Magic Triumphs (Kate Daniels)

by Ilona Andrews

  “Did she suffer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” Adora winked at me. “I put Curran’s sweatpants on the stairs. I’m not going up to your love nest.”

  “Love nest?”

  “Your bedroom where you have sex.”

  Oh boy.

  “I haven’t had sex,” Adora volunteered. “But I’ve decided to try it.”

  “Is there a particular person you want to try it with?”

  “No. I’m thinking about it.”

  “Sex is about trust,” I told her. “You’ll be at your most vulnerable. Try to choose well.”

  She wrinkled her nose at me again.

  I went up the stairs. A big paper bag sat on the first landing. I looked inside. Gray Pack sweatpants. Curran had grown up in them, and he kept wearing them despite us no longer being part of the Pack. One, two . . . Five pairs? Odd. He had two stacks of sweatpants in the closet.

  “Hey,” I called down to the basement. “Who brought the sweatpants?”

  “Some Pack werewolf.”

  I walked upstairs and opened the closet doors. All of the old sweatpants were gone. Weird. I emptied the bag on the bathroom floor and sorted through the new sweatpants, checking the waistband and the elastic on the bottom of each pant leg for any hidden items. Nothing.

  Okay. I folded the sweatpants and put them back into the bag. Where did his other sweatpants go?

  A search of the hamper turned up nothing. Now I was invested in the mystery. I went downstairs and checked the laundry room, the washing machine, and the dryer. Nothing.

  That left the trash can outside. I went out and threw the lid open. A large trash bag sat on top, stretched out like someone had folded a blanket and stuffed it inside. I fished it out and pulled the strings open. Sweatpants. Still clean and folded. Well, and that wasn’t weird. Not at all. Why would he throw away all of his sweatpants and get new ones? Did they smell bad? I sniffed the sweatpants. Smelled like cotton to me.

  I grabbed a pair of old sweatpants and went down into the basement.

  “Do these smell odd to you?”

  “You want me to sniff Curran’s sweatpants?”

  “They’re clean. I got them out of the garbage can.”

  Adora blinked at me and held up one finger. “No.”

  “Fine.” I took the old sweatpants upstairs, pulled the new ones out of the bag, arranged them on the shelf, and laid a lone pair of old clean sweats on the bed next to the empty bag and a clean white T-shirt. Trap baited. Now I just had to wait for the lion to come home.

  It took him another twenty minutes. He walked through the door, carrying Conlan. Conlan saw me, scooted out of his arms, and charged up the stairs at breakneck speed. I had a split-second decision: to move or to take the hit. I took the hit. My back slapped the wooden floor. Ouch. He hugged me. “Mama!”

  I rolled to my feet. “This sudden love is suspicious.”

  “He got in trouble for trying to eat scented candles.” Curran came up the stairs.

  “Where did he get the scented candles?”

  “In the Guild’s supply closet. Corinna bought a stack of them. She burns them in the locker room. Says it helps her with the wet-dog smell.”

  Corinna worked for the Guild as a merc, but she was also a werejackal and she was obsessed with her scent.

  I carried Conlan to the bedroom. “Did you talk to Martha?”

  “Not yet.”

  “The Pack delivered some sweatpants for you. I put them in the closet. What happened to the old ones?”

  “I wore them out.”

  Bullshit. Coming from the man who resorted to using his alpha stare over keeping an ancient T-shirt, it wasn’t just bullshit, it stank to high heaven.

  I nodded.

  “How did it go with the witches?”

  Curran stripped off his T-shirt and I got a view of the world’s best chest, all golden and muscled. Mmm.

  “Big battle, fire, human bones, blood, more fire.”

  “That’s it?” He put on the white T-shirt and took off his jeans. Mmmm.

  “Yep. Not very illuminating. But good news, Maria still hates me.”

  He pulled the sweatpants on. They ended midway up his shin. What the heck?

