by Karen Chance
I tightened my grip on baldy’s arm as a harried-looking Apprentice hurried over. As packed as this place was, it would take them most of the day to process and release him, which would seriously mess up my plans. I dug battered credentials out of my back pocket and flashed them.
“I know who you are,” the kid said, looking a little freaked.
Sheesh. Kill one department head and they never let you forget it.
“I need to question this one,” I told him. The kid nodded, already backing up. “I’ll bring him back later,” I called, then hustled my new guide out the door before anyone with seniority noticed what was going on.
“I’m not going anywhere until I see my lawyer,” the guy told me. “I know my rights! You can’t just shave my head!”
“Take it easy. It looks good on you.” Well, better than the dreads.
“Didn’t you hear me?” he demanded, starting to struggle. “I want a lawyer. I want—”
“You want to shut up before anything else comes off,” I said, dragging him into the locker room.
“Mage de Croissets to the CMO’s office immediately.” The magically enhanced voice was loud enough to make me jump.
Shit.
I parked the guy on a bench and yanked open my locker. A sawed-off shotgun, two handguns, a couple of potion grenades, four throwing knives, a stiletto that fit nicely down my boot, my potion belt secured around my hips, and I felt more like myself. That lasted until I opened the little packet on the top shelf, the one I’d sworn never to use again.
The two foil halves separated and something black and slimy oozed out onto my wrist. “Okay, that’s nasty,” baldy informed me, as a ward in the shape of a large black leech sank into my skin.
“This from someone with a tongue stud,” I said, right before the power drain hit.
It was like a blow to the gut, immediate and brutal. So that’s why they had me lie down last time, I thought dimly. I sank to the bench, waiting for the nausea, the dizziness and the all-around ick factor to die down a little.
My fingers ached to rip it off, with the skin if necessary. It’s worse at first, I reminded myself as the tat pulsed clammily against my wrist. It was heavy and cold, and made me want to shudder. But it was working. I’d never felt less like using magic in my life.
This class of ward wasn’t designed to give added power in combat, or to enhance the senses or to heal. It did just one thing—absorb magical energy—and did it very well. Wards like it were used in surgery to keep a patient’s natural protective energies clamped down so surgeons didn’t have to worry about being attacked while they worked. In my case, I’d worn one early in the healing process to help regulate my magic.
It had done the job, but had left me feeling weak and listless. I’d finally persuaded Sedgewick to remove it, promising to keep it on hand in case of emergency. I’d never planned to let it anywhere near me again. But if I was going into the field, I had to wear it or risk accidentally attacking someone who didn’t have Hargrove’s shields. The tat would make powerful spells impossible and even weak ones difficult, rendering me a lot less dangerous—to everyone, including the bad guys. But I couldn’t see an alternative.
After a moment, I got up, threw on a leather trench to hide the weapons, and grabbed my guide. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “Are you taking me to lockup?”
“Nope. You got a name?”
“Dieter,” he said suspiciously.
I didn’t bother asking for a last name, since it would probably be fake anyway. “Well, we’re going on a field trip, Dieter.”
“Where to?”
“It’s a surprise.”
5
I parked my Hog next to the long concrete runoff channel along Highway 91. I didn’t have to ask if this was the place. The old Las Vegas sign, veteran of a million plastic mementos and gaudy key chains, was glittering right across the road. And according to the report I’d wheedled out of Michaelson, the body had been found practically in its shadow.
As usual, a couple tourists were taking turns posing in front of the sign, grinning toothily. It wasn’t a great day for it. To the west, the sky shaded dung brown at the horizon, then yellow, then a sick and ominous green. The air felt heavy, like maybe one of Vegas’s brief spring showers might not be far off.
“Aw, man! You gotta be shitting me!” My reluctant guide stared into the concrete gully below, looking a little wall-eyed. Then he took off.
