Arcane Heart (Talents Book 2)

by Angela Knight

  Only another Arcanist would recognize the gorgeous images as camouflaged magical symbols designed to amplify his power, direct the flow of his aura, and protect him from magical attacks. All of which was why he considered Marion Fleming a major reason he’d been so successful. And so deadly.

  She’d taught him to kill not long after she’d taught him to tattoo.

  He paused to study the spell he’d inscribed on the floor, checking to make sure every line was where it was supposed to be. A sigil curling left when it should have curved right had killed more than one Arcanist. Satisfied everything was as it should be, he stepped over the chalk lines, careful not to smudge the symbols. Accidentally erasing one of them would be just as suicidal as getting a sigil wrong.

  Finally he knelt before the heavily engraved golden bowl that sat in the heart of the design. It held only a wad of paper towels smeared with rust-brown stains.

  People bled when you tattooed them. That blood carried the client’s DNA -- genetic material an Arcanist could use to anchor any spell he wanted. Not even the most paranoid HHer thought twice when you wiped blood and ink away with a paper towel they assumed you’d throw out. Which Adrian usually did.

  But he made an exception for those special clients for whom he had plans.

  Breathing deeply, slowly, Adrian hooked bare feet over his thighs and straightened his spine. The lotus position was damned uncomfortable -- particularly on icy concrete -- but the discipline it took helped him focus.

  Magic was all about focus.

  He let his eyes slide shut and began to hum, activating a spell. Behind his lids, he watched the glowing symbols on the floor lift into the air and begin to revolve around him. Each sigil warped the currents of the planet’s aura like a stone jutting through the surface of a lake. He could see the tortured energy patterns hazing the air like the heat from a campfire.

  Breathing in through a slow count of three, then out for a count of four, Adrian concentrated on his body’s sensations: the chill, the smell of musty earth, the ache of his bent thighs. Then finally, the slowing beat of his heart.

  When his mental preparation was complete, he reached out, eyes still closed, and plucked the bloody paper towel from its bowl. Wrapping both hands around the wad, he cupped it between his palms and concentrated.

  And felt the answering reverberation of his own magic miles away, where a symbol lay tattooed on Richard Carson’s chest. Right over his heart.

  Like his own, the sigil was hidden beneath the swirl of non-magical ink. A flaming skull blazed the width of Carson’s torso in brilliant golds and reds, concealing the sigil beneath the black ink of one eye socket. Even an Arcanist would have difficulty spotting it against the burn of Carson’s aura.

  Adrian concentrated on the intricate whirls of that distant sigil. Focused on it until a slow, rhythmic beat filled his ears: Carson’s heart.

  His cock hardened in anticipation.

  It had been months since he’d tattooed the sigil. The ritual he’d used to create the magical ink involved his own dried blood. Of course DNA would point the finger right at him if the ink was found and tested, but since spotting it would require an Arcanist pathologist, he wasn’t worried. The county didn’t have anyone like that on staff.

  Good thing he had friends in high places who could be counted on for a vigorous cover-up. Magical murder was a death penalty offense.

  Adrian focused all his attention on his sigil, listening to the rhythmic pulse of the man’s blood through his magical connection to the tatt. Once he felt Carson’s heartbeat as if it was his own, he willed the rhythm to change.

  His target’s heart skipped one beat. Adrian tightened his magical grip, and it skipped again. Another squeeze, then another, faster and faster, until the organ’s muscle fibers began to spasm, losing rhythm, no longer pumping in concert.

  Carson gasped in agony, the sound as clear as if he was in the same room. “Fuck… oh fuck…” Behind his closed eyes, Adrian watched his target lurch to his feet, mouth working as he tried to yell. “Guards!” His barely audible croak didn’t even wake his cellmates. His knees gave under him, and he fell.

  Adrian didn’t feel him hit the floor.

  The magic of Carson’s life force blasted him in an electric rush more intense than a hit of the purest Tink. Adrian threw back his head with a bellow as his cock pulsed, balls tightening as he came.

