by Tara Lain
Dash touched Jazz’s cheek with two fingers. His eyes shone in the moonlight. “You’re magic.”
Jazz heard his own intake of breath as Dash walked around the side of the house toward his car.
DASH REACHED for the phone a second before it buzzed. He’d felt it vibrate earlier but hadn’t really been in a position to answer. He hit the phone button at the same time he pressed the starter on the Tesla.
“What the hell is going on?” Lys hissed.
“Forgive me, Mistress, but it’s none of your damned business.”
“What? What the hell– Oh.”
He smiled as she caught on.
“So I gather things have progressed with Jazz?”
“My previous answer stands.” He pulled out onto the road from the long Vanessen driveway.
The silence vibrated. “What do you have to tell me?”
Okay, time to take a step in this cat-and-mage game. “A lot.”
“I think you should come here.”
“Where are you?”
“Home, of course.”
“It’s a two hour’s drive.”
“Your point is?”
His point was he wanted to see Jazz the next day, and that would be hard if he was in New York City. “See you in two hours.”
JAZZ GAZED out his bedroom window at the deep dark forest beyond the cultivated areas of their back gardens and park. Just staring at it gave him both a warm glow and a spooky feeling—kind of like his whole relationship with Dash. How could he be so mad for the guy when he didn’t completely know his agenda?
He says he’s a part of the Superordinary Society, but how much does he tell Lysandra? Does every word we say make it to her ears? He protected me, kind of, but would he have done it if Khadija hadn’t been there? Still, he was teaching Jazz magic, and that had to be in opposition to Lysandra’s wishes.
Crap, I don’t want to believe anything bad about him.
He walked into his closet and changed into his sleep pants, then went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth before hitting the bed. He sighed. As Dash had said, it was really nice to be in his house tonight, surrounded by a pack of alpha werewolves who loved him and would do anything to protect him.
He turned on his side, took a deep breath of the mild air blowing in from the open bedroom window, and fell asleep.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
TIRED AND jumpy, Dash pulled into his parking space in the old, historic building where Lysandra kept her apartment. Their apartment. Few humans saw it, since she did most of her work from her offices in the Bronx. If they had, there’d be a lot more speculation about where a woman dedicated to world harmony got all her money.
He climbed out of the Tesla and took the elevator to the penthouse. His brain still buzzed as he tried to decide how much to reveal and how much to withhold. His bottom-line decision? To play it by ear, baby, as BeBop would say.
BeBop. Wonder what he’d learned about Nardo? Dash pulled out his phone and texted a question mark to BeBop. Though he stared at the screen, nothing happened.
The elevator opened at the door to the apartment. Originally, it had opened directly into the living space, but Lys had changed that years ago for security.
Dash waved a hand, and the door clicked open. He stepped inside.
“Good evening, Dashiell.”
He smiled at Lysandra’s assistant, Berengaria, she of the short black hair and glowing eyes. Glowing, but not necessarily in a good way. Berengaria seldom mixed in human society. She looked a little too much like what she was. A witch.
“Lysandra says get comfortable then come and speak with her.”
“Thanks, babe.” He grinned at her. It always flustered her since she half liked it and half didn’t approve of his modern, snarky ways.
She gave him a trying-to-be-haughty look, turned, and floated away. He knew there were feet under those long skirts somewhere; he just seldom saw them.
He walked down the hall past the office, Berengaria’s bedroom, the gym, and finally to his suite, which was next to Lysandra’s quarters. He “thought” the spell to open his door, then stepped inside and went straight to his closet. He wasn’t dressed up by much, but his well-pressed jeans and dress shirt with a sports coat had seemed good for a dinner at the Vanessens. Since he was stuck here, he might as well get comfortable. After pulling on some black silk lounging pants and a black sweater, he went into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, then pulled out his phone. To Carla, he texted,
Have to do stuff for Lysandra. Won’t be there tonight. See you tomorrow. D.
The reply came right away. Lots of driving! Get some sleep. C.
