On the Prowl

by Patricia Briggs, Eileen Wilks, Karen Chance, Sunny

  He ignored her. He was staring at the rune almost as if hypnotized, and before I could stop him, he put out a hand as if to actually touch it. The banshee went off like a hundred police sirens, screeching an alarm that cut through every other sound like a knife. Red lights bathed the stage, and the man quickly found himself dangling from the hand of a very large troll.

  "No touching!" the troll bellowed, giving him a little shake. It sent the man's head snapping back and forth hard enough to cause whiplash, but he never took his eyes off the stone. Not, that is, until the troll threw him over his shoulder and carted him off somewhere. The woman had already fled, leaving the platform clear again, except for me and the Fey.

  It quickly became obvious that I was on my own. Except for me, Matt and the trolls, the only employees on duty that night were a cadre of vampires. They were on loan from Antonio, their master, a Philadelphia mob boss who was one of the business's shady backers. They were a cynical, vicious bunch who seemed to resent having to work for Gerald even more than I did. One was watching me now, a short, ugly brute with a smirk on his lopsided features. The only other time I'd seen him smile was when he "accidentally" smashed a troll into a brick wall with a five-ton forklift. I didn't bother to ask for his help.

  Before I could come up with an alternative, a surprisingly calloused hand engulfed mine. The earlier shock of the Fey's touch was back, all the more powerful against my bare skin. The feeling was nothing like the electric tingle of being near a mage. The static surge when my power meets that of a strong magic user often hurts, especially if the mage in question is deliberately trying to test me. I didn't feel a challenge here, but he was definitely doing something.

  Outwardly, it probably looked like he was merely standing there, holding my hand. But I could feel his power all around me, questing, searching, trying to discover my secrets. My anger returned big-time. He wanted to know my secret? I'd be happy to show him.

  It felt very weird to deliberately call up my power. Normally, I spend my time tamping it down, trying not to drain every mage I meet. Even my work at Gerald's rarely requires an actual application of strength. Normally, the slight damping field I naturally exude is enough to calm down whatever trinket their scouts have dug up. But now I focused on the Fey's bright blue aura and pulled.

  Nothing happened.

  I tried again. Zilch. I stared at him in disbelief. I once had a mage tell me that I had no visible aura, just a black hole that radiated outward, trying to suck his magic away. He'd been drunk and none too happy with me at the time, so I'd never known if it was true, but magical creatures certainly acted like it. And that was when I wasn't trying.

  "Interesting," the Fey murmured after a moment, drawing me closer. What felt like a metaphysical hand stroked down the length of my body, causing me to shudder. "I've never encountered anyone quite like you."

  I could second that emotion. The Fey I'd met before hadn't been as susceptible to my abilities as mages, because their magic works differently from the human variety. But they had definitely felt something. So why didn't he?

  "Let me go," I told him, suppressing another shiver. My body was trying to melt against him even as my brain was torn between panic and outrage. I don't think I sounded too convincing.

  "Tell me what you are and I will. I like to know what I'm bidding on."

  "I'm not part of the auction!"

  I noticed that Matt had rounded up the Weres. The unconscious one had been tucked under a troll's huge arm, while the other was dangling from the creature's free hand by his collar. The Were's face was alarmingly red and his eyes were bulging, but they were a hardy breed. He'd get thrown out before he actually choked to death. Probably.

  Matt gave me a thumbs-up signal from beside the door, and pointed at his watch. I nodded. It was almost showtime. "If you'll excuse me," I said stiffly, "I have a job to do."

  "A job?" The Fey sounded like he didn't understand the term.

  "Yes, a job. You know, work? For which I am paid?" After a pause, he released me and stepped back. The room was more than adequately heated, but I suddenly felt cold. I hit the button to start the night's events with a little more force than absolutely necessary.

  The lights dimmed even further out on the floor, causing an upsurge in conversation, while those over the plinths glowed brighter. The Fey moved aside as the huge, dragon's-head podium rose out of the floor and into place. It was supposedly the real deal, killed, stuffed and mounted by Gerald's father—or so he claimed. Its fake glass eyes surveyed the room with their usual malevolence, its snout curled into an expression of disdain.

