by P. N. Elord
“Saiman?” I asked softly.
The man’s eyelids trembled. Dark eyes stared at me, luminescent with harsh predatory intelligence. A warning siren went off in my head. I took a small step back and saw the outline of several chains under the sheet. You’ve got to be kidding me. They didn’t just chain him to the bed, they wrapped him up like a Christmas present. He couldn’t even twitch.
“Good evening,” the man said, his voice quiet and cultured.
“Good evening.”
“You’re my new bodyguard, I presume.”
I nodded. “Call me Kate.”
“Kate. What a lovely name. Please forgive me. Normally I would rise to greet a beautiful woman, but I’m afraid I’m indisposed at the moment.”
I pulled back a little more of the sheet, revealing an industrial-size steel chain. “I can see that.”
“Perhaps I could impose on you to do me the great favor of removing my bonds?”
“Why did Rodriguez and Castor chain you?” And where the hell did they find a chain of this size?
A slight smile touched his lips. “I’d prefer not to answer that question.”
“Then we’re in trouble. Clients get restrained when they interfere with the bodyguards’ ability to keep them safe. Since you won’t tell me why the previous team decided to chain you, I can’t let you go.”
The smile grew wider. “I see your point.”
“Does this mean you’re ready to enlighten me?”
“I’m afraid not.”
I nodded. “I see. Well then, I’ll clear the rest of the apartment, and then I’ll come back and we’ll talk some more.”
“Do you prefer brunets or blonds?”
“What?”
The sheet shivered.
“Quickly, Kate. Brunets or blonds? Pick one.”
Odd bulges strained the sheet. I grabbed the covers and jerked them back.
Saiman lay naked, his body pinned to the bed by the chain. His stomach distended between two loops, huge and bloated. Flesh bulged and crawled under his skin, as if his body were full of writhing worms.
“Blond, I’d say,” Saiman said.
He groaned, his back digging into the sheets. The muscles under his skin boiled. Bones stretched. Ligaments twisted, contorting his limbs. Acid squirted into my throat. I gagged, trying not to vomit.
His body stretched, twisted, and snapped into a new shape: lean, with crisp definition. His jaw widened, his eyes grew larger, his nose gained a sharp cut. Cornsilk blond hair sprouted on his head and reaching down to his shoulders. Indigo flooded his irises. A new man looked at me, younger by about five years, taller, leaner, with a face that was heartbreakingly perfect. Above his waist, he was Adonis. Below his ribs, his body degenerated into a bloated stomach. He looked pregnant.
“You wouldn’t tell me what you preferred,” he said mournfully, his pitch low and husky. “I had to improvise.”
“What are you?” I kept my sword between me and him.
“Does it really matter?”
“Yes, it does.” When people said shapeshifter, they meant a person afflicted with Lyc-V, the virus that gave its victim the ability to shift into an animal. I’d never seen one who could freely change its human form.
Saiman made a valiant effort to shrug. Hard to shrug with several pounds of chains on your shoulders, but he managed to look nonchalant doing it.
“I am me.”
Oh boy. “Stay here.”
“Where would I go?”
I left the bedroom and checked the rest of the apartment. The only remaining room contained a large shower stall and a giant bathtub. No kitchen. Perhaps he had food delivered.
Fifteenth floor. At least one guard downstairs, bullet-resistant glass, metal grates. The place was a fortress. Yet he hired bodyguards at exorbitant prices. He expected his castle to be breached.
I headed to the bar, grabbed a glass from under the counter, filled it with water, and took it to Saiman. Changing shape took energy. If he was anything like other shapeshifters, he was dying of thirst and hunger right about now.
Saiman’s gaze fastened on the glass. “Delightful.”
I let him drink. He drained the glass in long, thirsty swallows.
“How many guards are on duty downstairs?”
“Three.”
“Are they employed by the building owners directly?”
Saiman smiled. “Yes. They’re experienced and well paid, and they won’t hesitate to kill.”
