Dark and Stormy Knights

by P. N. Elord

  “No.”

  He blinked. “Don’t you want to think about it?”

  “No.”

  He clamped his mouth shut. Muscles played along his jaw. “Why?”

  The TV screen ignited. Grigorii appeared in the glow. Saiman strode to the screen with a scowl on his face. “I’ll make it short.” His body boiled, twisted, stretched. I shut my eyes. It was that or lose my precious coffee. When I opened them, a petite red-haired woman stood in Saiman’s place.

  “Does this explain things enough?” Saiman asked. “Or do I need to spell it out, Grigorii?”

  “You’re her?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  Saiman sighed. “Would you like me to list your preferred positions, in the order you typically enjoy them? Shall we speak of intimate things? I could recite most of our conversations word for word, I do have a very precise memory.”

  They stared at each other.

  “It was all a lie,” Grigorii said finally.

  “I call it subterfuge, but yes, in essence, the marriage was a sham. You were set up from the beginning. I was Yulya. I was also Siren and Alyssa, so if you decide to visit that particular house of ill repute again, don’t look for either.”

  Oh God.

  The glow vanished. Saiman turned to me. “Back to our question. Why?”

  “That man loved you enough to risk his own neck to negotiate your release. You just destroyed him, in passing, because you were in a hurry. And you want to know why. If you did that to him, there’s no telling what you’d do to me. Sex is about physical attraction, yes, but it’s also about trust. I don’t trust you. You’re completely self-absorbed and egoistic. You offer nothing I want.”

  “Sex is driven by physical attraction. Given the right stimulus, you will sleep with me. I simply have to present you with a shape you can’t resist.”

  Saiman jerked, as if struck by a whip, and crashed to the floor. His feet drummed the carpet, breaking the herbs and fledgling ferns. Wild convulsions tore at his body. A blink and he was a mess of arms and legs and bodies. My stomach gave up, and I vomited into the sink.

  Ordinarily I’d be on top of him, jamming something in his mouth to keep him from biting himself, but given that he changed shapes as if there were no tomorrow, finding his mouth was a bit problematic.

  “Saiman? Talk to me.”

  “The acorn . . . It’s coming. Must . . . Get . . . Roof.”

  Roof? No roof. We were in the apartment, shielded by a ward. On the roof we’d be sitting ducks. “We can’t do that.”

  “Oak . . . Large . . . Cave-in.”

  Oh hell. Would it have killed him to mention that earlier? “I need you to walk. You’re too heavy and I can’t carry you while you convulse.”

  Little by little, the shudders died. Saiman staggered to his feet. He was back to the unremarkable man I’d first found in the bedroom. His stomach had grown to ridiculous proportions. If he were pregnant, he’d be twelve months along.

  “We’ll make a run for it,” I told him.

  A faint scratch made me spin. An old man hung outside the window, suspended on a rope. Gaunt, his white beard flapping in the wind, he peered through the glass straight at me. In the split second we looked at each other, twelve narrow stalks unfurled from his neck, spreading into a corona around his head, like a nimbus around the face of a Russian icon. A bulb tipped each stock. A hovala. Shit.

  I grabbed Saiman and threw him at the door.

  The bulbs opened.

  Blinding light flooded the apartment, hiding the world in a white haze. The window behind me exploded. I could barely see. “Stay behind me.”

  Shapes dashed through the haze.

  I slashed. Slayer connected, encountering resistance. Sharp ice stabbed my left side. I reversed the strike and slashed again. The shape before me crumpled. The second attacker struck. I dodged left on instinct and stabbed my blade at his side. Bone and muscle. Got him between the lower ribs. A hoarse scream lashed my ears. I twisted the blade, ripping the organs, and withdrew.

  The hovala hissed at the window. I was still blind.

  Behind me the lock clicked. “No!”

  I groped for Saiman and hit my forearm on the open door. He ran. Into the hallway, where he was an easy target. I lost my body. Goddamn it.

  I sprinted into the hallway, trying to blink the haze from eyes. The stairs were to the left. I ran, half-blind, grabbed the door, and dashed up the stairs.

