Magic Bites

by Ilona Andrews

  On the roof Nick struggled with something tall and clawed as the dragon snapped, trying to skewer them both with its fangs.

  Magic grew, flowing into me and through my blood and flesh bonding with the fire. My hands blistered as I paid the fire for its service.

  “Hesaad,” I whispered to the flame. Mine. Suffused with my blood, the fire flinched like a living thing, no longer a simple reaction of oxidation but a force alive with the power it borrowed from magic. “Amehe.” Obey. “Amehe, amehe, amehe . . .”

  The flames detached from the refuse that served as its fuel. An enormous fireball hovered before me. With a wave of my hand, I released it. It streaked across the yard, roaring with fury, and smashed into the dragon’s jagged spine. The impact broke the dragon in two. The back half fell, burning, while the front, lacking support, sagged to the ground, the huge head stretching helplessly, still trying to reach the combatants on the roof.

  The flames consumed the undead flesh. It was so tempting to sink to the ground and watch them, but if I did that, I would not get up again.

  I gripped Slayer’s hilt and the skin on my right hand split. I cried out and let go. The pain was too much. My charred fingers found a vial of anesthetic in my belt. Numb. I had to make my hands numb. The belt wouldn’t release the vial and my ruined fingers were so clumsy. Tears wetted my cheeks. Finally the vial came free and I gripped the cork with my teeth, pulling it out. I spat the cork to the ground and shook the vial, throwing a cloud of dust into the air. I walked into the dust, my hands before me. The world swayed, growing distorted, and numbness came.

  I watched myself reach for the sword and grip the handle I couldn’t feel and pull the sword free. Turning I walked across the yard to where Curran still fought with the upir.

  A piercing howl cut through the roar of the fire, a scream of pure towering fury, so potent it could only be human. Two bodies plummeted to the ground from the roof. One of them wore a trenchcoat.

  “Good-bye, Nick,” I whispered, as the bodies smashed into refuse. The Crusader’s scream died with him. The dragon shuddered and melted, decomposing before my eyes into a pile of bone and ooze. The abomination’s pilot was dead.

  I dragged myself across the yard. I could see the bloodstain on my T-shirt now. Not that much time left.

  I saw Curran, exhausted and bleeding from a dozen places. Bono’s body looked misshapen, as if he was missing pieces of himself. It looked like whole sections of muscle had been torn from his body and his skin had simply closed over them.

  The upir spun the spear off his neck, catching it with ease and rammed its point into Curran’s thigh. Curran snarled and ripped into the upir, tearing great chunks of meat from Bono’s chest. The upir cried out and danced away. His skin knitted itself over the wound.

  My legs failed me and I fell. The poison sphere rolled out of my pocket beyond my reach. Nice going, Kate. Nice going.

  I bent my neck and watched the battle upside down, unable to flinch when their blood splashed me.

  They were tired. Both of them. There were no taunts, no showy roars. Just fighting, grisly, bloody, and painful.

  Once again Bono danced away, light on his feet. Curran snarled low and saw me. His gaze locked on me for a moment and I knew that this was it.

  Bono lunged. Curran knocked away the spear, ripping at the upir’s leg and missing, deliberately too slow. The spear came back in a shiny arch. Bono thrust. The razor-sharp point slid into Curran’s stomach and out his back, pinning him to the ground. But Bono had leaned forward, putting all his strength into the thrust. Curran’s massive hands gripped him by the shoulders. Enormous muscles strained. A horrible snarl ripped from Curran’s mouth. Bones broke, muscle snapped, and I saw light through Bono’s chest, as Curran tore his torso in two. For a moment the two halves of the chest were upright, the head and neck on the left half sticking out at a strange angle, and then the upir lost his balance and tumbled into the dirt.

  Curran sagged against the spear. Blood poured from his mouth and his face went slack. “No,” I heard myself whisper. “Please, no.”

  The upir’s body jerked. His mangled chest shuddered and slowly he rose to his knees. He remained upright for a moment, fell again and pushed himself forward across the soot-stained ground toward me.