So far so good. “When you change shape, do you reproduce internal organs as well?”
“Only if I plan to have intercourse.”
Oh goodie. “Are you pregnant?”
Saiman laughed softly.
“I need to know if you’re going to go into labor.” Because that would just be a cherry on the cake of this job.
“You’re a most peculiar woman. No, I’m most definitely not pregnant. I’m male, and while I may construct a vaginal canal and a uterus on occasion, I’ve never had cause to recreate ovaries. And if I did, I suspect they would be sterile. Unlike the male of the species, women produce all of their gametes during gestation, meaning that when a female infant is born, she will have in her ovaries all of the partially developed eggs she will ever have. The ovaries cannot generate production of new eggs, only the maturation of existing ones. The magic is simply not deep enough for me to overcome this hurdle. Not yet.”
Thank Universe for small favors. “Who am I protecting you from, and why?”
“I’m afraid I have to keep that information to myself as well.”
Why did I take this job again? Ah yes, a pile of money. “Withholding this information diminishes my ability to guard you.”
He tilted his head, looking me over. “I’m willing to take that chance.”
“I’m not. It also puts my life at a greater risk.”
“You’re well compensated for that risk.”
I repressed the urge to brain him with something heavy. Too bad there was no kitchen—a cast-iron frying pan would do the job.
“I see why the first team bailed.”
“Oh, it was the woman,” Saiman said helpfully. “She had difficulty with my metamorphosis. I believe she referred to me as an ‘abomination.’ ”
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “Let’s try simple questions. Do you expect us to be attacked tonight?”
“Yes.”
I figured as much. “With magic or brute force?”
“Both.”
“Is it a hit for hire?”
Saiman shook his head. “No.”
Well, at least something went my way: amateurs were easier to deal with than contract killers.
“It’s personal. I can tell you this much: the attackers are part of a religious sect. They will do everything in their power to kill me, including sacrificing their own lives.”
And we just drove off a cliff in a runaway buggy. “Are they magically adept?”
“Very.”
I leaned back. “So let me summarize. You’re a target of magical kamikaze fanatics, you won’t tell me who they are, why they’re after you, or why you have been restrained?”
“Precisely. Could I trouble you for a sandwich? I’m famished.”
Dear God, I had a crackpot for a client. “A sandwich?”
“Prosciutto and Gouda on sourdough bread, please. A tomato and red onion would be quite lovely as well.”
“Sounds delicious.”
“Feel free to have one.”
“I tell you what, since you refuse to reveal anything that might make my job even a smidgeon easier, how about I make a delicious prosciutto sandwich and taunt you with it until you tell me what I want to know?”
Saiman laughed.
An eerie sound came from the living room—a light click, as if something with long sharp claws crawled across metal.
I put my finger to my lips, freed my saber, and padded out into the living room.
The room lay empty. No intruders.
I stood very still, trying to fade into the black walls.
Moments dripped by.
A small noise came from the left. It was a hesitant, slow clicking, as if some creature slunk in the distance, slowly putting one foot before the other.
Click.
Definitely a claw.
Click.
I scrutinized the left side of the room. Nothing moved.
Click. Click, click.
Closer this time. Fear skittered down my spine. Fear was good. It would keep me sharp. I kept still. Where are you, you sonovabitch?
Click to the right, and almost immediately a quiet snort to the left. Now we had two invisible intruders. Because one wasn’t hard enough.
An odd scent nipped at my nostrils, a thick, slightly bitter herbal odor. I’d smelled it once before, but I had no clue where or when.
Claws scraped to the right and to the left of me now. More than two. A quiet snort to the right. Another in the corner. Come out to play. Come on, beastie.
Claws raked metal directly in front of me. There was nothing there but that huge window and sloping ceiling above it. I looked up. Glowing green eyes peered at me through the grate of the air duct in the ceiling.
Shivers sparked down my back.
The eyes stared at me, heated with madness.
