It suited him. She’d thought about him too. For some odd reason, he liked that.

  “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss.”

  Hugh stepped toward her. “Try to make this look good.”

  “I’ll do my best not to vomit in your mouth.”

  Is that so? Okay. He wrapped his hand around the back of her head, feeling the silky strands of her hair slip through his fingers, leaned forward, and kissed her. She gasped a little into his mouth, and he kissed her the way he would kiss a woman he was trying to seduce, enticing, promising, claiming her. She tasted fresh and sweet. What do you know? He had expected poison and ash.

  People cheered. Elara dug her fingernails into his arm. He nipped her lip on the way out and let her go.

  She looked like she would claw him bloody.

  He turned toward the crowd, his hand in hers, grinned and waved. She turned with him, smiling like today was the happiest day of her life, and waved. He had to give it to her. The woman could control herself.

  Magic flooded them as a magic wave hit. His breath caught in his throat, then power came pouring in.

  A woman caught his eye. She stood completely still in the middle of the reception area, away from the crowd. Middle-aged, dishwater blond hair.

  He heard the sharp intake of Elara’s breath.

  The woman raised a knife with both hands and buried it in her own stomach, twisting the blade. Magic exploded in the middle of the reception area. Hugh couldn’t see it, but he felt the blast. He grabbed his sword out of Stoyan’s hand. By the time the blast of magic flared into a churning knot of darkness, Hugh was already moving.

  The crowd surged in the opposite direction. Elara’s people grabbed the children and fled to the back, to the altar. He didn’t need to look to know that behind him the Dogs were breaking into a charge.

  The darkness split. A beast spilled out. It towered above the reception, thirty feet tall, a hairy thing of long matted fur, hide, and bone. It hunched over on all fours, its limbs disproportionate and long, almost level with its head as it squatted. Its long skull ended in horse-like jaws holding a forest of crooked fangs. Above the teeth, two small black eyes stared at the world, and above them the fur flared into a dark mane between two wildebeest horns. The stench washed over Hugh, the sour acidic reek of rotting manure. A tikbalang. Not the modern shapeshifter version but the primordial ancient creature from Philippine nightmares.

  The tikbalang’s magic drenched Hugh. It wasn’t his own brand of power, or Roland’s orderly manipulation. This was foul and wild, a sucker punch to the lizard brain. Witch magic gone corrupt.

  The tikbalang screamed. Eight smaller versions of the beast popped into existence around it, each the size of a small sedan. They saw the fleeing crowd and gave chase.

  The first leaped over the table toward Hugh. The wedding cake exploded, and the dark body hurtled toward him. He sidestepped and swung, putting the entire power of his momentum and weight into the swing. The sword cleaved through the tikbalang’s neck. The beast’s head rolled off. Thick red blood gushed from the stump in a torrent, as if the creature were a canteen filled with it. The stench turned his stomach.

  Hugh vaulted over the table. Another beast sprinted at him from the side. He sidestepped and carved a gash across the creature’s shoulder as it tore past.

  The Dogs charged past him, aiming at the bigger beast.

  His smaller tikbalang whipped around and bore down on him. Hugh dodged and sliced a gash across its right legs, severing the tendons.

  The massive beast screeched again and slapped a body in black. A woman flew past Hugh. Gina. He snapped his magic, healing her broken ribs before she landed, dodged again, spinning, and buried his blade between the beast’s ribs. He felt the brief resistance as the sword slid into the tough muscle of the creature’s heart, then the muscle released, and he jerked his sword free. Blood splashed him. The tikbalang fell at his feet with a moan.

  All around Hugh battle raged. The training kicked in, the way it always did, and the battlefield turned crystal clear. He saw them all, his mind cataloging where every one of his people was on the field.

  The Dogs had broken into teams, covering the six remaining beasts. At the far right, Bale was beating one to a pulp with his mace, while his team stabbed it. On the left, Barkowsky clapped his hands together and shot lightning at another creature, while Beth, one of Elara’s women, circled it, a bloody katana in her hand. On the edge, Savannah stood, her hands raised, chanting something under her breath. Thick vines had sprung from the ground under her feet and wound around the nearest beast, keeping it still as his Dogs hacked at it. Stoyan
and about thirty Iron Dogs were attacking the largest creature. It bled, drenching the grass, but it didn’t slow down. It was too big and not easily panicked. They couldn’t take it down with one blow, so they would cut it to pieces, methodically and carefully, until it bled out.

  Hugh ran at the giant, snapping magic around the field to spot-heal those nearest to him.

  The Dogs sliced and ducked, darting close to the beast to land cuts to the legs and arms, and running away. The tikbalang raked the ground with its claws, trying to grab them.

  Hugh got there just as the massive monster went in for another pass. The Dogs scattered out of the way. To his left, Sam slipped on the blood. Clawed fingers closed over him. This required precision. Hugh lunged at the hand and sliced at the rough flesh of the furry forearm. The hand fell open, clawed fingers limp. He’d severed the flexors.

  The tikbalang screeched.

  Sam landed on the ground. Hugh grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him backward, out of the way.

  The tikbalang backhanded him. Hugh flew, tucking himself into a ball, and hit the grass. The impact rattled his ribs. Blood from the puddle on the grass splashed on his face. Hugh rolled to his feet.

  Four of the remaining six creatures were dead. The reception lawn was a hellish mess of blood and corpses, and when he saw the figure in the white dress, it almost didn’t register. Elara was walking toward the tikbalang. Blood, bright, alarming crimson, drenched the hem of her bridal gown, climbing up the white fabric as it soaked through.

  Hugh sprinted to her.

  She walked between his people and stopped in front of the massive beast.

  The tikbalang dove at her, jaws open.

  Magic snapped out of Elara, lashing Hugh’s senses, a focused torrent unlike anything he’d felt before.

  The beast tried to abort its attack, but it was too late. Her power touched it. The colossal creature reared, as if hit, swayed, and collapsed on its side, motionless. The two remaining tikbalang dropped dead.

  Hugh halted in front of her. Elara turned, her face unreadable, picked up her blood-soaked skirt with her right hand, and waded through the gore out of the battlefield to her tent.