  The blinding flare finally cleared. I hit the door, burst onto the roof, and took a kick to the ribs. Bones crunched. I fell left and rolled to my feet. A woman stood by the door, arms held in a trademark tae kwon do cat stance.

  To the right, an older man grappled with Saiman. Six others watched.

  The woman sprang into a kick. It was a lovely kick, strong with good liftoff. I sidestepped and struck. By the time she landed, I’d cut her twice. She fell in a crumpled heap.

  I flicked the blood off my saber and headed for Saiman.

  “You’re Voron’s kid,” one of the men said. “We have no problem with you. Pavel’s entitled. His son just threw himself off the roof.”

  Ten to a million the son’s name was Grigorii.

  I kept coming. The two men ripped at each other, grappling and snarling like two wild animals. I was five feet away when Pavel head-butted Saiman, jerking his right arm free. A knife flashed; I lunged and saw Pavel slice across Saiman’s distended gut. A bloody clump fell, and I caught it with my left hand purely on instinct.

  Magic punched my arm. Pale glow erupted from my fist.

  Saiman twisted and stabbed something at Pavel’s right eye. The volkhv stumbled back, a bloody pencil protruding from his eye socket. For a long moment he stood, huge mouth gaping, and then he toppled like a log. Saiman spun about. The muscles of his stomach collapsed, folding, knitting together, turning into a flat washboard wall.

  The whole thing took less than three seconds.

  I opened my fist. A small gold acorn lay on my palm.

  The golden shell cracked. A sliver of green thrust its way up. The acorn rolled off my hand. The green shoot thickened, twisted, surging higher and higher. The air roared like a tornado. Saiman howled, a sound of pure rage. I grabbed him and dragged him with me to the stairs. On the other side, volkhvi ran for the edge of the roof.

  The shoot grew, turning dark, sprouting branches, leaves, and bark. Magic roiled.

  “It was supposed to be mine,” Saiman snarled. “Mine!”

  Light flashed. The roaring ceased.

  A colossal oak stood in the middle of the roof, as tall as the building itself, its roots spilling on both sides of the high-rise. Tiny lights fluttered between its branches, each wavy leaf as big as my head. Birds sang in the foliage. A huge metal chain bound the enormous trunk, its links so thick, I could’ve lain down on it. A feeling of complete peace came over me. All my troubles melted into the distance. My pain dissolved. The air tasted sweet, and I drank it in.

  At the other side of the roof, the volkhvi knelt.

  Metal clinked. A black creature came walking down the bottom loop. As big as a horse, its fur long and black, it walked softly, gripping the links with razor-sharp claws. Its head was that of a lynx. Tall tufts of black fur decorated its ears, and a long black beard stretched from its chin. Its eyes glowed, lit from within.

  The cat paused and looked at me. The big maw opened, showing me a forest of white teeth, long and sharp like knives.

  “Ask.”

  I blinked.

  “You were the last to hold the acorn,” Saiman whispered. “You must ask the question or it will kill all of us.”

  The cat showed me its teeth again.

  For anything I asked, there would be a price.

  “Ask,” the cat said, its voice laced with an unearthly snarl.

  “Ask, Kate,” Saiman prompted.

  “Ask!” one of the volkhvi called out.

  I took a deep breath.


  The cat leaned forward in anticipation.

  “Would you like some milk?”

  The cat smiled wider. “Yes.”

  Saiman groaned.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  I dashed down the stairs. Three minutes later, the cat lapped milk from Saiman’s crystal punch bowl.

  “You could’ve asked anything,” the creature said between laps.

  “But you would’ve taken everything,” I told it. “This way all it cost me is a little bit of milk.”

  In the morning Peters came to relieve me. Not that he had a particularly difficult job. After the oak disappeared, the volkhvi decided that since both Pavel and Grigorii were dead, all accounts were settled and it was time to call it quits. As soon as we returned to the apartment, Saiman locked himself in the bedroom and refused to come out. The loss of the acorn hit him pretty hard. Just as well. I handed my fussy client off to Peters, retrieved Peggy, and headed back to the Guild.

