Magic Bites

by Ilona Andrews

  There was a long pause.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Alisa’s missing,” the woman said quietly. “We don’t know where she is.”

  She hung up the phone before I had a chance to ask anything else. Since Molot was my second best bet, I looked for it and found six Molots. I hit pay dirt on the fourth one—a young male told me that Sandra was his sister and reluctantly informed me that she was also missing since the fourteenth of last month but refused to say anything else, adding “the cops are still looking for her.” I thanked him and hung up.

  I called nineteen people with the last name Ying and twenty-seven with the surname Gomez. I could not find Jennifer Ying, but there were two Angelinas among the Gomezes. The first one was two years old. The second was twenty and missing.

  It was a safe bet that Jennifer Ying had suffered the same fate as the other three women. I considered a visit to the precinct, but the rational part of my brain informed me that not only would they throw me out without any information, I’d also call enough attention to myself to make my job even more difficult. Cops had respect for full-fledged knights, but they did not cooperate with them unless the circumstances left them no choice. I was not even a knight.

  It was possible that all four ladies grew claws and fur and called Curran “Lord,” in which case it would be logical to suppose that they were missing, because they were among the seven dead shapechangers. I called Jim to verify, but either he was not home or he decided not to take my calls. I didn’t leave a message.

  With nothing left to do, I put away the file. It was nearly lunchtime and I had a plastic surgeon to meet.

  THE DECORATOR OF LAS COLIMAS MUST HAVE been a great admirer of both early Aztec and late Taco Bell architectural styles. The restaurant was a gaudy mess of bright booths, garish piñatas, and fake greenery. A resin skull rack modeled after the actual racks, which the ancient Aztecs filled with countless skulls of human victims, crowned the roof of the long buffet table. Small terra-cotta replicas of arcane relics sat on the windowsills among the plastic fruit spilling from wicker cornucopias.

  The setting did not matter. The moment I walked in, the delicious smell enveloped me, and I hurried past the five-foot-high terra-cotta atrocity meant to personify the famous Xochopilli, the Prince of Flowers, which separated the entrance from the cash register. A redheaded waitress thrust herself in my way.

  “Excuse me,” she said with a smile that showed off her entire set of teeth. “Are you Kate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your party is waiting. This way, please.”

  As she led me past the buffet table, I heard a male voice asking the waitress, “Do you serve gravy with that?”

  Only in the South.

  The waitress delivered me to a corner booth, where Crest sat, immersed in the menu.

  “I found her, Doctor!” she announced. The patrons at the neighboring tables glanced at me. If the restaurant was not so crowded, I would have strangled her on the spot.

  Crest glanced from the menu and shot her a smile. “You remembered,” he said, his voice filled with surprise. “Thank you, Grace.”

  She giggled. “Let me know if you need anything!”

  She swept away, putting an extra kink into her walk. I would not have thought that a woman with an ass that bony could make it wiggle so much but she proved me wrong.

  I landed.

  “A storm walking in,” he said.

  “Five minutes here and the waitresses already bat their eyelashes at you,” I said. “It must be a talent.”

  He unrolled his napkin, took a round-tipped serrated knife from it, and mimicked being stabbed in the heart. “Actually, it’s not a talent,” he explained, waving the knife around. The knife’s blade looked sharp. “Most people treat waitresses like dogs. They bring you food and wait on you, therefore they must be a lower breed of human being and don’t mind being harassed.”

  I took the knife away from him before he hurt himself and put it on the table.

  The redheaded Grace returned, dazzled us with another smile, and asked if we were ready to order. I ordered without looking at the menu. Crest asked for churassco and chimichurri in unaccented Spanish. Grace gave him a blank look.

  “I think he would like the filet mignon in garlic and parsley sauce,” I said. “The Chef’s special.”

  Her face brightened. “Anything to drink with that?”

  We both ordered ice water and she departed, wiggling furiously.

  Crest grimaced.

  “A sudden change of attitude?” I asked.