I watched him scramble down the road for half a minute, before throwing a lasso spell around his ankles and giving it a yank. I’d been nice, waiting until he veered onto the curb so he’d hit dirt instead of asphalt, and twisting the spell so he’d land on one shoulder instead of full face. But he didn’t look appreciative when I walked over and jerked him back up.
I manhandled him down into the channel, our boots splashing through a thin, braided current and a bunch of soggy adult entertainment flyers. Ahead were two large tunnels, maybe ten feet wide by six feet high, a few of the thousands of concrete boxes linked together under the city’s urban scrawl. They were pitch dark and not very friendly looking, but I didn’t understand the severity of the struggle my prisoner was putting up.
“What’s your deal?” I demanded. “I thought you got pulled out of one of these this morning.”
“Not this one. And I’m not going in there. You may as well shoot me now! Better that than those damn things eat me!”
“What things?”
“Kappas. This drain’s infested with ’em. Everybody knows that.”
“Kappas, huh?” I peered into the mouth of the western tunnel, but saw only cobwebs and drooling algae. The place smelled like mildew and old shoes, but I didn’t pick up any of the distinctive fishy odor of kappa feces. “Kappas are Japanese,” I said. “We don’t have too many problems with them in Vegas.”
“I don’t know where they came from. But a bunch moved in and took over the whole tunnel.”
A heavy stream of runoff gurgled under my boots, but hardly enough to satisfy a river imp. “When did these kappas move in?”
“About a week ago.”
“Huh.” This was where the Hunter had dumped the body, so he wasn’t likely to be hanging around. But the kappas were interesting. It was exactly the kind of story someone would circulate who didn’t want anyone poking around his hidey-hole. And if he’d been here once, there was a chance he’d left something behind.
The guy’s acne-covered chin took on a mulish tilt. “I’m not going in there and you can’t make me. I know my rights. You have to guarantee my safety and you can’t! There’s too many of ’em. They’re like freaking piranhas! I’m—”
“You’re not going in there.”
He stopped midrant. “I’m not?”
“Nope.” I really didn’t expect any trouble, but you never know. I dragged him back up the embankment and across the road. The tourists had gone, so I lassoed him to the Vegas sign by one ankle. “You’re going to wait for me here, safe and sound and ready to interpret anything I bring back.”
“What happens if you don’t come back?”
“Then you’ll be waiting a long time.”
I returned to the entrance of the drain and pulled out my flashlight. I shone it around, but there wasn’t much to see. A stream of runoff swallowed my ankles before disappearing into darkness. Long skeins of cobwebs fluttered overhead. Mud squelched underfoot, smelling sharply of garbage and man-made chemicals. Oh, yeah. This was going to be fun.
My natural unease was strong enough that it took me a minute to notice the other, subtler urge plucking at my senses. The more I looked down that drain, the more convinced I was that I shouldn’t be here, like the very air was wrong, alien, not for me. I got the definite impression that this place didn’t like me; that it wanted me to leave. Now.
So I went in.
Patrol had noted the presence of a decaying protection ward over the west tunnel entrance. It was the kind that played with a person’s senses—in this cas
e fear—and was the standard keep away for the supernatural community. It seemed like overkill to me. Like anyone would want to go in there.
The protection ward grew stronger as I moved forward, making me feel like I was battling the tide with every step. I pushed on anyway, trying to ignore the spell screaming that somewhere, just up ahead, something horrible waited. It was terribly real and absolutely convincing, like being a child staring into a dark closet and having complete certainty that evil lurked inside.
It didn’t help that, if I was in the right place, it just might.
And then my flashlight blew out.
I shook it a couple times, cursing, which only caused the bottom to come off and the batteries to fall out. Batteries I couldn’t find without a light. I bit the bullet and gave my owl tat a metaphysical nudge. I felt the power drain immediately, which wasn’t good, but when I opened my eyes the pitch black had transformed into something closer to a dark night—all outlines and shadows. I still couldn’t see clearly, but I comforted myself with the fact that neither could anybody else.