  “Hold on, baby. Mommy needs to do something.” I set Conlan down, turned sideways, raised my leg, bending it at the knee, and extended. I’d done this hundreds of times to tap Curran on the throat when we were sparring. Usually I failed to connect, but the high kick was so automatic, I did it on autopilot. My foot came up short.

  “Ooo, foreplay.” Curran caught my ankle.

  I pulled my leg out of his hand. “Stand straight.”

  “What is this?” He spread his arms.

  I stepped close to him. My nose touched his chest. In his human form, Curran topped me by two and a half inches. I was five-seven and he was close to five-ten. I was looking up at him now.

  “You are taller.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but I’m done growing.”

  “You’re taller and you know you’re taller. I found your sweatpants in the garbage.” I dropped back and snapped a fast kick, aiming at his head. He leaned back, letting my kick fly by.

  “You’re at least six-two.”

  “You measured me with your kick?”

  “Yes. And your hair is an inch longer than it was this morning. What’s happening?”

  “Nothing I understand.”

  “Why is this happening?”

  He raised his arms. “I’m trying to get stronger.”

  He did work out every chance he got.

  “I’m not trying to work on being taller. The hair thing is weird, I agree.”

  “Is this normal? Is this some sort of First shapeshifter stage of life that you’re going through?”

  “My father isn’t around, so we can’t exactly ask him.”

  “Have you talked to Doolittle about it?”

  He smiled at me. “Would you like me to?”

  “Yes. I would. What the hell is so funny?”

  “You’re worrying about my health.”

  “You scare me.” I sat on the bed. I was suddenly very tired.

  He crouched on the floor in front of me. “I’m okay.”

  “I was thinking today about what it was like before.”

  “Before . . . ?”

  “Before the flare.”

  He grinned. “You mean before I broke into your house and made you coffee for the first time?”

  “You didn’t break into my house. I left the door unlocked.”

  “Details.”

  “Ghastek asked In-Shinar for forgiveness today. He didn’t know about the sahanu, and he took it personally. He didn’t want the whole me. He wanted the In-Shinar part of me. Raphael told me I was the In-Shinar. Some people will never see me as anything else.”

  “I want the whole you,” he told me. “The merc, the In-Shinar, my wife, all of it. My Kate.”

  “I know. I have this awful feeling that something screwed up is about to drop on us. I don’t want anything to happen to you. I can’t roll with that kind of punch, Curran.”

  “Nothing will happen to me. I’ve got this.” He pulled me off the bed into a hug and kissed me. “Not going anywhere,” he whispered into my ear. “All yours. Always.”

  I believed him, but the sick feeling in my stomach refused to go away.

  * * *

  • • •

  THE PHONE WOKE me. I slipped from under Curran’s arm and dragged myself to it. The clock said 6:20 a.m. Ugh.

  “Kate Daniels. I mean Lennart. Kate Lennart.”

  Curran laughed under his breath.

  “Hey, Kate,” Sheriff Beau Clayton said into the phone. He sounded dull, like he’d seen something he wanted to forget. I
wouldn’t like this call.

  “You called about Serenbe.”

  “I did.”

  “I might have something for you.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  I hung up. Last night, after we sorted ourselves out, Curran had called Martha and asked her to come watch Conlan today and to bring the book club. She’d asked him if he meant the whole book club, and he said yes. She told him she’d be here at nine.

  If I waited until nine, the magic could drop. I needed to go now, while the magic was active.

  “I have to go,” I told Curran.

  “I’ll catch up,” he said.

  * * *

  • • •

  THE SMALL SETTLEMENT of Ruby lay deep in the heart of Milton County. Two streets, seventeen houses, a post office, a small store with a gas station, and a Rural Defense Tower. Rural Defense, an extension of the National Guard, was tasked with protecting the small settlements. It was one step up from a militia.

  It took Julie and me roughly two hours to get there even with Julie driving, but we’d made it while the magic was still up. Now we stood on the street, the silent houses flanking us. A dead Labrador retriever lay on my left. Someone had built a pyre at the end of the street. It was six feet tall and shaped like a cone.