The screws in the air duct cover turned to the left. Righty tighty, lefty loosey. Smart critter.
The grate fell onto the soft carpet. The creature leaned forward slowly, showing me a long conical head. The herbal scent grew stronger now, as if I’d taken a handful of absinthe wormwood and stuck it up my nose.
Long black claws clutched the edge of the air duct. The beast rocked, revealing its shoulders sheathed in shaggy, hunter green fur.
Bingo. An endar. Six legs, each armed with wicked black claws; preternaturally fast; equipped with an outstanding sense of smell and a big mouth, which hid a tongue lined with hundreds of serrated teeth. One lick and it would scrape the flesh off my bones in a very literal way.
The endars were peaceful creatures. The green fur wasn’t fur at all; it was moss that grew from their skin. They lived underneath old oaks, rooted to the big trees in a state of quiet hibernation, absorbing their nutrients and making rare excursions to the surface to lick the bark and feed on lichens. They stirred from their rest so rarely that pagan Slavs thought they fed on air.
Someone had poured blood under this endar’s oak. The creature had absorbed it, and the blood had driven it crazy. It had burrowed to the surface, where it swarmed with its fellows. Then the same someone, armed with a hell of a lot of magic, had herded this endar and its buddies to this high-rise and released them into the ventilation system so they would find Saiman and rip him apart. They couldn’t be frightened off. They couldn’t be stopped. They would kill anything with a pulse to get to their target, and when the target was dead, they would have to be eliminated. There was no going back from endar madness.
Only a handful of people knew how to control endars.
Saiman had managed to piss off the Russians. It’s never good to piss off the Russians. That was just basic common sense. My father was Russian, but I doubted they would cut me any slack just because I could understand their curses.
The endar gaped at me with its glowing eyes. Yep, mad as a hatter. I’d have to kill every last one of them.
“Well, come on. Bring it.”
The endar’s mouth gaped. It let out a piercing screech, like a circular saw biting into the wood, and charged.
I swung Slayer. The saber’s blade sliced into flesh and the beast crashed to the floor. Thick green blood stained Saiman’s white carpet.
The three other duct covers fell one by one. A stream of green bodies charged toward me. I swung my sword, cleaving the first body in two. It was going to be a long night.
The last of the endars was on the smaller side. Little bigger than a cat. I grabbed it by the scruff of the neck and took it back into the bedroom.
Saiman smiled at my approach. “I take it everything went well?”
“I redecorated.”
He arched his eyebrow again. Definitely mimicking me. “Oh?”
“Your new carpet is a lovely emerald color.”
“I can assure you that carpet is the least of my worries.”
“You’re right.” I brought the endar closer. The creature saw Saiman and jerked spasmodically. Six legs whipped the air, claws out, ready to rend and tear. The beast’s mouth gaped, releasing a wide tongue studded with rows and rows of conical teeth.
“You provoked the volkhvi.” It was that or the Russian witches. I bet on the volkhvi. The witches would’ve cursed us by now.
“Indeed.”
“The volkhvi are bad news for a number of reasons. They serve pagan Slavic gods, and they have thousands of years of magic tradition to draw on. They’re at least as powerful as Druids, but unlike Druids, who are afraid to sneeze the wrong way or someone might accuse them of bringing back human sacrifices, the volkhvi don’t give a damn. They won’t stop, either. They don’t like using the endars, because the endars nourish the forest with their magic. Whatever you did really pissed them off.”
Saiman pondered me as if I were some curious bug. “I wasn’t aware that the Guild employed anyone with an education.”
“I’ll hear it. All of it.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I do admire your diligence and expertise. I don’t want you to think it’s gone unnoticed.”
I dropped the endar onto Saiman’s stomach. The beast clawed at the sheet. Saiman screamed. I grabbed the creature and jerked it up. The beast dragged the sheet with it, tearing it to shreds. Small red scratches marked Saiman’s blob of a stomach.