  All in all I’d done spectacularly well, I decided. I lost the client for at least two minutes, let him get his stomach ripped open, watched him stab his attacker in the eye, which was definitely something he shouldn’t have had to do, and cost him his special acorn and roughly five months of work. The fact that my client turned out to be a scumbag and a sexual deviant really had no bearing on the matter.

  Some bodyguard I made. Yay. Whoopee. I got to the Guild, surrendered Peggy, and filled out my paperwork. You win some, you lose some. At least Saiman survived. I wouldn’t get paid, but I didn’t end the job with a dead client on my hands.

  I grabbed my crap and headed for the doors.

  “Kate,” the clerk called from the counter.

  I turned. Nobody remembered the clerk’s name. He was just “the clerk.”

  He waved an envelope at me. “Money.”

  I turned on my foot. “Money?”

  “For the job. Client called. He says he’d like to work exclusively with you from now on. What did the two of you do all night?”

  “We argued philosophy.” I swiped the envelope and counted the bills. Three grand. What do you know?

  I stepped out the doors into an overcast morning. I had been awake for over thirty-six hours. I just wanted to find a quiet spot, curl up, and shut out the world.

  A tall, lean man strode to me, tossing waist-long black hair out of the way. He walked like a dancer, and his face would stop traffic. I looked into his blue eyes and saw a familiar smugness in their depths. “Hello, Saiman.”

  “How did you know?”

  I shrugged and headed on my way.

  “Perhaps we can work out a deal,” he said, matching my steps. “I have no intentions of losing that bet. I will find a form you can’t resist.”

  “Good luck.”

  “I’m guessing you’ll try to avoid me, which would make my victory a bit difficult.”

  “Bingo.”

  “That’s why I decided to give you an incentive you can’t refuse. I’m giving you a sixty percent discount on my services. It’s an unbelievable deal.”

  I laughed. If he thought I’d pay him twenty-six dollars a minute for his time, he was out of luck.

  “Laugh now.” Saiman smiled. “But sooner or later you’ll require my expertise.”

  He stopped. I kept on walking, into the dreary sunrise. I had three thousand dollars and some chocolate to buy.

  “Ilona Andrews” is the pseudonym for a husband-and-wife writing team. Ilona is a native-born Russian and Gordon is a former communications sergeant in the U.S. Army. Contrary to popular belief, Gordon was never an intelligence officer with a license to kill, and Ilona was never the mysterious Russian spy who seduced him. They met in college, in English Composition 101, where Ilona got a better grade. (Gordon is still sore about that.)

  Gordon and Ilona currently reside in Georgia with their two children and three dogs.

  The have coauthored two series, the bestselling urban fantasy of Kate Daniels, and romantic urban fantasy of The Edge, and are working on the next volumes for both.

  Visit them on the Web at www.ilona-andrews.com.

  EVEN HAND

  by JIM BUTCHER

  A successful murder is like a successful restaurant: ninety percent of it is about location, location, location.

  Three men in black hoods knelt on the waterfront warehouse floor, their wrists and ankles trussed with heavy plastic quick-ties. There were few lights. They knelt over a large, faded stain on the concrete floor, left behind by the hypocritically named White Council of Wizards during their last execution.

  I nodded to Hendricks, who took the hood off the first man, then stood clear. The man was young and good-looking. He wore an expensive yet ill-fitting suit and even more expensive yet tasteless jewelry.

  “Where are you from?” I asked him.

  He sneered at me. “What’s it to y—”

  I shot him in the head as soon as I heard the bravado in his voice. The body fell heavily to the floor.

  The other two jumped and cursed, their voices angry and terrified.

  I took the hood off the second man. His suit was a close cousin of the dead man’s, and I thought I recognized its cut. “Boston?” I asked him.

  “You can’t do this to us,” he said, more angry than frightened. “Do you know who we are?”

  Once I heard the nasal quality of the word “are,” I shot him.

