Dervishes Don't Dance: A Paranormal Suspense Novel with a Touch of Romance (Valkyrie Bestiary Book 2)

by Kim McDougall

  Dervishes Don’t Dance

  Book 2 of the Valkyrie Bestiary Series

  Kim McDougall

  Dervishes Don’t Dance

  © Kim McDougall 2020

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Wrongtree Press, www.WrongTreePress.com.

  Cover and book design by Castelane, www.Castelane.com.

  Cover art by Pamela Francescut.

  Editing by Elaine Jackson.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7772144-1-8

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-7772144-2-5

  Version 4

  FICTION / Fantasy / Urban

  FICTION / Fantasy / Paranormal

  Books by Kim McDougall

  The Hidden Coven Series:

  Inborn Magic

  Soothed by Magic

  Trigger Magic

  Bellwether Magic

  Gone Magic

  Valkyrie Bestiary Series

  Three Half Goats Gruff (Novelette)

  Dragons Don’t Eat Meat

  Dervishes Don’t Dance

  Hell Hounds Don’t Heel

  Writing as Eliza Crowe

  The Shifted Dreams Series:

  Pick Your Monster

  Lost Rogues

  Chapter

  1

  A crowd of gawkers was gathered outside the courthouse. Pushing through them made me even later. I should have canceled all my jobs that morning. Today was verdict day and my nerves were shot, so I’d focused on work. Unfortunately, my last job was chasing a family of selkies out of the water treatment plant, and I’d had to go home and change out of my wet clothes before court.

  Not used to running in kitten heels, I tripped going through the door, then skidded to a stop at the line of people waiting to get through security. The lobby was packed. Humans rubbed shoulders with elves in court dress. Imps, brownies and smaller fae were only visible by the jerking movements of others as they pushed through the crowd at waist height.

  The building’s air conditioner couldn’t keep up with the early summer heat and the gathering of bodies. My silk blouse stuck to the small of my back, and I wished I’d put my hair up in its usual braids rather than leaving it loose around my shoulders like a heavy blanket.

  Jacoby stuck close to me. Since our return from Underhill, the dervish had become my sidekick, mostly because I couldn’t convince him to leave me alone. At least he’d attempted to tidy up for court. The fringe of gray fur around his face was combed, and he wore new-ish short pants. I could tell because they didn’t have dumpster stains on them.

  The line moved slowly and my impatience blossomed. Were they sentencing Mason right now? Would he be found guilty and sent into exile?

  No, they couldn’t do that. Mason had been instrumental in saving Montreal Ward from the opji invasion last month. But for many years, he’d hidden the bloodstone, an unregistered relic of incredible magic power. That directly contravened the Black Hat Act of 2038. Certain political factions, desperate to pin blame for the opji uprising on someone, had called for an investigation that led to Mason’s doorstep. The bloodstone, they reasoned, was the catalyst in the whole affair. Had Mason delivered it to authorities, the rogue faction of the fae court—led by the queen’s younger brother, Alvar—would never have had the impetus to start their war.

  It was thin logic, but then politics rarely has anything to do with logic. The people were scared. Not since its founding had Montreal Ward been breached in such a fantastic and bloody way. Finding a scapegoat would help them sleep better at night.

  The crime of hoarding unregistered and dangerous artifacts was punishable by exile to the prison island of Grandill, some fifty kilometers west of Montreal in the Inbetween. It might as well have been a death sentence.

  I imagined Mason alone on the island, with Montreal’s most dangerous offenders, those murderers and psychos who couldn’t be held in a regular prison. He’d have to hide every day. While in stone form, he was at his most vulnerable. It wouldn’t take much for one of those murderers to smash him to pieces.

  Oh, gods. This was how my thoughts had gone during the whole trial that began two weeks ago. I’d barely slept since Mason had been taken into custody. They wouldn’t let me see him either, and the only glimpses I had of him were from the back of the courtroom.

  The line inched forward until I stood in front of an imp holding a thaumascanner to check for magic tech and weapons.

  “No, weapons in the courthouse,” he said when the wand beeped at my sword. My glamor couldn’t fool a thaumascanner, but I couldn’t leave the sword in my truck either.

  “I’ll check it.”

  The imp pointed to another kiosk. “Over there.”

  I gave the sword to a second imp who registered it and then tapped his widget to mine to send me the receipt. As soon as I stepped away, the sword started to whine.

  My blade suffered from acute separation anxiety, worse than a toddler on its first day of preschool. And since I had blooded it, first on Joran the dragon poacher, then on a whole army of opji vampires, the sword had become more vocal.

  By the time Jacoby and I reached the top of the stairs, it was screaming in silent anguish. Silent for everyone else, except a few sensitive fae who turned their heads to look for the source of the wailing. I gritted my teeth and headed for the courtroom. As I took the last aisle seat, the blade’s cry faded to a petulant whine.

  This is good for us, I kept thinking. It needs to be away from me more often. Once it realizes that I always come back to get it, things will settle. Nice thought, but I didn’t believe it.

