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

by Kim McDougall

  “I’m not sure of anything, but in the tunnel shaft, when I first encountered the gencrew—they call them gennys,” I said with a wry smile, “its magic felt off. Kind of like Angus’s magic.” Mason frowned. This was a touchy subject and I went on carefully. “I couldn’t prove it, but the gencrew just set my keening on edge, and tonight…” I fortified myself with a sip of wine. “Tonight I recognized the magic signature of the golem that attacked Betsy. It was her sister who went missing last week. I tasted her magic when I first went to investigate. It’s…distinct.”

  “I don’t understand.” The crease between Mason’s brows deepened as he frowned. “Someone kidnapped a girl from Talon and turned her into a golem? But who?”

  “The takers. There have been a lot of disappearances. And the missing people have all been strong magic users. I haven’t checked yet, but I suspect they were all elementals.”

  “Maeve too?”

  “Yes. I was in her room. Her magic was all over it. She’s…she was a fire elemental.”

  “Can you prove this?”

  Not in a court of law, I thought, but I could prove it to Mason. “Do you still have that compass you brought with you to the Inbetween?”

  “Yes.” He rose and went over to the desk tucked into one corner of the large room, pulled out a couple of drawers and rummaged around until he found a small cloth pouch. Returning to the couch, he sat and dumped the compass into my hand. My keening hummed with the strident magic coming off it.

  The compass looked like an old pocket watch, but with a digital read out.

  “This device has two power sources.” I looked at the compass with its wavering blue arrow. “One is a battery similar to a widget, fueled by ley-line electricity. You plug it in there?” I pointed to a socket on the side of the compass and Mason nodded. “But there’s a second power source too. Faint. Like a barely glowing ember. I suspect most thaumagauges wouldn’t even detect it.”

  My hand covered Mason’s as he held onto the compass. The magic coming off the device felt oily and black. It flowed through his fingers right into mine. This was the worst part. I let the magic crawl through me, like a millipede with a thousand tiny barbed feet running across my soul. I filled myself with the magic, then I pushed it out of me with one big existential shove.

  This was Valkyrie power. Old school. Sometimes, recently deceased souls could try to cling to life by latching onto the Valkyrie who came to set them free. It was a hazard of the trade, and part of my early training had been the art of expelling unwanted souls.

  When I shoved, the magic exploded from me, and for a brief instant, it took the shape of a man—short and stocky with a low brow and a mouth pulled into a snarl of pure fury.

  Mason’s eyes widened. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. The spirit shrieked and raised a fist as if to strike at us. But without a mortal body, some ghosts can’t keep their essence together. Even as his fist came toward me, he dissolved into mist.

  Mason stared at the empty space for a long moment. Then he looked down at the compass. Its face was black and dead. I let my hand drop away from his and dug into the pouch at my waist for the small pillbox I had stored in there. Angus had made it out of the null material Joran used to subdue the dragons. I popped it open to show Mason the stone from Susanna’s lab.

  “If you take the compass apart, I suspect you’ll find a tiny bead like this. Susanna Coulter has a jar full of them in her lab. They’re like your bloodstone, only smaller. A tiny vessel that holds one spirit. I’ve been keeping this one as proof in case we need to bring it before the Triumvirate Council. But this is how they’re making golems, and other gadgets, I guess.”

  Mason rose, still gripping the dead compass. He paced the room, his thoughts turned inward. Eventually, he stopped and I thought he’d come to a decision. But he whirled and threw the compass through the bay window that overlooked the garden.

  The crash of breaking glass echoed through the house. A minute later, Dutch came running down the hall that led to the downstairs bedrooms. He wore only gray silk boxers and his hair was mussed. An also nearly-naked Gabe ran in behind him. They must have arrived just after us and hadn’t wasted any time.

  Both stopped when they saw Mason standing near the broken window.

  “It’s fine,” Mason said. “No intruders. Just me throwing a temper tantrum.”