  * * *

  Erica was waiting in front of her apartment building when Jake pulled up in a white F-150 pickup the next morning. Must be his civilian vehicle. The sheriff’s department might let deputies take their patrol units home so they could respond to emergencies, but you weren’t supposed to use them for personal business.

  “Morning,” Jake said, eying her as she got in. “You’re moving like you’re a bit stiff.”

  “Bruises from my tango with Carson.” She winced at the ache as she put on her seatbelt. “Poor bastard.”

  “Poor bastard?” He snorted. “Yeah, right. I should have hit him harder.”

  Erica lifted a brow at him. “Didn’t you watch the news this morning? He had a heart attack and died in his cell last night.”

  Jake blinked. “Well, shit. That was convenient for somebody.”

  “Wasn’t it, though.”

  “Think it was a coincidence?”

  Erica hesitated before shaking her head. “Got to be, unless there’s an Arc involved we don’t know about.”

  “Like HHers would work with an Arcanist.” He threw the truck into gear.

  “Doesn’t sound likely.” But she frowned as they headed for BFS.

  * * *

  Briggs Feral Sanctuary was located on a hundred acres of farmland that had been in the Briggs family for generations. Which, to some, still didn’t entitle it to exist.

  “Great. Kurt’s got company again,” Jake growled as they rounded a curve in the tree-lined road.

  A ragged line of ten men and three women stretched across the entrance to the park. Their hand-lettered signs read “Kids and tigers don’t mix!” “Laurel Co. is for Humans!”

  “Who the hell is that?” Erica demanded, frowning.

  “HHers,” Jake told her, his jaw tightening.

  Human Heritage was one of the more extreme fringe groups connected to the Humanist movement. They used the Internet to spread lunatic conspiracy theories, such as the idea that melded Ferals like Dave were demon-possessed. They also agitated for government mandated exorcisms for all melded Ferals, whether in animal or human form. If that didn’t work, HHers thought killing them was justified to protect the public from demonic influence.

  He gave her a narrow grin with absolutely no humor in it. “Want to stop and say hi?”

  “Let’s.” She jerked her chin at the pot-bellied middle-aged guy with the AR-15. “We can make sure they’ve got a permit for that. And is that a bump stock?”

  “Looks like it. But this is South Carolina, so it’s perfectly legal.” He pulled off onto the shoulder of the road, parking behind two cars and a pickup that apparently belonged to the protesters.

  Erica slid out of the truck and joined Jake as he started toward the thirteen glowering Humanists. “Considering the odds, it’s a good thing we’re armed,” she murmured. The department required off-duty deputies to carry weapons. Like Jake’s, hers was holstered on her hip.

  “So are they.”

  Taking a closer look, she realized every one of them wore a holstered handgun, including the one with the rifle. “Oh, goody. We’re outgunned.”

  “I’d be intimidated if I thought any of them has ever shot at anything that could shoot back.” As they got within earshot, Jake tapped the badge he wore clipped to his belt and called, “Y’all know better than this. You can picket all you want, but it’s illegal to block the park entrance.”

  “We ain’t blocking shit,” replied the guy with the AR-15. “Anybody dumb enough to want into that devil’s park can get by.”

  “Do you have permits for those guns?” Er
ica demanded.

  AR-15 had a thick, graying beard and a gorgeous tattoo of a dragon wrapped around his bald head. The ink was so vivid, it had to be new. “We got a right to protect ourselves against any tigers that get loose.”

  “The cats are in cages, sir,” Jake rumbled, his voice going dangerously deep. “You sure you’re not planning to flash those weapons at buses full of school tours?”

  “Kids don’t need to be anywhere around demon animals.” AR-15’s beard shifted as his jaw worked, hazel eyes narrowing. “Which is why we’re gonna get this place shut down.”

  Erica had heard enough. “The man who runs BFS damn near died last year protecting this town. He’s a veteran, and so are the Familiars who live here. They deserve --”

  “Yeah, right,” AR-15 sneered as the others muttered agreement. “Briggs was in on it with the terrorists -- everybody knows that. We don’t want ‘em here. We got a right to protest, and we got a right to protect ourselves.”

