by Kira Brady
Grace only shook her head. She retrieved the necklace from the cat and handed it back to Kayla, pointedly ignoring Hart. He could practically feel the frost in the air. Screw her. She knew his orders. The golden bands tied her hands as much as the rest of them. The blood debt must be repaid.
“Anyway, you can’t destroy it,” Grace said. She knelt once more in the center of her salt circle. Her shoulders were tense. “Everything is connected. The necklace to the Gate. The Gate to the Aether. The Aether to the volcanic core of the planet. Destroy the key, and it might blow us all sky high.”
Corbette stabbed the Norwegian flag that stood for his enemy’s camp into the 3-D map of the Pacific Northwest spread out before him. The four Thunderbirds who stood around the table planning strategy looked up with various expressions of surprise. Usually he kept a better leash on himself. “The Ballard Bluff,” he said. “So close and yet untouchable if the humans are to remain ignorant.”
“Dynamite.” Kai leaned back in the leather armchair and stretched his booted heels toward the fire. He had taken off his suit jacket hours ago. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his cravat undone. His black hair curled around his shoulders like he’d just crawled out of some tawdry bed. Corbette knew he should reprimand the Thunderbird for his lack of decorum, but a migraine was building behind his temples, and for once, he couldn’t cough up enough energy to care. “Smoke Norgard out and duke it out once and for all.”
Kai had a point. Corbette could order his army to decimate the entire cliff face, and Norgard would have nowhere to hide. Enough of this secretive cloak-and-dagger bullshit.
Jace nodded in agreement. Unlike his brother, Jace hadn’t let a grueling strategy session take the starch out of his sails. Proper and sharp as a razor. Corbette wished he had ten more just like him. “The old warriors didn’t worry about the repercussions when they annihilated the Unktehila. They answered to no man.”
“But the world isn’t ready for us,” Corbette said.
“Will they ever be?” Theodore, head of the Eastern House, leaned his blond head against the mahogany bookcase in back of him. The same fatigue Corbette felt was mirrored in the tired lines of his eyes. “I’m not suggesting we come out now; the government would lock us up and throw away the key—”
“I’d like to see them try,” Will growled. The head of the Southern House moved the flag representing his aerial warriors to the choppy blue waves on the map. He and Theo were the only surviving Thunderbirds to have served under Corbette’s father. They knew what Norgard was capable of. They knew the price of open doors and laissez-faire politics. The Kivati had almost been destroyed once. Corbette hadn’t worked this hard to let it happen now.
“Maybe if one of the other races came out first,” Kai suggested.
Will scoffed. “Fledgling, you don’t have a clue what the human government does to ‘others.’”
“It’s different now, old man,” Kai said. “No one’s going to hand us pox-infested blankets and stick us on a reservation. Minorities have rights.”
“Like hell. No one in his right mind would come out of the supernatural closet. Humans are just as fear mongering as they ever were. They’re banning Harry Potter in the south, and that shit’s not even real.”
“Gentlemen.” Corbette held his hands up. “Let’s return to task: crippling Norgard’s industrial capabilities—” An urgent rapping on the study door interrupted him. “Enter.”
Lucia’s governess stuck her head in, her lined face pinched with worry. “It’s Lady Lucia; she’s run away. I found her window open. She can’t have been gone more than twenty minutes, but I thought you should know—”
“Thank you, Ms. Harlow.” She nodded and ducked back out. Corbette turned to his generals, who were all suddenly alert. “Send out the sentinels. Jace, search the grounds. You three: Spread out. Find her.” Corbette stood. He let the anger wash over him and embraced its heat and vitality. Fire burned down his arms as black feathers burst through his skin. They sprouted and lengthened to touch the floor. His nose and mouth jutted out into a wicked sharp beak. Pain skittered over his nerves; he relished it.
A mental push of the Aether opened the French doors onto his balcony, and he shot into the air. Beating his massive wings once, twice, he sailed into the night. His Thunderbirds followed and split off to search. Heavy clouds hung low to the east like sodden cotton balls, pregnant with waiting water. The moon rose fat and bloated over Puget Sound, yellowed and pockmarked like old bone. The humid air slowed him down, and he added that frustration to his burgeoning anger.