  Dutch stood up straight, somehow looking distinguished despite the lack of clothes. “Very good.” He turned back to the bedroom. Gabe shot me one embarrassed glance, shrugging his bare shoulders and raising his eyebrows before following Dutch.

  I went to the kitchen and rummaged in a closet until I found a broom and dustpan. Mason had gone outside, and he leaned over the low stone wall of the balcony. I swept up the glass, letting him come to terms with this betrayal.

  Long ago, after sculpting Angus and imbuing him with the spirit of a dead fae, he’d vowed never to make another gargoyle. The process was cruel, and thankfully, the magic ritual for creating gargoyles had been lost. But now his alchemist brethren had taken the essence of gargoyle magic and corrupted it with an even older magic—the golem—to create a new creature, one that was bound as a slave to do their bidding.

  I could only imagine the rage and disappointment coursing through him. I put aside the dustpan and went to stand beside him. We looked out over the vast dark expanse of Dorion Park.

  Something huge roared in the distance and I shivered. Mason put his arm around me and snugged me up against him.

  “This isn’t quite the date I imagined,” he said. The creature in the dark called out again. “But do you hear that? I’m sure it’s dragons.”

  I listened to the calls. They were something halfway between a raptor’s shrill shriek and a lion’s roar.

  “Do you think that’s Ollie’s thunder?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. It could be.”

  The calls grew louder and a shadow blotted out the bit of moonlight that fell on the patio. A dragon cawed as it flew over us. The beat of its massive wings whipped up the air, tossing leaves around the balcony. It flew so low, I could see the shimmer of its golden scales. In a heartbeat it was gone. Others followed, farther away. They were hunting in a pack.

  “Amazing!” I’d been holding my breath.

  Mason smiled and leaned in to kiss me. “Yes it is.”

  Another dark form fell on us from above. The dragon hit the balcony ungracefully, claws scrabbling on the flagstones until he righted himself.

  He stood taller than me now, and his color had deepened to a rich royal blue. The fringe of baby feathers on his head was gone. So was the playfulness in his gaze. He looked fierce. And strong.

  “Ollie?” I reached out a hand. He lunged for me. Mason yanked me away, but I stopped him. “Wait!” Ollie stood right before me, his snout breathing heavily into my face. He’d lost his round baby-curves and his snout had sharpened. He puffed out a breath and then ducked his head under my hand so I could scratch behind his ears.

  Then he cawed once and launched back into the night.

  Mason wiped the tears on my cheeks with his thumb. I hadn’t even realized I was crying.

  I had hoped for it, hoped that Ollie was growing strong and flying free with others of his kind.

  “You made that happen,” Mason said. “You saved those dragons.”

  “We did.”

  He nodded and his expression turned stern. “And we’re going to fix this mess too. We’ll make sure no more little sisters like Maeve go missing.”

  “Thank you.” I tucked my head under his chin and he put his arm around me. We stood there, listening to the magnificent monsters in the night.

  Chapter

  23

  Waiting was never my strong suit. As I paced around my apartment, filling water bowls that didn’t need filling and topping up kibble and fresh hay, I realized that I shoul
dn’t have cleared my work schedule so soon.

  Mason and I had agreed that we would break into Gerard’s lab—the One-eyed God only knew how we would accomplish that. But it would happen tonight, so I postponed all my jobs to rest and get ready.

  Only I couldn’t rest. I filled Kur’s ice bowl for the third time that day. So far, I’d plucked Hunter out of the coffee pot, the hamper and the bathroom sink. Clarence wore himself out after running around screaming, “Gobble! Gobble!” My critters could feel my agitation too. Finally, Gita snapped.

  “Sit down already! You’re pacing enough to wear a path in the floor.”

  “Fine.” I turned to the coffeemaker for another cup, but Gita wagged a bony finger at me.

  “No more coffee for you. I’ll make tea. Something to relax you.”

  “No. I need to be awake tonight.”