  I watched him crawl, his body straining to mend the damage. His head came level with mine. I could see the red sack of his heart pulsing through the gap in his chest half-hidden by ruined spongy lungs.

  “Nice fight,” he said through the bloodstained lips. His right eye wouldn’t stop blinking. “Something to remember on our honeymoon.”

  I jammed the bone blade into his heart.

  Bono screamed. His unearthly howl shook the prison and the windows exploded. His hands flailed, trying to reach the dagger, but failed to find the small blade. He clawed at my neck, but I couldn’t feel it. It didn’t matter. That final thrust had taken everything I had.

  There was nothing left to do but to lie here. I’d see him die before I did. That would be enough for me.

  Bono lay on his back. “I don’t want to die,” he whispered between short, hoarse breaths. “I don’t want to die . . .”

  His body began to smoke. First a thin sheen of indigo fog coated his skin and then it grew, curling into long tendrils and escaping into the night sky.

  “My power . . . leaving me,” Bono rasped. The smoke thickened and the upir began to whisper in the language of power. His words made no sense to me. He chanted feverishly, trying to hold onto life or simply praying, I wasn’t sure which.

  A shudder troubled his ruined body. His speech faltered. His heels dug into the ground. The blue smoke vanished, like the light of a candle snuffed out by someone’s breath. The upir’s unblinking eyes stared into the night. It was over.

  I wished I could push myself farther and reach Curran. Maybe I’d have someone to fight with in the afterlife if we went together.

  It was a hell of a kiss . . .

  Darkness claimed me.

  EPILOGUE

  HELL LOOKED A LOT LIKE MY HOUSE.

  I lay under what appeared to be one of my blankets on what appeared to be my bed. A dull gnawing pain chewed on my ribs. Do people still feel pain in the afterlife?

  There was a glass of water sitting on the night table next to the bed. Suddenly I was very thirsty. I reached for the glass and discovered that both my hands were heavily bandaged. I stared stupidly at the bandages then at the glass.

  A hand wearing a cutoff glove picked up the glass and offered it to me.

  “For a second I thought I might actually be alive,” I said, looking at Nick’s unshaven face. “Now I know—I’ve gone to Hell and you’re my nursemaid.”

  “You’re not as funny as you think,” he said. “Drink the water.”

  I did. It hurt going down.

  He took the glass away from me and got up, trenchcoat brushing the edge of my blanket.

  “Careful with the germs there,” I said.

  “My germs are the least of your problems,” he said. He reached over, swiped his fingers across my arm, and studied the glow. “Doesn’t usually shine this bright. Or last this long.” He turned slowly, surveying my place: the old, beat-up couch, the scratched night table, the ancient rug, the basket full of clean laundry, all threadbare jeans and faded T-shirts, and waved his shimmering fingers. “See? Still going.”

  I raised my bandaged hand and put it on his fingers, smothering the glow. So many people died because of me. Every time I thought about it, my chest ached, and I wanted to grab onto someone and make them tell me it would be alright, the way I wanted to hear it at my father’s funeral. But there was nobody left. And if someone did reassure me, they would be lying.

  I always went out looking for other people’s trouble. Strangers hired me to solve their problems. I’ve spent years making sure problems did not ram my door and tear my life apart. And it didn’t work. So much time wasted. And what did I have to show for it, except the body count?
<
br />   “Responsibility is a bitch,” Nick said.

  “Yeah.”

  He took my hand off of his. A faint white radiance still danced on his skin. He shook his head, as if in wonder. “If I were on my own, packing some power, and for some reason not wanting to be found, I might lay low for a while. But I’d know that sooner or later I’d have to come out and play, because whoever’s looking for me would eventually find me. I’d start building some connections. The thing about a lone wolf? Once you corner it, it has no one to turn to.”

  He put a small rectangle of paper on the blanket and walked away. I swiped the card. A phone number without any name or address. I stuck it under my pillow.