What was the girl thinking? He couldn’t wrap his mind around it. She didn’t take her position seriously. Didn’t she realize she was the savior of his people? Didn’t she realize how close to extinction they were? Their survival depended on her, yet she chose to dishonor them time and again.
He sent a command into the Aether and ordered the crows throughout the city to rise up and search. He sailed over the gritty metropolis with its towering steel and dingy alleys. He tried to tamp down his anger so that he could focus on finding one small woman in the scurrying streets below.
It wasn’t long before the crows located her. He swung west toward the aging seawall. The thick concrete barrier kept out not only the powerful waves, but also the darker spirits of the deep water. He landed near the new tunnel left by the deep bore machine and Changed. Tremors from the cracked Gate were strong here. He could practically see the tattered edges waving in front of him, dark spirits and demons pouring out into the dirty city street. He would have to do something to stabilize it. Would he ever find a permanent solution? These stopgap measures wouldn’t hold it much longer.
The princess stood outside the chain-link fence that kept trespassers out of the tunnel. Her long blond hair was unbound, and the harsh sea wind whipped it angrily around her head. Her demure white gown glowed ghostlike in the light of the swollen moon. She clutched a knitted lace stole against the cold and pretended not to notice him, but a slight stiffening of her shoulders gave her away.
Corbette took a moment to calm his anger. He studied her. How often did he take the time to really look at her—the woman behind the title? He knew she resented her lack of privacy. Any self-respecting teenager hated to be told what to do, and Lucia was allowed to do little on her own. He sympathized, though he himself had not known the freedom of childhood. He had been raised to be the Raven Lord. Occasionally, he’d chafed at the heavy yoke of responsibility, but he took solace in the honor of seeing his people safe. Why couldn’t she see it the same way?
“I dream,” she said in a small voice that broke him out of his musings, “of people screaming. They cry out for help, but I can never reach them.” She raised her thin, ungloved hand and placed it lightly on the fence, as if reaching out to those poor souls.
Corbette was startled. Lucia hadn’t shown any of the talents the Crane Wife was supposed to possess. But maybe there was still hope for her. Dream visions were the domain of the Harbinger. “Is that why you can’t sleep?” he asked.
She nodded. She looked younger without her usual shield of haughtiness. The Aether swirled around her like an old friend. It sparkled over her alabaster skin and danced in the blue depths of her eyes. She seemed ignorant of it.
“You shouldn’t have left the Hall.” He knew that was the wrong thing to say, but he didn’t know how to comfort her in the vision’s aftermath.
“What happened here?” she asked. She rubbed her arms against the cold.
“Mayor White is tunneling beneath downtown for a new light rail line. You know that. We’ve been trying to stop it, but Norgard has thrown up hurdles against all our efforts.”
“And before that? In this spot?”
“There was a Drekar brothel that burned down.”
“You mean we blew it up.” She shivered. “I can feel the sorrow. It’s so thick in the air I can almost touch it.”
“Yes.” And wasn’t that one word loaded with uselessness? He wasn’t adept at
expressing emotion. He knew his subjects whispered that he had no heart, that he was cold inside and out. He felt as much as any of them. He simply lacked the freedom to express anything other than total control.
The crows alerted him to the arrival of his steam car.
“Let us return, my lady,” he commanded. He held out his arm to her.
Reluctantly, she took it.
“I will take care of you,” he promised. If she would only stay put.
Chapter 9
Deep in the Underground beneath Pioneer Square, Hart felt the first rush of hope. The necklace was in his pocket. Freedom was in his grasp. It was almost too good to be true.
Kayla had given him the necklace for safekeeping. It was too easy. When she learned he’d given it away, she would be pissed. She wouldn’t understand. Couldn’t. His life was so far removed from anything she knew. A couple dead bodies, a few shape-shifter encounters, a little blood magic—and she thought she’d seen it all. That was the tip of the iceberg. He’d helped her out of a tough spot once or twice, and she thought him some kind of hero. Let her keep her illusions. Let her wonder why he’d done it, but never know the truth.