He texted back, Anything from BeBop?
Nada. Kind of worried.
Too early to worry. Later.
She texted him a smiley face, a unicorn, and a wolf. Hmm? Coincidence?
Well, he’d better get on with it. He left his rooms, sealed the door because that’s what he was trained to do—and wanted to do as it turned out—then tapped on the double doors of Lysandra’s inner apartment.
The doors opened, and he walked through. She sat at her writing desk—a simple, elegant little antique that contrasted with the modern look of most of her furniture. Her serious work environment was in her home office, a room beyond that room, double spelled. She waved a hand. “Get yourself some refreshment, dear. Be right with you.”
He walked to a sideboard, grabbed a plate, and dished a slice of quiche, some veggies, and hummus onto it before pouring a glass of mineral water for himself. A flash of longing for a vanilla cola shot through him, and it made him jump. It wasn’t just a desire for a drink, but more about the reminder of the friendship that went with it.
Man, that was a rare gift in his life. His parents were renowned teachers of magic in Europe and he was apprenticed to Lysandra, one of the most prominent Masters of the New World. That, plus having Adonic magic, had always made him an object of envy or devotion, but hardly ever real friendship. It was strange to have found exactly that in a mixed bag of misfit interns. He felt the smile before he realized he was doing it.
“What are you thinking about so hard?”
He carried his plate and water to one of the loveseats and set them on the coffee table. “All the things I need to tell you.”
“They make you smile?” She rose from her desk, brought the glass of wine she was drinking, and settled on the opposite loveseat.
He knew why she’d wanted him to come here. Over the phone, he could maintain some sense of his own identity, but in person, the impact of her power was greater. Far greater. “Quite the contrary.” He offered no explanation for the smile.
Her expression got serious. “Take a couple of bites, then tell me.”
“I ate dinner at Jazz’s, so I’m not too hungry.” He shoved a carrot loaded with hummus in his mouth, chewed, swallowed, then inhaled. “Nardo.”
Her eyes flicked up to his face so fast, he barely registered the movement. “What?”
“That’s who we think is behind the weird stuff going on with Jazz.”
Her throat worked. “We?”
“Jazz discovered the name.”
“How?” Did her voice sound a little shaky?
“He discovered that the man who’s trying to get Jazz to marry his nephew—and who is also a major shareholder in Vanessen—was being solicited to vote against Jazz’s family. The person doing the soliciting is named Nardo.”
Her frown intensified. “What does all this business nonsense have to do with Jazz and his power?”
He leaned forward. “Trust me, it all connects. Do you know who Nardo is? I looked him up, and he’s described as an entrepreneur with patents and family money, but no one knows who his family is.”
“I’ve heard the name.”
“In what context?”
Her jaw muscle tightened. “I’ll ask the questions here!”
He sat back. “Excuse me, Mistress.” But he could feel his own teeth grinding. The secrets s
he was withholding could threaten Jazz’s life.
She stared at him coolly. “What else do you have to tell me?”
“You mean aside from the fact that Jazz and most of his family are werewolves? Other than that, which you already knew?” He stared back. It was amazing how excellently he could throw away his future with both hands.
That did stop her. She stared at him, but her beautiful eyes were icy. “How did you learn that?”
“I saw him shift.”
“When?”
“A while back. I’m sure he does it all the time. Were you testing to see if I was smart enough to figure it out?”
She kept glowering, but he didn’t back down. What the fuck? Arcantaria was probably beyond his reach now anyway.
Suddenly she sighed audibly and sipped her wine. “Perhaps. My motives aren’t completely clear, even to me.”
His eyes widened. There’d been a price to that admission. “Do all master mages know about the existence of werewolves?”
“Many. Perhaps not all.”
“Why the big secret?”
“Wolves are powerful in very different ways from us. Ways that could be dangerous. They don’t know about magery, and that protects us. Gives us an advantage.”
“Except for creatures like Jazz, who are both werewolves and mages.”