  “I detest incompetence. She works in a restaurant that serves Latino cuisine. She should at least know how the names are pronounced. But then she probably does the best she can.” He looked around. “I must say, this isn’t a place to promote quiet conversations.”

  “You have a problem with my taste?”

  “Yes, I do,” he said.

  I shrugged.

  “You are quite . . . hostile.” He did not say it in a confrontational way. Instead, his voice held quiet amusement.

  “Was I supposed to pick a quiet place, tastefully decorated and private, that would promote intimate conversation?”

  “Well, I thought you might.”

  “Why? You blackmailed me into lunch, so I thought I might at least enjoy the food.”

  He tried a different line of attack. “I’ve never come across anyone like you.”

  “Good thing, too. People like me don’t like it when you try walking over them. They might break your legs.”

  “Could you actually do it?” He was grinning. Was he flirting with me?

  “Do what?”

  “Break my legs.”

  “Yes, under the right circumstances.”

  “I have a brown belt in karate,” he said. I decided that he found my tough woman persona amusing. “I might put up a fight.”

  This was actually fun. I gave him a full blast of my psychotic smile and said, “Brown belt? That’s impressive. But you have to remember, I break legs for a living while you . . .”

  “Fix noses?” he put in.

  “No, I was going to say stitch up corpses, but you’re right, ‘fix noses’ would’ve made a much better retort.”

  We grinned at each other across the table.

  Grace arrived right on cue, holding two platters. She set them in front of us and was called away before she could blind Crest with another toothy smile.

  “The food’s wonderful,” he said after the first two bites.

  And cheap, too. I raised my eyebrow at him, meaning I told you so.

  “I’ll stop trying to impress you if you promise not to break my legs,” he suggested.

  “Alright, where did you learn to speak Spanish?”

  “From my father,” he said. “He spoke six languages fluently and understood who knows how many. He was an anthropologist of the old kind. We spent two years at Temple Mayor in Mexico.”

  I arched an eyebrow, took a bottle of hot sauce shaped like a stylized figurine, and put it in front of him.

  “Tlaloc,” he said. “God of rain.”

  I smiled at him. “So tell me about the temple.”

  “It was hot and dusty.” He told me about his father, who tried to understand people long gone, about climbing the countless steps to the top of the temple, where twin shrines stared at the world, about falling asleep under the bottomless sky by the carved temple walls and dreaming of nightmarish priests. Somehow his voice overcame the noise of the restaurant, muting the conversations of other patrons to subdued white noise. It was so remarkable that I would have sworn there was magic in it, except that I felt no power coming from him. Perhaps it was magic, but of that special human kind—magic born of human charm and conversation, which I too often discounted.

  He talked while I listened to his pleasant voice and watched him. There was something very comforting about him, and I was not sure if it was his easy manner or his complete immunity to my scowling. He was funny without trying
to joke, intelligent without trying to sound erudite, and he made it plain he expected nothing.

  The lunch stretched on and then suddenly it was close to one thirty and time for me to go.

  “I had a great time,” he said. “But then I talked the whole time, so I suppose that’s obvious. You should’ve shut me up.”

  “I enjoyed listening to you.”

  He scowled at me, disbelieving, and warned, “Next time it will be your turn to talk.”

  “Next time?”

  “Would you go to dinner with me?”

  “I would,” I found myself saying.

  “Tonight?” he asked, his eyes hopeful.

  “I’ll try,” I promised and actually intended to do so. “Call me around six.” I gave him my address in case the magic knocked the phone out.

  I insisted on paying my half of the lunch and declined an offer to be walked to my car. The day I needed an escort was the day I’d turn my saber over to someone who knew what to do with it.

  “MR. NATARAJA WOULD BE DELIGHTED TO SPEAK with you,” a cultured male voice informed me through the phone. “However, his schedule is extremely busy for the next month.”

  I sighed, tapping my nails on Greg’s kitchen table. “I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name . . .”