  It didn't look like something that had been killed in the heat of battle to me. More likely, Gerald senior had caught it napping and lopped the head off before it was fully awake, assuming it wasn't a clever fake. Gerald's sold some genuinely valuable pieces, but caveat emptor was definitely the house motto. The general feeling was that anyone dumb enough to buy the magical equivalent of snake oil deserved what he got.

  The Fey came around the side of the huge head. "You're part of the auction staff?" He sounded surprised. I suppose that was fair—Gerald wasn't in the habit of hiring people who couldn't take care of themselves, and I guess I looked fairly harmless.

  Looks can be deceiving.

  I waited until a crescendo of canned music and the automated voice-over announcing the imminent start of bidding ended. Then I pointed at the nearest plinth. "Do you know what that is?"

  He surveyed the small, quivering box on top of the marble stand for a beat. "No."

  "It's a djinn. A very old, very pissed off one. Gerald recently acquired it from the estate of the mage who trapped it. Only the spell he put on the container is deteriorating now that he's dead, and if it goes altogether before they can unload it, he's likely to take out half the block."

  The box gave a leap as if it had heard me, and almost managed to jump off its plinth. I gingerly sat it back where it belonged, and it quieted down. For the moment.

  "How does your presence prevent that?" the Fey asked, sounding bemused.

  I stopped looking for the gavel, which Matt had mislaid somewhere as usual, to stare at him in surprise. "You don't know?"

  "Why would I ask if I did?"

  "I'm a projective null," I told him slowly. What possible reason could he have for faking ignorance? If he was here for me, he certainly knew what he was getting. And if he wasn't, why would he have come?

  "You can block magic?" His expression suddenly became a lot more intense.

  "For a certain radius. I'm here to make sure nothing blows up in a customer's face." I smiled at him sweetly. "At least, not before they can pay."

  "How much of a radius?" His voice had lost its teasing tone, and was now all business.

  I glared at him. I knew it. For all their magical strength, the Fey had never produced a null, a fact that seemed to rankle. They'd been looking for a way to add that particular gift to their magical arsenal for some time, but with so few nulls to choose from, and most of them too weak to do more than disrupt a ward now and then, their hunt had been frustrating. Until they found me.

  Father's dinner guests had offered him a deal that he could have refused; instead, he jumped on it like a starving dog does a bone. It must have seemed perfect: a chance to get rid of an unwanted burden—and a constant reminder of his wife's preference for red hair—and get paid handsomely to boot. Too bad for him that I was tipped off. Great-Uncle Pip had always had a soft spot for the one person who didn't treat him like an idiot child. By the time the deal was finalized, he'd insured that I was nowhere to be found. And no one hides better than a null. The usual tracking spells are useless on us; we simply don't register, not even as a norm—and I can walk through most wards as if they aren't even there. The Fey did not take my disappearance well. The nobles who had intended to escort me into slavery in Faerie instead took back Father's head.

  I pushed the memories away and pointed to a spot off the side of the stage. It was where the auctio
n assistants usually stood to bring out new items for bidding. Since everything for sale tonight was already in place, no one was likely to be coming or going. "You can stand over there. We can talk after the sale." Assuming he could grab me before I managed to slip away in the mass exodus.

  Matt lumbered up beside us. He was sweating despite the temperature, and his collar appeared to be eating into his thick neck. "Bidders aren't allowed on stage, sir," he told the Fey with fake bonhomie. "Perhaps you would like to take a place in front?"

  "What I would like—" the Fey began, but I cut him off with a curse. For the second time that night, someone came through the main doors I really didn't want to see. In fact, I'd have preferred a whole room full of Fey to the sight of that narrow, smirking face.

  Chapter 2

  "WHAT'S wrong?" Mart's head whipped around. He scanned the plinths with anxious eyes, but I wasn't looking at them.