“I’ll ask again. What did you do to infuriate the Russians? Consider your answer carefully, because next time I drop this guy, I’ll be slower picking him back up.”
Saiman’s face quivered with rage. “You’re my bodyguard.”
“You can file a complaint, if you survive. You’re putting both of us in danger by withholding information. See, if I walk, I just miss out on some money; you lose your life. I have no problem with leaving you here, and the Guild can stick its thumb up its ass and twirl for all I care. The only thing that keeps me protecting you is professional pride. I hate bodyguard detail, but I’m good at it, and I don’t like to lose a body. It’s in your best interests to help me do my job. Now, I’ll count to three. On three I drop Fluffy here and let it go to town on your gut. He really wants whatever you’re hiding in there.”
Saiman stared at me.
“One. Two. Th—”
“Very well.”
I reached into my backpack and pulled out a piece of wire. Normally I used it for trip traps, but it would make a decent leash. Two minutes later, the endar was secured to the dresser and I perched on the corner of Saiman’s bed.
“Are you familiar with the legend of Booyan Island?”
I nodded. “It’s a mythical island far in the Ocean, behind the Hvalynskii Sea. It’s a place of deep magic where a number of legendary creatures and items are located: Alatyr, the father of all stones; the fiery pillar; the Drevo-Doob, the World Oak; the cave where the legendary sword Kladenets is hidden; the Raven prophet; and so on. It’s the discount warehouse of Russian legends. Any time the folkloric heroes needed a magic object, they made a trip to it.”
“Let’s concentrate on the tree,” Saiman said.
I knew Slavic mythology well enough, but I hadn’t had to use it for a while and I was a bit rusty. “It’s a symbol of nature. Creature of the earth at its roots, the serpent, the frog, and so on. There is a raven with a prophet gift in the branches. Some myths say that there are iron chains wrapped around the tree’s trunk. A black cat walks the chain, telling stories and fables. . . .”
Saiman nodded.
Oh crap. “It’s that damn cat, isn’t it?”
“The oak produces an acorn once every seven years. Seven months, seven days, and seven hours after the a
corn falls from the tree, it will crack and grow into the World Oak. In effect, the tree manifests at the location of the acorn for the period of seven minutes.”
I frowned. “Let me guess. You stole the acorn from the Russians and swallowed it.”
Saiman nodded.
“Why? Are you eager to hear a bedtime story?”
“The cat possesses infinite knowledge. Seven minutes is time enough to ask and hear an answer to one question. Only the owner of the acorn can ask the question.”
I shook my head. “Saiman, nothing is free. You have to pay for everything, knowledge included. What will it cost you to ask a question?”
“The price is irrelevant if I get an answer.” Saiman smiled.
I sighed. “Answer my question: Why do smart people tend to be stupid?”
“Because we think we know better. We think that our intellect affords us special privileges and lets us beat the odds. That’s why talented mathematicians try to defraud casinos and young brilliant mages make bargains with forces beyond their control.”
Well, he answered the question.
“When is the acorn due for its big kaboom?”
“In four hours and forty-seven minutes.”
“The volkhvi will tear this high-rise apart stone by stone to get it back, and I’m your last line of defense?”
“That’s an accurate assessment. I did ask for the best person available.”
I sighed. “Still want that sandwich?”
“Very much.”
I headed to the door.
“Kate?”
“Yes?”
“The endar?”
I turned to him. “Why were you chained?”
Saiman grimaced. “The acorn makes it difficult to control my magic. It forces me to continuously change shape. Most of the time I’m able to keep the changes subtle, but once in a while the acorn causes contortions. Gina Castor walked in on me during such a moment. I’m afraid I was convulsing, so my recollection may be somewhat murky, but I do believe I had at least one partially formed breast and three arms. She overreacted. Odd, considering her profile.”
“Her profile?”
“I studied my bodyguards very carefully,” Saiman said. “I handpicked three teams. The first refused to take the job, the second was out due to injuries. Castor and Rodriguez were my third choice.”