  “That’s…” Erica swallowed the hot words she badly wanted to say. Damn it, Harris, you’re supposed to be a professional. If there was one thing she’d learned over the past two months as a cop, it was that you couldn’t reason with idiots.

  But you could put them in jail if they gave you an excuse. She was surprised how cool and polite she sounded when she said, “I need to see your ID and weapons permits.”

  AR-15 glared. “We don’t have to show you a damn thing.”

  “You do if you don’t want to go to jail. Identification and permits.”

  The protesters muttered among themselves.

  Jake turned to Erica. “Call dispatch and have them send a transport. Seems these folks want to spend Saturday in jail.”

  “All right, damn it.” AR-15 pulled out his wallet.

  As Jake examined his ID, the man drawled, “I recognize you. You here to see your pussy?”

  Jake looked up, one blond brow slowly lifting. “Would you like to see him, Mr. Garrison?”

  His voice sounded deceptively mild, but AR-15 -- Garrison -- took a step back, eyes widening. Which proved the man was smarter than he looked.

  “You have a right to protest,” Jake continued in that same silken tone. “But if I find out you’re threatening school kids or tourists, you’re going to jail.” His long, steady stare had the whole crowd shifting nervously. Erica suppressed a grim smile. Nobody with a brain wanted to piss Jake Nolan off -- including her.

  There are so many better things to do with him, purred a treasonous little voice in the back of her mind.

  Shut up, she told it.

  It chuffed, sounding a lot like Clarence.

  * * *

  Having determined all the protestors had indeed brought their carry permits, Erica and Jake returned to the truck. As the Humanists parted resentfully to let them pass, she glowered. “Ungrateful fucks. You and Kurt almost died protecting this country. And they have the gall to say you colluded with Virgil-fucking-Ford?”

  “Actually, I’m less worried about that than the fact the protest is working. Tourists don’t like to cross picket lines, especially when the picketers carry guns. Kurt’s worried BFS is going to go out of business if this keeps up.”

  “What the hell is he going to do?” And what would Jake do if BFS closed? He couldn’t exactly keep Clarence in his backyard.

  “I have no idea.”

  The roadway wound through stands of oaks, pines, and maples before turning into BFS’s sprawling parking lot. A surprising number of cars occupied the spaces, considering the armed protesters outside.

  “Well, at least somebody’s here,” Erica commented as Jake parked between an aging Toyota Camry and a big white van, its driver’s door painted with the BFS logo: a lion’s head with Feral gold eyes. The cat’s flowing mane formed the figures of tigers, lynxes, jaguars, ocelots, and mountain lions. “Considering the asshole brigade, I’m surprised.”

  “Most of these cars belong to the volunteers who help take care of the cats. And some of those have quit. Kurt’s started picking them up in the BFS van so they don’t have to drive through the picketers by themselves.”

  Erica frowned. “Is he afraid the Humanists would do something to them?”

  Jake shrugged as they got out. “Maybe, maybe not. But with Kurt behind the wheel, there’s a lot less risk of somebody screaming ‘Talent fucker.’ Even nuts hesitate to pick a fight with Kurt.”

  “Well, duh. He beat the hell out of a terrorist polar bear.”

  Erica and Jake strolled along the looping walkway, past the ticket booth and a souvenir shop, both painted with the BFS logo. Beyond them, the walkway wound between clusters of one-story buildings and a series of curving enclosures built of interlocking galvanized steel wire panels. Designed to withstand a thousand pounds of charging, pissed-off cat, the structures were fifteen feet tall and enclosed enough territory to let the occupants climb trees, run around, and generally entertain themselves.

  Smaller structures were roofed with additional galvanized panels, while larger ones had overhangs angled inward to keep cats from escaping. They housed everything from huge Amur tigers to sand cats that weighed no more than a Siamese. Erica knew that despite the park’s name, most of the animals at Briggs Feral Sanctuary weren’t really Ferals. The majority were rescues from abusive backyard breeders, roadside circuses, or zoos that couldn’t provide for them. Kurt, like his murdered father before him, considered the cats’ well being his mission in life.