  I gripped his arm. "It's Seb!" I pointed to where a tall, elegant figure in a dove gray suit had just entered, surrounded by no fewer than eight bodyguards.

  "What?" Mart's eyes practically crossed, trying to take in the whole room at once.

  I smacked his arm. "Sebastian! My cousin!"

  I turned to run, but Mart's big paw descended on the back of my neck. "You can't leave. We're about to start."

  "Didn't you hear me?" I asked furiously. "He isn't here to say hello!" Mart's hand didn't budge. "If I'm dead, I can't keep anything from going haywire," I pointed out.

  "He's not here to kill you." Matt suddenly looked much calmer. A minute before, he'd been heading for a stroke; now his flushed face wore an expression of smug satisfaction that sent my own blood pressure skyrocketing.

  "And you know this how?"

  Matt shrugged. "I'm surprised you didn't notice. There's only twelve plinths, Claire."

  It took a second to register, then the words hit home. Despite selling fakes whenever he could get his hands on one, Gerald was a superstitious old coot. He knew better than anyone that some of his merchandise was the real deal, and a witch had told him that selling them in lots of thirteen would be an added safety precaution. I hadn't noticed the omission tonight, but I should have. I'd been so worried about the sudden appearance of the Fey that I'd forgotten—they weren't the main reason I was in hiding.

  "You're planning to sell me?" My voice went up an octave and Matt winced.

  "I didn't have a choice," he said defensively. "Sebastian's boys tracked you down a couple days ago. I could have handed you over then, but I figured you might do better in an auction. So I told your cousin to show up tonight if he wanted you. Looks like he does."

  Seb was staring at me, a little smile curving his thin lips. Match point, he mouthed.

  Like hell.

  "Matt! What do you think Seb will do with me if he wins?"

  "He said something about the family business being tied up so one heir gets it all, and the rest are out of luck."

  "And did he happen to mention what they do with the losers?" I almost screamed.

  "I guess he forgot that part." It was pretty clear that Matt didn't give a damn. His own inheritance rested on keeping his father happy and showing a profit. What happened after the sale wasn't his problem, a fact he demonstrated by chaining me to the podium.

  "I'll kill you," I promised as the manacle snapped shut around my wrist.

  Matt laughed. "You're a null, Claire. You couldn't do a spell to save your life! Now settle down and don't make a fuss."

  "You have no idea what kind of a fuss I'm about to make."

  Matt didn't bother to reply. He started the bidding on the first item, keeping me for last. Practical. I'd be there to keep the peace until the other items were carried away by successful bidders. Then it would be my turn, unless I could figure a way out of this before then.

  I looked around, trying to crush down my rising panic. For a minute, I thought the Fey had gone, then I spotted him propping up the wall just offstage. No help there. Matt must have called him in to give Seb some competition, and ran the price up.

  After a fierce bidding war, the djinn was sold to a tiny old woman swathed in black silk and pearls the size of cherries. She placidly stowed him in her huge purse, showing no sign of worry about her acquisition. Either she was barking mad, or she was a powerful witch. Considering that she kept well away from me, I was betting on the latter.

  Matt started the bidding on the next lot, a nail supposedly taken from the True Cross and said to give the possessor a leg up in battle. As it had been brought back from the Holy Land by a knight of the Second Crusade—which had been a miserable failure by any standards—I was a little dubious. It seemed the rest of the room agreed, because bidding was sluggish and the reserve wasn't met.

  Matt quickly passed on to item number three, not wanting to lose momentum. I barely heard him describing the history behind the small fragment of parchment because Seb had moved to the bottom of the steps, his bodyguards having pushed a path through the crowd for him. He usually maintains the air of pompous gravity he thinks is appropriate for the head of one of America's foremost magical houses, but tonight his expression was gleeful.

  "How old are you again, Claire?" he asked, taking out a calculator. "I ask because I have an offer from a couple of Harvesters. And age does make a difference, you know."

  I glowered at him, but refused to be baited. Harvesting was what nulls of any strength spend their lives fearing, and I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me lose it. But inwardly, I wasn't doing so good.