  “Charles Cole.”

  “I tell you what, Charles, get Rowena on the line for me now, and I won’t tell Nataraja that you’ve tried to stonewall the Order-appointed investigator he’s been waiting for.”

  There was silence and then Charles said in a slightly strained voice, “One moment, please.”

  I waited by the phone, very pleased with myself. There was a click, and Rowena’s flawless voice said, “Kate, my deepest apologies. What an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

  Score one for me. “No offense taken,” I told her. I could afford to be gracious. “I was notified that Nataraja would like to speak to me.”

  “Indeed. Unfortunately, he’s in the field. If he knew of your intention to visit, he would have postponed. He will be back this evening and I would be indebted to you if you could meet with us later, let’s say at two tonight?”

  Score one for Rowena. “No problem.”

  “Thank you, Kate,” she said.

  We said good-byes and hung up. She had a way of subtly turning every conversation personal, as if the matter discussed was vital to her and any refusal of her request would injure her. It worked both ways—when you agreed to something, she acted as if you did her a great personal favor. It was an art I would have loved to learn. Unfortunately I had neither time nor patience to spare.

  Unsure what to do next, I tapped my fingernails on the table. Until I got my interview with Corwin, I could not eliminate him as a suspect and I had no other suspects so far. Maybe if I annoyed Nataraja enough, he would supply me with other leads, but it wouldn’t happen until tonight, which left twelve empty hours. I looked around the apartment. It had lost its immaculate air. There was dust on the windowsill, and several dishes sat in the sink. I pushed myself free of the chair and started looking for the broom, rags, and bleach. Come to think of it, a nap wouldn’t hurt either. I had a long night to look forward to.

  When I woke up later in the now clean apartment, the light outside had turned the deep purple of late evening.

  Crest hadn’t called. Too bad.

  An interesting thought occurred to me while I lay for a few extra precious seconds in my bed, staring out the barred window at the encroaching twilight. I held on to it, padded to the kitchen, and called the Order, hoping Maxine was still there. The phone was turning into my weapon of choice.

  Maxine answered.

  “Good evening, Kate.”

  “Do you always work late?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “If I asked you to check on something for me, would you do it?”

  “That’s what I’m here for, dear.”

  I told her about the missing women. “The cops are involved so there has to be a file on at least one of those women, Sandra Molot. I need to know if they did a general homing spell using one of her personal effects. And same for the other three.”

  “Hold on, dear, I’ll try to find out.”

  She put me on hold. I waited, listening to the small noises coming over the empty phone line. The night had fallen, and the apartment was dark, save for the kitchen, and eerily quiet.

  Tap. Tap.

  Something scratched at my kitchen window. It was a small sound, like a dry twig striking the glass.

  I was on the third floor. No trees stood close to the building.

  Tap.

  Silently I backed into the hallway and picked up Slayer, cradling the phone between my cheek and my shoulder.

  The line came alive and I almost jumped. “Jennifer Ying has no file,” Maxine said.

  “Aha.” I turned the light off, drowning the kitchen in darkness.

  Tap. Tap.

  I moved to the window.

  “They do have files on the other three women.”

  I reached for the curtain and jerked it aside. Two amber eyes glared at me, full of longing and hunger. A face that was a meld of wolf and human leaned on the glass. Its misshapen horrid jaws did not fit together right and long strands of drool hung from its crooked yellowed teeth.

  The skin around the lupine nose wrinkled. The nightmarish thing sniffed the glass, blowing air through its black nostrils and making a small opaque circle of condensation. It raised one deformed hand and tapped the glass with an inch-long claw.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  “Both standard and high-end locating spells were made in all three cases. They were blocked and produced no results. Kate?”

  “Thank you very much, Maxine,” I said, unable to take my gaze off the monster at my window. “I have to go now.”

  “Any time, dear. Play nice with the wolf.”

  Carefully I put the phone aside. Slayer in hand, I murmured the spell dissolving the ward around the glass and unlocked the window.