I found the batteries, but they didn’t help the piece-of-junk flashlight. I finally gave up and went on, deciding I might be better off. No need to announce my presence, assuming anybody was still hanging around. I actually doubted it; patrol had done a brief walk-through, and found nothing: no kappas and no clues.
But then, they hadn’t had my motivation.
The protection ward finally cut out twenty or so yards up the tunnel, allowing me to breathe. That was a huge relief, but it was the only improvement. The floor had sunk or the water had risen, because it was now shin high. The temperature had also gone up, enough to plaster my hair to my skull and stick my T-shirt to my skin. And I became increasingly aware of an ache running up both legs, like maybe spelunking through the drains of Vegas wasn’t on my approved activities list.
I’d gone maybe three hundred yards when I spied flashes of dim light up ahead, spotting the wall like visible Morse code. It turned out to be coming from behind a ward, if you could call such a half-assed attempt by that name. It was spitting and crackling around the edges, lighting up a graffiti-covered junction box. It made me wonder why anyone had bothered.
Usually, going through a warded door into an unknown location makes my skin crawl. Most of them are designed so that the outside resembles the wall or whatever surface they are mimicking, but the inside is transparent. That leaves the person outside blind, while anyone inside has a clear view—and a clear shot. But in this case, the gloom of the drain ensured that all anyone saw was blackness until I stepped through, with shields up and gun drawn.
And realized that the most dangerous thing about the place was the smell. The acrid tang of wet, charred wood hit my nostrils like bad breath. The ward was concealing a cave maybe twenty by twenty-five, which looked like it had recently been doubling as a barbeque pit. The ceiling was black with soot, the remains of a bonfire scarred the floor, and smoke had almost obliterated the graffiti burning across the walls. The only artwork still visible was four savage vertical slash marks, dripping with painted blood. Colorful.
I could see, courtesy of the mass of wires that spilled out of a wall, like the innards of a small animal. It was the back of the vandalized junction box, which was being used to power a couple of bare bulbs. It looked like whoever had been last out the door had forgotten to turn off the lights.
I poked around the ash that covered everything like matte gray snow until my back ached and my hands and pant legs were coated. But all I uncovered was a rotting corduroy couch, a few pieces of singed plywood and an empty whiskey bottle. I threw the last against the wall, just to watch it shatter. The Hunter was long gone, after torching anything that might give a clue as to his identity. This was a waste of time.
I hit the corridor again in a foul mood, which wasn’t helped by the sudden appearance of a chorus of crickets. Their chirping filled the drain, echoing weirdly in the small space and sounding like a too-cheerful orchestra had moved in. The noise limited my hearing as effectively as the dark interfered with my sight. It made me progressively more paranoid as I went along; soon I was looking nervously over my shoulder every few seconds.
That was stupid since I couldn’t see more than a few feet in any direction. I kept doing it anyway, though, and my imagination was working overtime. In that gloomy pit, every unidentified sound became the scrape of claws on cement, every watermark on the walls, a hulking monster.
Which is why I almost ran into the real monsters coming from the other direction.
There were three of them, still in human form, more or less, although the curtains of greasy, stringy hair and the baggy pants made it kind of hard to tell. But they were Weres, as their reaction on catching sight of me made clear. They didn’t change and they didn’t go for guns. But those were the only saving graces.
I flung up a shield in time to keep from being skewered by the first guy’s knife, which slid off to scrape against concrete. But the impact sent me reeling, and successive jolts jarred through my bones as the men took turns battering my less-than-substantial shield. It was weak because of the leech, because of the power drain from my owl, and because shields don’t work that great against Weres anyway. It wasn’t going to last.
“I’m Lia de Croissets!” I told them loudly. “Of Arnou!” If it was revenge they were after, fine, but I wasn’t the Hunter.
The pummeling didn’t change, except maybe to get harder. “I’m Corps!” Nothing.
I reviewed my options and decided they sucked. In such a confined space, a potion grenade would gas me, too, and any spell I could fling at the moment wouldn’t have much effect on three adult Weres. Fortunately, the whole silver bullet thing is a myth; lead works just fine—if you manage to connect.