  “Curran?” I called after him.

  “He made it,” Nick said.

  Later Doolittle came to visit me. He replaced my bandages, helped me to the bathroom, and told me how Mahon had sent a scouting party looking for us despite Curran’s orders and how the scouts missed us because of the enchantment placed on Red Point. We might have died where we lay if Nick hadn’t stumbled out of the gates.

  They had found sixteen women in Red Point, battered and abused to the point of near death. For seven others we had come too late. Their corpses escaped the horror of the Red Point in body bags. They found Derek too, locked in one of the small rooms.

  Someone finally called the cops and the Paranormal Activity Division had descended onto the old prison like a pack of dogs onto a lost kitten. They unearthed a graveyard of human bones in one of the cellars, enough skeletons to keep the morgue busy for the next year.

  Doolittle forbade me to mess with my bandages for another forty-eight hours and left, promising to send a nurse in his stead. While he was gone, the magic hit and I spent two hours muttering the chants to repair my hands and the wards about my house. By the time the nurse arrived, the defenses were up and she couldn’t get in. I listened to her yell for about twenty minutes and then she left.

  I didn’t want anyone with me. Solitude felt good for now.

  I lay in bed, once in a while making a heroic journey to the bathroom, and thought a lot. There wasn’t much else to do but think.

  Later, I received a visit from the Paranormal Activity Division, whom the ward, unfortunately, didn’t deter. Two plainclothes detectives alternatively tried to charm and bully me into giving them a statement without a Guild representative present. I lost my patience forty-five minutes into our conversation and pretended to fall asleep, forcing them to leave.

  The next morning I was walking, not very well, but walking. Considering my rapid progress, I pulled the bandages off my hands. I had no nails, but other than that, my hands looked normal. Very pale, but normal. If it wasn’t for magic, they would’ve taken months to heal. But then if it wasn’t for magic, I wouldn’t have ended up in this mess.

  Anna called. We spoke and after a few minutes our conversation grew increasingly strained until she said, “You’ve changed.”

  “In what way?”

  “You sound like you’ve aged five years.”

  “A lot happened,” I said simply.

  “Will you tell me about it?”

  “Not right now. Later sometime.”

  “I see. Do you need help?”

  I did, but I didn’t want her there and I wasn’t sure why. “No, I’m fine.”

  She didn’t insist and I was grateful.

  The next evening brought another visit from Doolittle, who fussed until I let him in. He released my ribs from the bandages, revealing a long jagged scar snaking its way across my ribcage. He thought it might dissolve in time. I didn’t think so. Even if it did, the damage to my person was already done and no amount of magic would wipe it away.

  A week passed without any news. As soon as I was able to manipulate a pen to my satisfaction, I wrote a long report detailing the investigation, tied a pretty blue ribbon around it, addressed it to the Order including a request to forward a copy to the Guild, and left it for the mailman.

  My nails started to grow, for which I was grateful. My fingers had looked odd without them. The pile of unopened mail grew too, slowly building in the basket by my door. I ignored it. There were bound to be some bank notices in there, threatening to do horrible things to me unless I fixed my overdraft. I didn’t want to deal with them.

  I thought a lot while sitting in the sun drinking iced tea during the day, and coffee in the evenings, and read. Anna called again, but sensing that I didn’t want to talk, she kept the conversation embarrassingly short.

  During one of those sunshine-filled days, I raided the cabinet where I kept my wine and dumped it into the sink, leaving myself a single bottle of Boone’s Farm Sangria. For a special occasion.

  The next Sunday I awoke early, disturbed by a loud banging. It echoed through the house, ricocheting from the walls. I listened to it for a few moments, making sure it wasn’t a figment of my imagination, then grudgingly hauled myself out of the bed and went to investigate.

  A quick reconnaissance identified the sound’s point of origin, namely my roof, and I went into the yard to get a good look at it. The sun was already up and beginning to grill the ground. I looked at the top of the house and saw the Beast Lord in a torn T-shirt and paint-stained jeans. He held a hammer in a very businesslike manner and was applying it to my roof. Derek sat next to him, dutifully passing him shingles.