  The claws hooked the window’s edge and effortlessly slid it upward. The wolf-man stepped inside with marked slowness, one furry sinewy leg at a time, and stood seven feet tall in my kitchen. Dense gray fur sheathed its head, shoulders, back, and limbs, leaving the sickening face and the muscular chest bare. I could see round dark spots dot-ting the skin tightly stretched over his pectorals.

  “Alright, pretty boy. What do you have for me?”

  He reached toward me, holding a large envelope in his claws. A red wax seal with some sort of imprint secured the envelope.

  “Open it,” I directed.

  The wolf-man clumsily snapped the seal, pulled out a single piece of paper, holding it with his claws, and offered it to me. I took it. His claws left small tears in the paper.

  Four lines written in beautiful calligraphy said

  His Majesty Curran,

  the chosen Lord of Free Beasts,

  requests your presence at the meeting of his Pack

  at 22:00 of this night.

  The paper was signed with a scribble.

  “My own fault, huh,” I said to the wolf-man. “I did tell him I wanted a formal invitation.”

  The wolf stared at me. His drool made small sticky puddles on the kitchen linoleum. I thought of being alone with two hundred monsters just like him, each faster and stronger than me, ready to tear me apart at the whim of their leader, and a sinking feeling sucked at my stomach. I didn’t want to go.

  “Are you supposed to escort me?”

  The nightmare opened his mouth and produced a low guttural growl, the frustrated snarl of a mind gifted with the power of speech but locked in a body unable to produce the words. Only the most adept of the shapechangers could speak in a midform.

  “Nod, if yes,” I said.

  The wolf nodded slowly.

  “Very well. I need to change. Stay here. Don’t move. This is a dangerous place for a wolf. Nod if you understand.”

  He nodded.

  I stepped into the ha
llway and touched the wall, activating the ward. A translucent red partition materialized in the doorway, separating the kitchen and the monster within from the rest of the apartment. I went to get dressed.

  I CHOSE LOOSE DARK GRAY PANTS, CUT TO FLARE at the bottom. They masked my foot when I kicked. The prospect of many claws at my back made me think of light armor, but my suit waited for me at my real house along with the rest of my supplies, long overdue. Not that it would help anyway, not in the middle of the Pack. I dug in the closet, where I kept a couple changes of clothes. When Greg was alive, I only came to his apartment as a last resort, which usually meant I was bleeding and my clothes were ruined.

  I thumbed through the outfits and my hands grazed leather. A black leather jacket. I could dimly recall wearing it at some point. Must’ve been during my “Oh look, I’m tough!” days. I slipped it on and looked in the bedroom mirror. I looked like a bravo. And it was hot. Oh well. It was better than nothing. I took the jacket off, changed my T-shirt for a dark gray tank top, slipped on the tangle of the back sheath, and put the jacket on again. Thugs are us. Great. Just add a super-tight ponytail and loads of mascara, and I’d be ripe to play a supervillain’s evil mistress. Ve haf vays of making you gif us your DNA sample.

  I settled for my usual braid.

  Having rebraided my hair, I paused, considered the arsenal available to me, put on thin wristbands loaded with silver needles, and took nothing else except Slayer. To get clear of two hundred enraged shapechangers I’d need a case of grenades and air support. There was no reason to weigh myself down with extra weapons. Then again, maybe I should take a knife. One knife, as a backup. Okay, two. And that’s it.

  Armed and dressed to kill—or rather to die quickly but in style—I went to get the wolf-man and together we took the gloomy staircase down to the street. I held Betsi’s back door open for my guide and he slid into the backseat. As we started out of the parking lot, his claw tapped me on the back and pointed to the left. I took the hint and turned in that direction.

  The traffic was light, almost nonexistent. Deserted streets, flooded with a yellow electric radiance, stretched before us. Few people owned cars that ran during tech. There was no need to invest in them, since it was plain that magic was gaining the upper hand.