  Gita squinted at me and crossed her arms. I sighed. “Fine. But nothing too strong.” There was no use arguing with her. And I had time to nap. I glanced at the clock. It was barely past noon. Mason wouldn’t be awake for another four hours at least. Thankfully, we were nearing winter—regardless of the bizarre heat wave—and the nights were long. We were going to need all the nighttime hours we could get.

  I sat at the kitchen table and opened my computer to watch the news. A live-feed showed yet another protest had turned violent at the site of the GenPort railroad excavations. I watched in horror as gennys pushed back peaceful protesters. How were the authorities allowing this? Hub had to know what the gennys really were. They still had Maeve’s golem corpse. Surely, they could see the similarities to the gencrew automatons. They must know that something fishy was going on at the site.

  Of course they knew. But Prime Minister Golovin had enough influence to shut down any inquiries. He couldn’t shut down the protesters though. At least not without a very public use of force.

  I watched protesters clash with security, and a sick feeling grew in my stomach. I’d had faith in the checks and balances of the triumvirate. Each faction was supposed to keep the others in line. But Gerard thought himself above the law.

  The clock said 12:23 p.m., only eight minutes since the last time I checked. Gods, this day would drag on forever.

  Had Mason been able to connect with Leighna’s people? When I’d left him last night, he’d promised to contact the queen. We needed her on our side for this fight. If Gerard was really stealing fae and creating golems, we needed proof, but more importantly, we needed the authority to bring him to justice.

  Gita plunked a mug of steaming tea in front of me. My knee bounced with jitters, but as soon as I tasted it, I could feel the calming brew go through me like a wave. Gita was a witch of the best kind. I sighed and took another sip.

  Something tugged at my jeans. I looked down to find Errol climbing up my leg like a sherpa on a mountainside. I held out my hand to help, but he ignored it until he clambered onto the table. His gaze fixed on the scenes of violence streaming on my screen.

  “It’s horrible, isn’t it?”

  He said, “Grbltfzintth,” but I felt his meaning projected right into my thoughts. Sadness at the way things were, but not resignation. Fire. Righteousness. The flame that burns down the old system and replaces it with something new.

  “Errol, you’re a radical!”

  He grumbled and nodded. I wondered what violence he had witnessed, what wars he had lived through to give him such conviction.

  Our world had seen enough war. The triumvirate had been set up to quell such conflicts. And yet, Gerard seemed hellbent on destroying the equilibrium. For what? For the fees he’d be able to charge people to use his new railway line? Granted, he was looking at a small fortune from passengers, not to mention what he could charge for cargo. Access to another ward would open up enormous trade opportunities. And there were those who argued that trade was always good. It brought wealth and progress.

  But progress started the Flood Wars. Progress caused Terra to fight back. When the ley-lines burst, flooding the world in magic, Terra had decided that humans had progressed enough.

  I flicked over to another news stream that showed an interview with a protester. A tall blond woman with fierce eyes looked straight into the camera and spoke with articulate conviction.

  “Why do we need more? What are we missing that will improve our lives? Montreal Ward may not be a paradise, but we are protected from the worst of the magics that fill the Inbetween. And no one goes hungry here. Terra lets us produce enough to feed our population. But this railroad will bring growth and a whole new population. Will Terra let us feed them? No! We’ve already seen Her displeasure with the cave-in. And the spontaneous manifestations of magic that are popping up all over the city…”

  Another protester shoved the woman aside. He held a sign that said, Humans rule! and screamed “Death to Terra!” into the camera. The image shook as one of the security guards tackled him, knocking the reporter aside. For a moment, I could hear screams and bangs while the camera showed only the cement street. Then it went black.

  Errol and I stared at the black screen for several seconds before I shut the computer.

  The clock read 12:28.

  I turned to find Jacoby lurking in the doorway, clutching his new prized bear.

  “Kyra-lady?” he asked shyly. “My bear feels bad. Cans you help him?”