  The world had gone insane.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I called.

  Curran stopped hammering and looked at me. “Sure.”

  “What are you doing on my roof?”

  “I’m teaching the kid a valuable skill,” Curran said.

  Derek coughed. I chewed on that for a moment and opened my mouth, but before I could say anything, the phone rang.

  “Get off my roof,” I said and went to pick it up.

  “Ms. Daniels?” said an unfamiliar male voice into the receiver.

  “Kate.”

  The hole above my hallway was almost gone. Curran showed no signs of stopping.

  “Kate, this is Detective Gray with PAD.”

  “You would be which of the two bulldo . . . law enforcement professionals that came to my house?”

  “Neither.”

  The hammering gained new intensity as if Curran was trying to pound the house into the ground. I guessed he was trying to get the nails all the way in with one hit.

  “I’m here with Knight-protector Monahan. He informed me of your involvement with the Red Point Stalker murders.”

  Red Point Stalker. Ugh. Sounded like some half-baked made-for-TV mystery.

  The hammering had reached deafening levels.

  “We’re impressed. If you don’t mind me asking, what is that banging?”

  “Just a minute.” I put the receiver on the table and yelled, “Curran!”

  “What?”

  “Could you hold a minute? I’m on the phone with PAD.”

  He growled something, but the hammering ceased.

  “I’m sorry. You were saying . . . ?” I asked the phone.

  “I was saying that we’re very impressed with your work. We contacted the Pack and the Beast Lord had very good things to say about you.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just a minute.” I lowered the receiver. “Curran?”

  “What?”

  “Did you get a call from PAD about me?”

  “I may have.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I don’t recall. I think I mentioned your discipline and ability to follow orders. I may have said something about you being a team player.”

  Derek emitted a strangled cough.

  “Why?” I demanded.

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Curran resumed hammering.

  “I’m sorry,” I said into the phone, sticking my finger into my other ear so I could hear. “His Majesty tends to exaggerate things. I’m not a team player. I’m undisciplined and I have a problem with authority. Also, the Beast Lord
can’t hammer for shit.”

  On the roof Derek was laughing his head off.

  “I wasn’t looking for a team player,” Gray said.

  “Oh.”

  “What do you know about Marduk?”

  “An ancient deity. Prefers human sacrifice. He’s particular about how it’s prepared. Why?”

  “I’m looking for an Order representative to assist my team with one of our cases. Your name came up.”

  “I’m flattered but I have no authority to represent the Order.”

  “Knight-protector says that you do.”

  “Oh.” Oh was a nice word. Short and neutral.

  “I spoke to the Guild; they are on board. They recognize a need for a liaison between themselves and the Order and it seems everyone would be happy if you took the job.”

  Liaison between the Guild and the Order. A salary. An actual salary—probably embarrassingly small—but still, a salary. Unfortunately in my current financial state “small” would prove to be a problem. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I would love to help you but I can’t. I’m broke. As a matter of fact, at the moment I’m less than penniless, and I’ll have to take a regular Guild gig before I can commit to anything else.”

  There was a muffled sound of distant conversation and Gray said, “The knight-protector’s asking if you’ve checked your mail lately.”

  I poked the pile of correspondence with my foot and it spilled onto the floor.

  “Is there something in particular I should be looking for?”

  “A blue envelope.”

  I fished the blue envelope out of the pile and opened it, cradling the receiver between my shoulder and my ear. A beautiful statement looked back at me, boasting of six thousand dollars being deposited into my account. The caption stated, “For services rendered as stated in accordance with Article M1.” M1 covered crusaders. Unlike most knights, they didn’t draw a salary but were paid per job.

  “Please tell him thank you for me.” I’d never become a crusader, Ted and I both knew it. But I was grateful for the rescue.

  “I will,” Gray said. “So will you take the job?”