  Behind us, Beau Clayton and two of his deputies waited, all three still on horseback: the deputy on the right with a crossbow and the other with a shotgun. These were cautious people covering all the bases.

  Beau, as big as a mountain, had lost all of his usual cheer. His eyes had gone flat and dark. A postal carrier reported the empty village last night, but Beau had been dealing with another matter and didn’t get the message until this morning. He and the deputies had swept the village and found abandoned houses, unmade beds, and dead dogs.

  “What do you make of the pyre?” Beau asked me.

  “I don’t know. I got a prophecy from the Witch Oracle yesterday. It had a lot of fire in it. Are you sure the locals didn’t build it themselves?”

  “There is no way to tell,” Beau said. “We don’t come this way too often.”

  We waited.

  Finally, Julie glanced at me. “Blue.”

  “Across the board?”

  She nodded. “Human magic.”

  They took the people. Just like Serenbe. It had to stop. It had to stop now.

  A man walked into the street, tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing armor tinted with blue. The dark metal scales traced his body, following its contours, wider on his chest and smaller on his waist. The armor flowed, flexible, protecting without impeding his movement, each scale just the right size, almost as if it were custom made. I’d never seen anything like it until yesterday, when I saw that armor in Sienna’s vision.

  I scrutinized the warrior. One scale on his right shoulder shimmered with gold. His helmet shielded his skull, leaving his face open, a variation of a Chalcidian helm I wasn’t familiar with. His face looked oddly blank. He was Caucasian, blue-eyed, and the locks of hair falling from under the helmet were blond. Two sword hilts protruded over his shoulders. He carried a torch in his hand. Fire danced at the end of it.

  “I thought you said you did a sweep,” I said quietly.

  “We did,” Beau said.

  The warrior dropped the torch onto the pyre. Flames dashed up the branches.

  “Did he soak it in gasoline or something?” Julie asked.

  “I didn’t smell any when I looked at it,” one of the deputies told her.

  The warrior stepped in front of the pyre, his back to it, and faced us.

  “Sheriff’s department,” Beau called out, his voice harsh. “Get down on the ground.”

  The warrior reached behind his back and drew the two swords.

  Oh good. Apparently, it was cutting time.

  The blades looked to be about twenty-one or twenty-two inches long with a swept profile, similar to a modern Filipino espada, a cross between a Spanish sword and a traditional garab blade. Lively and fast, while still delivering a lot of cutting power in either a slash or a thrust.

  The fire behind the warrior surged up. Wait, don’t tell me.

  A figure appeared in the flames, a tall man in golden scale armor. A white cloak, edged with wolf fur, rode on his shoulders, his blond hair falling on it in a combed wave. A golden torque caught his neck.

  My box and Serenbe were connected.

  That sonovabitch. Anger boiled inside me and solidified into dark ice. All those people, dead. I’m coming for you. Just wait.

  “What the hell?” the other deputy said.

  “We’re being invaded,” I said. “That’s their king and this is his champion.”

  “Does he do magic?” Beau asked.

  “He’s leaving a blue trail,” Julie said.

  “Kenny,” Beau said, his voice calculating, “shoot that bastard.”

  Kenny raised his crossbow. A small blue spark burst at the tip of the bolt. He sighted and fired. The warrior opened his mouth. Fire tore out of it. The scorched remnants of the bolt fell to the ground.

  Great. He spat fire. My favorite.

  “I think that’s my cue.” I unsheathed Sarrat.

  “There are five of us and one of him,” Kenny pointed out.

  “This isn’t about winning,” Beau said. “This is about fear. This asshole has been coming into our villages and stealing our people. He thinks he can do whatever he wants and none of us can stop him. He needs to know that one of ours can beat one of his. Have fun, Dan . . . er, Lennart.”

  I walked into the middle of the street.

  The warrior moved forward one light step. Toe walker. Most people stepped on their heel first. We had the cushy benefits of modern footwear, and we walked mostly paved streets. He stepped on the ball of his foot first, feeling the ground with his toes before putting his full weight on it. You almost never saw this outside cultures that still ran around barefoot.