  Gently, I laid the bear on the table to inspect his wounds. He was an old toy, with patches of plush fur worn thin and several holes in the seams of his arms and legs.

  I took out my sewing kit. “Is it okay if I patch him?”

  Jacoby nodded, but looked nervous. I kept talking to distract him as I stitched a half-dozen tiny holes on the bear.

  “What’s your bear’s name?”

  “He haves a name?”

  “I’m sure he does. He looks like Cyril or somebody loved him enough to give him a name.”

  Jacoby cocked his head and thought hard about this.

  “Did someone loves you, to names you Kyra?”

  “Yes, my mother.” It occurred to me that I had no idea how dervishes reproduced. Did Jacoby have a family?

  “How did you get your name?”

  Jacoby played with the fringe around his left eye like he did when he was nervous.

  “I likes cookies.” He scuffed his foot across the floor.

  “Cookies? You mean Papa Jacoby cookies?” That was the brand name for a soft molasses cookie that touted all-natural ingredients. They weren’t around when I was a kid, but seemed to be a staple in school lunchboxes these days. I thought they were disgustingly sweet and preferred homemade.

  “You named yourself after a cookie?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, I think that’s a good name. I’m sure you’ll come up with one for the bear.” I finished sewing the last hole on the bear’s leg and handed him back to Jacoby. The dervish hugged him and whirled.

  “Hey!” I grabbed him and stopped him from spinning. “Bears get dizzy. So no spinning, okay?”

  “K.” He ran off with his treasure, then stopped and rushed back to me. “Dizzy! That a good name?”

  “It sure is.”

  I took another sip of Gita’s calming brew and then a deep breath. The clock read 12:42. I needed another distraction.

  The mimosa plant sat on the sideboard beside the table. Gita had repotted it, and the fern-like leaves looked full and perky.

  “Want to help me practice magic?” I asked Errol. He grunted and climbed into my hand. I grabbed the potted plant and headed out to the yard.

  The weather had cooled, but not enough for November. The sky was brilliant blue and cloud free. It was hard to imagine that winter was only a few weeks away. I put Errol and the mimosa on the old picnic table, then went back inside for Bijou and Kur. I left the snail munching on the grass and whatever late season weeds he could find with Kur
watching over him.

  “Don’t let him roam under the bushes,” I said. Kur was usually a good babysitter, but I was glad when Jacoby popped out of his little house and sat down to supervise too.

  The picnic table lurched as I sat on the bench. One more winter and it would be firewood. Errol sat with his back against the mimosa’s pot, his face tilted to take in the sun. He opened one eye when I spoke.

  “I’m going to try to touch one of those leaves with my keening.”

  He grumbled and settled back to sunbathing.

  I could do this. I could touch the mimosa with my magic. Easy-peasy.

  I reached. For a minute, I felt nothing. With all my anxiety over the news of protests and the golems, I had instinctively reinforced my psychic wards until they were as impenetrable as a fortress. I tried to relax, breathing in the sweet autumn air and exhaling until my wards eased.

  I keened the tiny spark of life coming off the mimosa. It was bittersweet, like lemonade on a hot day. Next I focused on one frond—on one spike of one frond—willing my magic to touch it, but no matter how I pushed and strained, the leaf remained unmoved.

  Then a tiny hand covered the knuckle of my index finger as I gripped the edge of the table. I looked down and Errol winked at me. He thumped the table with his walking twig and a tiny burst of magic flowed through me, not unlike the way I primed my sword. His magic tingled along my skin, under my skin, and…something opened in me. A dam I had long ago built burst, and I felt the well of a strange new magic within me. It filled my senses with the joy of growing things. Of loamy dirt and clean water. Air and sunshine. The wise rot of old dead things and the brisk hope of new life. If I had to give it a color, this new magic would be green.

  It was energy in complete antithesis to my keening, and caused a sharp pain to stab through my head, like a knife dividing my brain. My keening was a passive magic. It felt. It sensed. It didn’t reach. That’s why I could never use it to touch the plant.