“We don’t know that for sure.”
“I do, Lys. He’s got all kinds of power. Just no training.” He neglected to mention his earlier evening experience. “Are there others like him?”
She paused a fraction too long. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“So that makes him super rare.”
“Yes, I suppose it does.”
He had to choose his words carefully. “I’m assuming Nardo’s a werewolf. Maybe he knows about us, and so he’s crazy to have Jazz.”
“Have him for what?” Her hand gripped the edge of the couch unconsciously.
“A weapon? Someone he can use against us? Or to teach him about magic?”
“I doubt that? Mages aren’t human. One can’t learn wizardry like a parlor trick.” Her expression was calm. Placid. And that meant she was probably terrified.
“But it sounds like Nardo’s a werewolf, which means he’s already supernatural. Maybe that changes the rules?”
Her lips compressed, but she said nothing.
He wanted to tell her that the drink that had drugged Jazz had been bespelled, which meant Nardo already knew magic. Was magic. But the words wouldn’t come. “Does the Magicouncil know about Jazz?”
She just stared at him. Suddenly, she drew a sharp breath. “You’ve done well, Dash. I’m disturbed that you didn’t tell me about Jazz as soon as you learned it, but I forgive you. Please keep observing—”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I’m not here to answer your questions!”
He didn’t even feel himself spring up. “They could decide Jazz is too dangerous to let live. Fuck, maybe Nardo has already decided the same thing and—” A screaming pain stabbed Dash in the brain, and he doubled over, his head in his hand. Fear. It snaked through him like a conqueror worm. What?
“Dash?”
He gasped. “Jazz. Something’s wrong with Jazz!” He barely heard her yelling as he ran for the door. He flashed a hand, and it opened but started to close again. Damn. He slid sideways and raced through. She tried to stop him.
Instead of the highly vulnerable elevator, he ran to the stairs, wrapped his arms around himself to throw up shields, and raced down as fast as he could. At the same time, he grabbed his phone from his pocket, paused one second to find Carla’s number, then let his fingers text as he kept running. Jazz in danger. Tell others.
The tendrils of fear kept threading through his brain, but he suppressed most of it. It was Jazz’s fear, and that would make him crazy if he let it in.
His phone dinged, and he glanced down, grabbing the handrail to keep from tripping. On it. Texting BeBop’s address. Go there. Will meet you.
CAN’T MOVE. Can’t talk.
Like a wolf in a trap, Jazz’s mind shrieked and rebelled at his confinement. He was pretty sure he was still lying on his bed in his bedroom, but some horrible cloud had surrounded him like poison gas. My body won’t move. Fear, icy and sickening, spread up his arms toward his heart.
No! Fuck that. Think. You can do that.
This was magic. He’d been bespelled. It had to be that. I know about magic. I know. I can do this.
He focused his mind in his chest. When the heat started building, he almost cried. Yes! Breathing as calmly as he could, he let the fire grow. His mind flowed out, taking the heat with it. His thoughts, his intention, and every inch of his body it touched began to reanimate. Feeling, control, flowed back into his arms, fingers, legs—he leaped to his feet and fell right back down on the mattress.
“Damn you!”
The voice came from behind him near the windows, and Jazz spun to see the glowing, floating shape he’d first noticed at the pack meeting what seemed like so long ago. The form seemed to reek of anger and frustration. It—he—raised his arms, and tendrils of power seemed to wrap around Jazz’s arms.
“Get the fuck off me!” He clawed at his arms, and each swipe struck his own magic against the bindings of Nardo—because that’s who this must be.
“Oh hell, we’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.” The form became denser and waved a hand. Jazz backed away as two werewolves slid through his bedroom window. He started to scream, but a hand came from behind him and wrapped around his face, pressing a cloth with an acrid odor over his nose and mouth.
Old-fashioned for sure. Aside from a hope that Winter and Damon heard the ruckus, that was the last thing he remembered.