  I took off the third man’s hood. He screamed and fell away from me. “Boston,” I said, nodding, and put the barrel of my .45 against the third man’s forehead. He stared at me, showing the whites of his eyes. “You know who I am. I run drugs in Chicago. I run the numbers, the books. I run the whores. It’s my town. Do you understand?”

  His body jittered in what might have been a nod. His lips formed the word “yes,” though no sound came out.

  “I’m glad you can answer a simple question,” I told him, and lowered the gun. “I want you to tell Mr. Morelli that I won’t be this lenient the next time his people try to clip the edges of my territory.” I looked at Hendricks. “Put the three of them in a sealed trailer and rail-freight them back to Boston, care of Mr. Morelli.”

  Hendricks was a large, trustworthy man, his red hair cropped in a crew cut. He twitched his chin in the slight motion that he used for a nod when he disapproved of my actions but intended to obey me anyway.

  Hendricks and the cleaners on my staff would handle the matter from here.

  I passed him the gun and the gloves on my hands. Both would see the bottom of Lake Michigan before I was halfway home, along with the two slugs the cleaners would remove from the site. When they were done, there would be nothing left of the two dead men but a slight variation on the outline of the stain in the old warehouse floor, where no one would look twice in any case.

  Location, location, location.

  Obviously, I am not Harry Dresden. My name is something I rarely trouble to remember, but for most of my adult life, I have been called John Marcone.

  I am a professional monster.

  It sounds pretentious. After all, I’m not a flesh-devouring ghoul, hiding behind a human mask until it is time to gorge. I’m no vampire, to drain the blood or soul from my victim, no ogre, no demon, no cursed beast from the spirit world dwelling amid the unsuspecting sheep of humanity. I’m not even possessed of the mystic abilities of a mortal wizard.

  But they will never be what I am. One and all, those beings were born to be what they are.

  I made a choice.

  I walked outside of the warehouse and was met by my consultant, Gard—a tall blond woman without makeup whose eyes continually swept her surroundings. She fell into step beside me as we walked to the car. “Two?”

  “They couldn’t be bothered to answer a question in a civil manner.”

  She opened the back door for me and I got in. I picked up my personal weapon and slipped it into the holster beneath my left arm while she settled down behind the wheel. She started driving and then said, “No. That wasn’t it.
”

  “It was business.”

  “And the fact that one of them was pushing heroin to thirteen-year-old girls and the other was pimping them out had nothing to do with it,” Gard said.

  “It was business,” I said, enunciating. “Morelli can find pushers and pimps anywhere. A decent accountant is invaluable. I sent his bookkeeper back as a gesture of respect.”

  “You don’t respect Morelli.”

  I almost smiled. “Perhaps not.”

  “Then why?”

  I did not answer. She didn’t push the issue, and we rode in silence back to the office. As she put the car in park, I said, “They were in my territory. They broke my rule.”

  “No children,” she said.

  “No children,” I said. “I do not tolerate challenges, Ms. Gard. They’re bad for business.”

  She looked at me in the mirror, her blue eyes oddly intent, and nodded.

  There was a knock at my office door, and Gard thrust her head in, her phone’s earpiece conspicuous. “There’s a problem.”

  Hendricks frowned from his seat at a nearby desk. He was hunched over a laptop that looked too small for him, plugging away at his thesis. “What kind of problem?”

  “An Accords matter,” Gard said.

  Hendricks sat up straight and looked at me.

  I didn’t look up from one of my lawyer’s letters, which I receive too frequently to let slide. “Well,” I said, “we knew it would happen eventually. Bring the car.”

  “I don’t have to,” Gard said. “The situation came to us.”

  I set aside the finished letter and looked up, resting my fingertips together. “Interesting.”

  Gard brought the problem in. The problem was young and attractive. In my experience, the latter two frequently lead to the former. In this particular case, it was a young woman holding a child. She was remarkable—thick, rich, silver white hair, dark eyes, pale skin. She had very little makeup, which was fortunate in her case, since she looked as if she had recently been drenched. She wore what was left of a gray business skirt-suit, had a towel from one of my health clubs wrapped around her shoulders, and was shivering.