  My tapping foot was too loud in the quiet courtroom.

  “Shhhh!” The man sitting next to me hissed. With a tablet poised on his knee, he took notes with a stylus. His left hand held a widget high to record the proceedings. He wasn’t the only journalist in the room. Reporters and spectators filled every seat.

  “Sorry,” I whispered. I forced my leg down with a firm hand on my knee and tried to pay attention to the droning voice of the prosecutor. Jacoby perched in the aisle beside me, wide-eyed at the court proceedings.

  “Whether through gross negligence or sheer civil defiance, Henry Mason did willfully disobey the Black Hat Act of 2038 and keep a secret and dangerous artifact, known as…” The prosecutor shuffled through his papers pretending he didn’t know the name of the artifact. “Ah, yes, known as a bloodstone. We have submitted to the court, the history and findings of this rare gem…”

  Yada, yada, yada.

  He’d said it all before. Recapping his ridiculous arguments in his closing remarks didn’t make them any more valid.

  I scanned the room, trying to gauge the general mood. Three judges sat at the front of the court—all of them senators. They’d brought out the big guns because of the bloodstone’s link to las
t spring’s vampire invasion.

  Senator Alice Ferguson represented the human arm of the ruling triumvirate in Montreal. She was a tiny, white woman with black hair and fierce eyes. Paddy Hosay, a ruddy-faced Sidhe, was the parliament representative for the fae. The alchemist judge had me worried. Cosmo Toutain looked nervous. Throughout the proceedings, he shot glances at Gerard Golovin, the alchemist prime minister sitting in the front row with one ankle crossed over his knee. His suitcase sat on the bench beside him, so he took up three spaces in the packed courtroom. Black hair swept back from his prominent brow. His lips were thin but always seemed wet, and he watched the proceedings with an amused smile, like we were all unruly children that he needed to indulge.

  Golovin had no love for Mason, but surely, he would side with a fellow alchemist? I hoped.

  I took comfort in the fact that since Montreal Ward’s inauguration, only a dozen men and women had been sentenced to Grandill Island. Conviction required a unanimous vote by three judges and rarely did a judge vote against their own kind.

  And what did Mason think of all these proceedings? It was hard to tell. The prosecution had fought vehemently for a daytime trial. The defense argued that Mason’s affliction required the court to accommodate his schedule. In the end, the judges sided in favor of the prosecution.

  Every morning, two guards wheeled Mason into court so some pencil pusher could officially mark him present. He sat in his stone form behind the defense team’s table, his expression gray and bland. It was a complete farce, and I’d already lodged a formal complaint. Little good that would do Mason now.

  Dutch, his faithful manservant, sat behind him in the audience seats. When I’d arrived, he’d turned and given me a brief smile, but since then, his focus had been on the proceedings.

  My foot started tapping again. I couldn’t help it.

  From a storage room on the other side of the building, my sword wailed. I didn’t know how long I could stay away before it drove me mad.

  The journalist shot me another angry look and I stilled my leg.

  “To compound his crimes,” continued the prosecutor, “Henry Mason did willfully bring the…ah…bloodstone within the sanctity of the city’s ward, thereby endangering the citizens of Montreal.”

  I shot to my feet.

  “That’s not true!”

  Judge Ferguson banged a gavel.

  “Miss Greene, you have been cautioned once already about interrupting these proceedings. Sit down or I will have you removed.”

  “But he’s lying!” Maybe my sword’s agitation was infecting me. Maybe I was tired of coloring within the lines. But I couldn’t look at Mason’s frozen face and not speak up.

  “Miss Greene, I will not warn you…”

  Another journalist stood up, her widget poised to record. “The daughter of Timberfoot Greenleaf should have the right to speak in any court of this city.”

  A murmur went through the spectators. I stared at the elfin woman with a long pink lock of hair cascading over her face. Was she serious?

  Senator Paddy Hosay leaned forward to see me better. “Is this true? Are you the daughter of Timberfoot Greenleaf?”

  “I am, sir.” But I’d changed my name to Greene to avoid situations like these. The fae had an odd obsession with my late father, and it made me uncomfortable.

  “Then you may speak,” Senator Hosay said.

  A dozen widgets pointed my way, waiting to record my words for posterity. My sword cried. My dervish fidgeted at my heel. I stood straighter and calmed my nerves.

  “I wish it to be known for the record, that Henry Mason did not bring the bloodstone inside the ward. I did that.” The crowd murmured again. “Or rather, I brought the dragon inside the ward, and he’d eaten the bloodstone.” The murmurs boiled to outrage. I raised my voice to be heard over the noise. “But I did it in order to recover the bloodstone and save the innocent dragon!”

  Senator Ferguson banged her gavel and the crowd quieted.

  “Thank you, Miss Greene. The court will take your confession under advisement.”

  I sat down. The journalist beside me now sized me up with an appraising look. My foot began its tattoo again and I glared at him. He smiled and tapped his widget against mine to send his contact info to my inbox.

  “I’d love to interview you for the Sunday Gazette.”