  The warrior rotated his blades, warming up his wrists. I did the same. No gauntlets. Hard to effectively hold a blade with an armored gauntlet. That left his knuckles nice and bare.

  I began to circle, slowly. He was six feet tall, at least two hundred pounds, likely more with his armor. The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question was, how thick was that armor?

  Let’s see how fast you are with your two swords.

  He looked at my blade and dropped his left sword to the ground. Smart. Dual swords had their uses. They were effective for cutting yourself out of a crowd or for blocking a much heavier blade. But in one-on-one, the single sword ruled. I was liking this less and less.

  I stopped about two feet from him. He watched me. I watched him.

  Show me what you’ve got.

  He struck, fast, bringing the blade down from my right. I parried it just enough to let his blade slide off mine and moved back.

  Strong. Getting into a hit-for-hit game with him would wear me out.

  He reversed the swing. I angled Sarrat to let the blow slide off the flat of my blade and moved back again.

  The warrior charged, bringing his sword down in a devastating blow. I lunged to the left, ducking, and thrust Sarrat into his armpit. Like trying to thrust through rock. I jerked the blade back and jumped out of the way. He took a step back, his blue eyes unblinking and cold.

  Blood coated the very tip of Sarrat’s blade. If it weren’t for the armor, he would be bleeding to death. Slashing him was out. The blade wouldn’t penetrate. I could power-word him, but that would be against the rules. Beau was right. I needed to beat this guy with my sword, one-on-one. Nothing short of that would give the asshole in the fire pause.

  The warrior charged again, raining blows, left, right, left.

  Parry, dodge, parry, back away, parry. He was damn strong and he fought like he had gone into battle for his life many times. No
thing showy. No movement wasted. Every blow vicious and calculated.

  Strike, strike, nice trick but I saw that, strike.

  Parry, parry, parry . . . The tip of his blade carved a path across my right forearm. Shit.

  We broke apart.

  I had to win this. If he beat me, it would paint us as easy prey.

  He lunged. I spun out of the way. He struck from the right again, expecting me to dodge. Instead I stepped into the blow, planting my feet, and caught his wrist. The shock reverberated all the way into my toes, and while it was still moving through me, I drove Sarrat toward his gut. He caught the blade with his hand. I grinned at him and jerked Sarrat back. The blade cut through his hand like it was butter.

  He snarled in pain. His eyes flashed amber. The vision from the Witch Oracle flashed before me. Amber eyes and then . . .

  I spun away and ran.

  Flames burst from his mouth in a cone, roaring after me. Heat bathed me. I dropped to the ground. The scorching heat tore above me.

  I rolled to my feet. A curtain of smoke hung between us, flames shining inside it. He broke the rules and went to his magic. Oh goody.

  I slid the flat of Sarrat’s blade across the cut on my forearm, letting the crimson wet it.

  He came through the smoke and fire, his eyes blazing, his sword raised.

  I sent a pulse of magic through my blood. A hair-thin red edge crystallized on Sarrat’s blade.

  He barreled at me, huge, his eyes on fire.

  I stabbed him in the stomach. The blade sliced through the armor, flesh, and organs, and scraped his spine, severing the nerves. His legs went out. He dropped to his knees.

  The smoke cleared. I slashed at his neck. There was almost no resistance. His head rolled off his shoulders. I picked it up, walked to the pyre, and tossed it at the blond asshole in the flames. It fell through the fire.

  There. That’s for you. Keep it.

  The man in the fire and I stared at each other. His armor matched that of his champion’s, but where the warrior’s armor was tinted with blue, the scales on his body were a deep reddish gold. A gold chain held his cape in place, its clasp studded with what were probably real rubies. He had so much gold on him, his knees should have been shaking from the weight. If his image was life-sized, he was huge, at least six and a half feet tall. Of course, he could be four feet tall and just made himself look larger.