He passed a trip wire, gave the password to the watch, and made his way into the heart of Norgard’s den of thieves. The dimly lit main cave acted as command center for opium running and prostitution. Stacks of stolen and illegal merchandise rose to the ceiling. A mess of cables and monitors in the center displayed video feeds from all over the city, from the mayor and city council offices to the bank vaults and the traffic cams. A passel of ratty kids sat watching the monitors. More were stationed through the city, taking notes with their own eyes in case the power to the monitors failed, as it often did. They were mostly outcasts and runaways. Norgard culled the sharpest from the litter and brought them here under his wing. Trained them to steal, spy, and murder.
A regular Fagan, Norgard was.
The mortality rate was high. Hart couldn’t keep track of the current runners, the youngest of the bunch, but he recognized the others.
In the corner, a few operatives watched TV while they cleaned their weapons. Nearby, two men in camouflage pants and white muscle shirts shot pool beneath an antique Tiffany-style lamp. They wore glowing gold bands around their biceps, just as he did, displaying their blood-slave status.
No one looked up to acknowledge him. In the reflection of the monitors, Hart watched the kids’ eyes follow him.
Something was up.
He played it cool. Shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it across a stack of boxes. He got loose, rolling his neck, cracking his knuckles, stretching his arms like he was getting good and comfortable. The buzz of machinery and thwack of the pool balls masked the sound of footsteps behind him, but his nose caught the unmistakable stench of sweat and fear.
A second later something sharp whistled through the air toward his head. Hart was ready for it. He caught the assailant by surprise, flipping him over and sending him flying into a stack of boxes against the far wall with a crash.
The kid—a burly teenager with long greasy hair and a face like a Doberman—was back on his feet in seconds, his eyes flashing with shaken confidence. He charged. Hart swept his feet out from under him in one swift kick. The kid popped back up, ready for more. His style was quick and dirty; he was a street fighter, like most of them. He fought like his life depended on it.
It did.
Hart danced around him, light on his toes despite his large frame, avoiding the desperate kicks and punches the boy threw at him.
“Coward!” The kid breathed fast and hard. “Fight me, you fucker!”
Hart didn’t want to hit a kid, but he knew this wouldn’t end unless he did. He sidestepped another lunge and tripped the kid again with a heavy boot to the ankle.
The kid grunted as he fell. He rolled. A knife flashed in his hand. His eyes glistened with hate and fear.
“Enough play. Finish it,” Norgard said from behind him.
Hart didn’t turn around, but he knew the Dreki watched the fight with no emotion. Gone were the charm and winning smile. Unmasked, Norgard was merciless. Lethal. To the world he was a compassionate businessman, leading the community to a better tomorrow. In the shadows he pulled strings, engaged in human trafficking, and sent his trained mercenaries to silence the opposition.
“I can do it, master.” The kid wiped his nose, leaving a smear of blood across his cheek.
Hart almost felt sorry for him, but it was no mercy to go easy. The initiation process was brutal, designed to train warriors for a brutal life. Better to show the kid the misery he was in for while there was still a small chance of escape.
Norgard breathed his name, and Hart felt the bands on his biceps tighten. He had no choice but to obey.
He let the emptiness flow through him, erased from his mind everything but the quick elimination of the target. His fists flew. An uppercut rocked into the kid’s jaw and an elbow jab to the kidneys knocked the air from his lungs. It was over in less than a second.
The kid lay gasping on the ground, blood trickling down his nose. Angry, fresh bruises decorated his ugly face.
Hart turned from the kid and stood at attention, his feet apart, his hands clasped behind his back. He should have felt nothing, but all he could think was how disappointed Kayla would be.
“You have failed,” Norgard said, looking at the boy from his cold, dead eyes. He wore a thick silk robe that swirled around his feet. The sleeves hid his hands. His white-blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail that kissed his shoulder blades.