  “No, thanks. I’m busy.”

  “How about next week?”

  “I’m busy then too.”

  The prosecutor finished his closing statement and gave the floor over to the defense. Mason’s attorney was a young human woman, dark-skinned and curvy with a winning smile. She used it to good effect, beaming at the judges and the audience as she began her closing remarks.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, no crime was committed here. I think we can all agree on that. The prosecution would have you believe that this bloodstone is a deadly weapon, a nuclear bomb with the timer about to run out.” She chuckled. “But that simply isn’t true. They have provided no evidence that this artifact is indeed dangerous. No evidence that it should fall under the jurisdiction of the Black Hat Act. No, this trial is not about the supposedly dangerous artifact. It is about assigning blame. Vampires breached our ward for the first time in fifty years. Was that frightening? Yes. Was there treason involved? Yes. But not by my client…”

  A disturbance at the back of the room made me turn. The guards had opened the doors, and Leighna, Queen of the Winter Court and Prime Minister of the Triumvirate stood in the open doorway.

  The Sidhe were a tall race, and Leighna usually wore her height with grace. But closing the last door between Terra and Underhill had taken a piece of her. She was still the Winter Queen, but that sagging March winter when the snowbanks are shrunken mounds of mud and slush. Since I’d last seen her, she’d cropped off most of her gorgeous silver hair. Deep creases on her cheeks made her face seem longer and tired.

  She smiled at the crowd of faces, all turned to watch her walk with a slight limp up the aisle. As she passed by, I risked dropping my wards to keen her magic. It buzzed around her like a swarm of angry bees.

  She nodded to counsels on both sides and frowned at Mason, but she didn’t stop until she reached the panel of judges. Then she leaned in and whispered to Judge Hosay. He nodded briskly, showing no emotion, and spoke into his microphone.

  “I recuse myself from these proceedings.”

  Then he walked out.

  Leighna took his seat, and the crowd erupted with chatter, everyone trying to speculate on this new development.

  Each of Montreal’s founding parties—alchemists, fae, and humans—had numerous ministers and one prime minister. Prime ministers rarely attended parliament or court, preferring to leave the day-to-day running of the city to their underlings. They had the right to sit on any tribunal, but in the forty-year history of the city, this right had never been exercised.

  The fact that the fae prime minister now sat in judgment at Mason’s trial meant…well, I had no idea what it meant. It was unprecedented.

  Judge Ferguson banged her gavel, calling for the audience to settle.

  “Prime Minister Leighna Icewolf, we were just about to pass a verdict. Shall we call a recess so you can evaluate the facts of the case?”

  “No need.” Leighna said. “I have been following the trial.”

  “Very well. This panel is ready to pronounce its judgment against Henry Mason.”

  Mason’s lawyer rose. “I object! My client has not had the opportunity to speak on his own behalf. I demand a recess until nightfall.”

  The prosecutor rose too. “Your honors, this objection has already been overruled. Mr. Mason’s…ah…affliction...that is...I mean gargoylism is not officially recognized by the disabilities act, and so no special provisions are in order.”

  I ground my teeth at the unfairness of it all.

&n
bsp; “Objection overruled again,” Judge Ferguson said. “It is my conviction that Henry Mason violated the Black Hat Act of 2038 and did willfully endanger the people of this great ward. I pronounce him guilty.”

  The room fell silent.

  Judge Toutain flicked a glance at Gerard Golovin sitting in the front row and then said, “Guilty.”

  My heart sank into my shoes. Everyone had counted on the alchemist judge to side with Mason. He’d just thrown one of his own to the wolves.

  Judge Ferguson called for silence again. Prime Minister Leighna leaned into her microphone. “Not guilty.”

  Judge Ferguson banged her gavel and said, “By the authority of the Ward of Montreal, I declare Henry Mason acquitted of all charges.”

  Before all hell broke loose, Gerard Golovin rose and stood before the panel of judges. His expression was unreadable as he called for silence. Judge Ferguson banged her gavel several times until the crowd quieted.

  “Judges, Prime Minister.” Gerard nodded, giving each judge the benefit of his full attention and slick smile. “Thank you for your service. But we have one more issue to discuss. This bloodstone is still a real threat, and it currently sits in evidence lockup in this very building. By Henry Mason’s own assertion, the stone cannot be destroyed. But neither can such a dangerous artifact be kept within the ward. Therefore, I offer the services of the alchemists to store it on Perrot Island, outside the ward.” He raised his voice to be heard over the sudden commentary from the crowd. “Only the alchemists have the technomancy to keep it safe. I vow to protect it until such time as its magic can be neutralized. Agreed?”

  Each of the judges nodded. Leighna’s lips were pinched in a frown, but she agreed.

  The spectators stood, everyone talking at once. Judge Ferguson’s voice was drowned out as she adjourned the court. Dozens of reporters crammed widgets under the noses of the prosecutor and defense, all trying to get their sound bite for the evening news.

  In all the hubbub, no one noticed Leighna sneaking out the side door.