THE INTENSE fear had been replaced by the feeling of being all kinds of pissed off. Probably a good sign. At least it meant Jazz was alive.
On the drive from Lysandra’s apartment to the address Carla had texted him, Dash gradually accepted that he could feel Jazz. Maybe this was the way Lys always felt Dash. He didn’t know, but it sure was weird to have somebody else inside you. He grinned in spite of his worry. Not inside that way, damn it.
Now Dash walked up to the front of this superlit brownstone on Sixty-First Street. Whoa. BeBop hadn’t said his uncle was rich. This real estate alone had to be worth a bloody fortune.
Dash rang the bell. From inside came a soft bonging sound. In a row of elegant brownstones, this one was… odd. Not rundown, just old-looking, as if it belonged in a different time.
The door burst open and BeBop reached out, grabbed Dash’s arm, and yanked him inside. “Don’t stand out there all day, baby.”
Even with Jazz’s anger coursing through him, Dash managed a smile for the sassy kid who sported a pinstriped suit and a yellow vest with a watch chain dangling from it. “What have you learned?” Dash asked.
BeBop’s expression got unusually serious. “Come with me.”
BeBop led Dash into a high-ceilinged, dark-paneled living room with double sliding doors at the back wall. Khadija sat on an uncomfortable-looking maroon velvet chair. She rose as they came in.
Dash nodded, and she hurried to him. “How is Jazz?”
“At the moment, he’s pissed off. Before, he was scared shitless. I don’t know what caused the change, I just know he’s in trouble.”
“How do you know these things?” She spoke in that measured, serious way.
“I’ve developed some kind of psychic link with Jazz. It just happened.” Maybe because he’d become Jazz’s teacher in a way, but he didn’t offer that idea. “We’ve got to find out where he is.”
BeBop took his arm. “Come on.”
They walked to the double doors, Dij beside them, and BeBop slid them open.
Okay, new altitude of strange.
Inside the room, Dash might as well have been transported back to somebody’s idea of medieval Asia. Tatami mats covered the floors, scrolls hung from the ceilings, and on both walls,
a scary collection of polished samurai swords rested lethally in their stacked holders. In the middle of the room, a huge polished table only a few inches high stood covered in scrolls that unfolded horizontally. Behind the table, working with a brush and ink on large strips of paper, sat a man wearing a full kimono. There, all Asian qualities stopped. The man was the image of BeBop, with short, dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses.
“Uncle, this is the person I told you about. Dashiell Mercury.”
The man looked up and speared Dash with fiercely intelligent eyes, the same look Dash had seen a hundred times on BeBop, but his friend’s was always disguised behind humor and snark. The uncle rose and slowly skirted the table until he stood in front of Dash, looking up since he was no more than five-feet-four or five. “I’m honored to meet you, young seeker. I am Xander Bopherson, arbiter of the Freeseekers of Fukurokuju.”
Dash bit his tongue to keep from asking, “Who?” He took a breath. “Lord of wisdom.”
“Indeed.” The man smiled at Dash’s awareness that he’d named the Japanese god of wisdom and intelligence. “But I am told we mustn’t linger. Your friend is in jeopardy.”
Dash wanted to ask a million questions, but he had to focus. “Yes. We think he’s been taken by a man named Nardo. We must find him.”
Bopherson smiled slightly. “I trust you use the term man conveniently, as Nardo is in no part human.”
“I figured that.” He glanced at BeBop and Dij, neither of whom looked surprised.
“Why would Nardo threaten your friend? He is not vulnerable to much opposition.” He squinted through his glasses at Dash.
“Uh, our friend’s special. I think maybe Nardo wants to use him in some way.”
“More special than Nardo?” He raised his brows. “Unlikely.”
Dash frowned. “In what way is Nardo special?”
“He’s unheard of. Amazing.” He shook his head. “Many of my fellows have attempted to study him, but he won’t allow it. He wastes his talents on human nonsense. Strange are the ways of the universe.”