But therein lay the problem. A Were’s advantages are speed, recovery time, speed, inhuman strength, and speed—as the four of them were busy demonstrating. I couldn’t even see the punches battering my shield, but I could feel every one.
I decided that debate was useless because I was going to be dead in a minute if I didn’t do something. I wrestled the shotgun out of its back holster and got a grip on my Luger. The next time they sent me staggering into the far wall, I whipped around, let the shield go and fired.
And figured out why I was the only idiot using a gun.
I’d emptied the Luger in an arc that was hopefully wide enough to hit at least one of them. It did—one screamed and went down, clutching his leg. But the rest of the bullets hit the walls, sparked off the concrete and ricocheted. The tunnel suddenly felt a lot like a shooting gallery, with bullets whizzing and striking everywhere.
Another Were stumbled like he’d tripped, and crashed face-first into the water. The last tried to get up but slid on the scummy surface and went skating across the tunnel to slam into the other wall. It looked almost like a comedy pratfall, until he recovered, pushed off, and leapt at me, changing in a blur of motion.
In wolf form he was more resistant to magic, and although I managed to get a shield up in time, it did little good. Claws raked my arm, hot and sharp, stripping my gun away. It went skittering across the muck, out of reach, and we hit the floor with the Were on top—all three hundred pounds of him.
The impact alone was enough to drive the breath from my lungs, but I also hit my head against the side of the wall, stunning me. I expected to feel hot breath in my face, teeth ripping my flesh, oblivion. But instead he merely lay there, trapping me under a crushing weight I couldn’t hope to throw off. I heard the sound of feet limping past—his buddies going hell-bent for leather toward the mouth of the tunnel.
And then nothing.
The mountain of fur and muscle on top of me didn’t move, other than to drip something warm and sticky onto my face. After a minute, I realized that one of the ricochets must have hit him as he was leaping for me. What I couldn’t figure out was how to get him off.
And it wasn’t like I had all day. He’d landed across me, with only m
y head, shoulders and feet sticking out. Water was running up to my ears, and his weight was slowly forcing me farther underneath. If I didn’t get him off, I was going to drown in less than two feet of water.
Pushing and pulling did no good, and neither did attempting to wriggle out from under him. The body was almost completely muscle, with very little give. I had potions that could eat through flesh and bone, but even assuming I could reach one, I couldn’t use them without possibly dissolving me, too.
I needed my power, and there was only one way to get it. My left arm was trapped under the beast, so I used my mouth, muttering the release spell while trying to find an edge to the leech with my tongue. The thing didn’t want to let go, still gorging itself on my power. But I finally snagged a slightly raised corner and ripped it away.
It felt exactly like a huge slug wriggling in my mouth—beyond awful—and it immediately began trying to sink into my tongue. I spat it out, disgusted, and raised a shield, hoping it would lift the Were’s body a foot or so and give me some wiggle room. But instead, I got maybe half that much before the shield collapsed with a final-sounding pop. And the force of his body falling back down was hard enough to push my head under the filthy, mineral-tasting water.
Whatever air was in my lungs rushed out under the pressure. My chest was tight and the urge to breathe, when I knew I couldn’t, was almost overwhelming. I don’t care what training you’ve had, being caught under water seconds away from drowning is one hell of a good reason to panic. So I did, throwing the dumbest possible spell under the circumstances—a fireball.
It shouldn’t have worked. That spell requires a lot more energy than shields, not to mention it works best in dry conditions—or at least when not cast under water. So it was a shock to hear a muffled roar and to feel the huge body suddenly fly off me.
I sat up, spitting out filthy runoff, and dragged in several huge breaths. I was so busy exploring the wonder that was oxygen that it took a second for me to realize what had happened. The red tide swirling around me was my first clue, the shattered bone sizzling in the water was the second. The body had literally exploded on top of me, leaving me sitting in what remained of a rib cage, along with blood and other substances I preferred not to think about.