Around them the circle of operatives and runners tightened.
“No, I . . .” The kid searched each face frantically, looking for a glimmer of mercy. He found none.
“Did you not promise me your fidelity?” Norgard asked softly.
“Y-yes.” The kid pulled himself to his knees. His whole body shook.
“And did I not ask that you win this fight for me?”
“Yes.” The kid looked younger now that the swagger was kicked out of him. “I-I tried but—”
“Tried? What use is trying?” Norgard raised his eyes and asked the faces around him. A murmur of distain rumbled through the group. “Failure is death in this world, boy.” It was cold, hard truth. “What use is a weapon that fails?”
The boy’s face paled.
“No use,” Norgard said. “No use at all.”
“P-please, sir.” The kid crawled forward on his knees. “Master, please give me another chance.”
“There are no second chances.”
“Please! Please . . .” The kid grabbed at the hem of his robe. “I’ll do anything . . . anything at all.”
Hart stared at the wall straight ahead. He knew what was coming. He had been that boy once. Pleading no longer moved him, if it ever had. He had no pity, no mercy, no goodness left in him. At least, he shouldn’t. Last week, maybe, he hadn’t. Today? Today his emotions were jumbled together, fighting to rewake the man he’d been half a lifetime ago.
“Please!” the kid begged again.
Rank fear filled the air. Hart’s canines lengthened in anticipation, cutting into his lower lip. A drop of blood welled sweet on his tongue, and it reminded him of Kayla. Her blood stark against the cold marble crypt. Her blood racing in her veins as her arousal beckoned. Kayla, her smile brilliant with the success of the hunt. Her nipples pebbled against the cold. Her plump lips parted for invasion.
By the Lady, he should not have let her go. He was a bad guy. A killer. He took what he wanted, when he wanted it. When had he changed?
“I swear to you, I will not fail you again.” The kid said the words that would begin his servitude.
“You see this warrior?” Norgard asked, gesturing to Hart. “He made his first kill at fifteen.”
Hart remembered. He’d been an angry, hurting kid, more animal than man. Fighting over scraps of food in the street. It had been a cruel winter. Chilblains covered his knuckles. His lips cracked and bleeding from
the harsh scrape of wind outside. The moon fever was heavy upon him. In those early days, after his mother’s death, he’d steered clear from the cities with their crowded streets. Far safer to let the moon take him in the forest, where he could hunt deer and elk and let the hot fresh blood sate his madness. But that winter the game was scarce. Snow drove him from the safety of the wild. Half dead with hunger, he let his stomach lead him to a truck stop. He’d fallen asleep in the back of a pickup, and woke in the middle of downtown Seattle.
The moon hovered on the cusp of turning, that bitch of a goddess who sunk her claws deep in his soul. Stumbling down an alley, he’d come upon a small group of street kids warming themselves at a garbage can fire. They were cooking hot dogs, and the smell of the meat had made his eyes flash black and his teeth descend.
Sharing was not on their agenda. He still remembered the taunts and threats of the kids defending their territory, then silence once the firelight revealed his inhuman eyes. The knives were out in a wink. The wind moaned through that alley as they surrounded him. The air was thick with desperation.
He might have been able to stop himself, to fight the call of the early moon and drag himself out of that godforsaken alley to die somewhere else. But he couldn’t fight both the moon and the boys.
The Change took him. Screams rent the dirty, broken lane. Blood splattered the brick walls of the buildings on either side. He didn’t remember the actual fight; he never did in the throes of the madness. The world narrowed to smell, touch, and taste: piss and acrid fear, snap of bone, shred of muscle, the metallic tang of sweet life.
“I found him hunched in an alley next to an overturned garbage can and a dying fire, munching on human bones,” Norgard said. “His face and clothes were soaked red and he was half crazed with bloodlust.” He laughed. Laugh was too light and happy a word. It wasn’t a pretty sound. It was full of malice, tinged with violence. “He growled and snapped at my hand like a rabid pup. But I took him under my wing,” Norgard continued. “Gave him shelter and guidance. Training. He has never failed me.”