  A deep, moaning roar echoed between the trees, making Jake grin in delight. “Sounds like Clarence is getting impatient.” He lengthened his stride until Erica had to hustle to keep up.

  “RRrroooffff!” Clarence bounded across a particularly big enclosure toward them, his magnificent mane flowing behind him, muscle rolling under rich, sandy fur. He was easily the most beautiful cat she’d ever seen, even after years of working with Ferals and their Familiars.

  As if he wasn’t impressive enough by himself, two lionesses ran at his heels. Though they were much smaller than Clarence, there was still a muscular power to them, a wild beauty.

  “You got Clarence a harem?” Erica gave Jake an amused blink.

  “Well, he’s a lion. Cat’s got his pride.”

  As she groaned at the pun, Jake jumped over the low fence that separated the path from the enclosure and headed to the padlocked guillotine door. Pausing, he looked back at her. “I’d invite you to come in with me, but the girls don’t know you.”

  “Since I have no desire to end my life as a chew toy, I concede the point.” Besides, she had absolutely no desire to cross the walkway fence.

  Which really wasn’t like her.

  Frowning, Erica looked down at the cement walk… and sensed a swirl of magic. The sun was so bright she had to close her eyes to see the shapes of glyphs inscribed on the sidewalk in ultraviolet paint. Studying the sigils, she realized the spell was designed to discourage people from getting too close to the enclosures.

  Probably the work of Genevieve Briggs, the Arcanist Kurt had married. Who must have a lot of juice, to have such a strong effect on another Arc. “How do the volunteers get in to take care of the cats with these wards?”

  Jake looked around from unlocking the padlocked guillotine gate that led into an empty section of the cage. “Oh, you mean the spell? Gen gives the volunteers charms that nullify the effects.”

  She knelt, examining the sigils. “Pretty strong work. I’m not sure I could break it.”

  “Kurt’ll be glad to hear it. His worst nightmare is some child sticking a body part into a cage and getting it bitten off. The volunteers watch the tour groups like hawks, but kids are kids.” He stepped into the unoccupied portion of the enclosure, then walked over to unlock the guillotine gate into the half the cats occupied.

  Erica found herself tensing. Clarence wouldn’t hurt him, of course, but those lionesses might be a different matter. Presumably, his Familiar would protect him -- and given his Feral Talent, Jake could touch the minds of n
on-Feral animals too. But even so, big cats were wild animals, and wild animals were always dangerous.

  Which was why even Clarence had to be kept in an enclosure. You could never tell when something would set a Familiar off, no matter how intelligent he was.

  Yet Jake showed no sign of fear as the lion butted up against him and the other cats pressed in close. She didn’t want to imagine what they’d do to somebody they didn’t love.

  “I’d hoped that was you. I knew Jake was here when I heard Clarence roar.”

  “Dave!” She turned with an automatic smile at the sound of her old friend’s voice. And froze, her heart in her throat.

  A huge Amur tiger stood on the walkway not five feet away, a distance it could clear in one bound. And if it did, she was so dead.

  Erica froze. Oh, fuck. She might be used to working with magical manifestations, but a flesh-and-blood tiger was still a flesh-and-blood tiger.

  The big head came up, ears pricking. “Hey, it’s me, Dave. Got the vest and everything.” Belatedly, Erica realized the cat did indeed wear an orange safety vest emblazoned with her friend’s name. She’d seen him wear it doing standup on the Tonight Show once, not to mention his YouTube appearances.

  “I just…” Erica had to stop and swallow. “… wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I do live here.” His mouth didn’t move when he spoke; tigers didn’t have the anatomy to produce human speech. Fortunately, melded Ferals could produce sound by magically vibrating the air, just as Jake did when his lion manifestation roared. Dave was even better at it; his comedy routine included startlingly realistic imitations of everything from multi-car pileups to Judy Garland. “In fact, I’ve been living here a couple of years now.”