  Around the year 900, a mage figured out how to siphon away our energy, and thereby our lives, to make bombs capable of bringing all magic in an area to a standstill. How far and how long the effect extends depends on the strength of the null being sacrificed—the younger and more powerful they are, the more energy they have to give. After the process was discovered, it became fashionable to hunt us, especially in the vampire community, although some mages did it, too. Null harvesting, as it's politely called, was outlawed shortly after the practice began, but the law had less to do with stopping the hunts than the meager quality of the nulls remaining by the Renaissance. Harvesters ran themselves out of business by being too good at their job, not that there weren't a few enterprising types still trying.

  "Twenty-two, isn't it?" Seb's nimble fingers ran some calculations with the ease of a trained bean counter, which is what he'd been before father's late, unlamented demise.

  "Rot in hell."

  "It's too bad we didn't find you earlier. Late teens are optimal for top offers, but I'm sure we'll find someone to take you."

  He wandered off as Matt gave up trying to convince anyone that the parchment contained part of one of Merlin's lost spells. The bidding started on item number four, a genuine, if somewhat tattered, grimoire from ancient Egypt. Matt was trying to sell the idea that the papyrus scroll had been part of the library of Alexandria, rescued by a daring priest before the Romans burnt it to the ground. He wasn't doing that great. He lacked his dad's genuine appreciation for the merchandise he handled and it showed.

  All Matt cared about was making a buck, and his fake smiles and gushing descriptions were putting people off. But in this case, there was a flurry of bidding nonetheless. Anything from Egypt always went over well.

  I was waiting for lot number six, a small birdcage covered by a white cloth. It was pretty much my only shot, now that the old lady had gone off with the djinn. Occasional scratches could be heard from inside, but nothing more distinct. That wasn't surprising since I'd personally seen a handler, with a heavy scarf wrapped around his head, fitting the small creature within with a specially made muzzle. They weren't worried about its bite; in this case, the bark really was far worse.

  The cage was sitting on the stand closest to me and the chain on my manacle stretched far enough to reach it. What I couldn't figure out was how to get the latch open and the muzzle off before being pounced on by the trolls. The two guards were back in place at either side of the s
tage, and although they don't move very fast, they weren't more than six yards away. I'd never make it.

  I'd barely had the thought when the front door burst open in a swirl of snow. The Weres were back, and they'd brought friends. In fact, it looked like their whole pack had decided to teach Matt a few much-needed manners. As soon as the trolls moved to intercept, I lunged for the cage.

  My fingers had just brushed it when Matt caught me around the waist from behind. "Don't even think about it!" he roared over the sound of the Weres and trolls crashing into each other.

  The cage wobbled slightly, then settled back into place with a final sounding thump. Matt started dragging me backward toward me podium. There was nothing I could do—my power only works on magical creatures and Matt, like his old man, was garden-variety human. He had no magic to steal.

  As I started kicking him in his oversize calves, more to take out my frustration than in any hope of escape, the Fey appeared behind the plinth. I stared at him, and he dropped me a wink. I was still trying to absorb that when he flipped open the cage door, allowing the tiny brown bird inside to flutter out. Then a late-arriving troll crashed into Mm and they both went over the back of the stage.

  Instead of flying away, the bird started flitting in circles around my head. Matt saw it and squeaked something rude before releasing me and snatching up a net from inside the podium. He took a swipe at the bird, but it dodged with an arrogant flip of its tiny wings. He tried again, but it moved at .the last second in an almost calculated gesture. Unable to redirect his bulk in time, Matt went barreling down the steps to crash into a group of Sebastian's men, scattering them like bowling pins. I smashed my palm down on the release button on the podium, springing the manacle open, and slid my wrist free, but several of Seb's remaining thugs were there before I could so much as take a step.

  "Leaving early, Claire? And you the main attraction." Sebastian mounted the steps slowly, his dignity back in place despite the pandemonium. I suppose he thought he was safe, surrounded by the rapidly re-forming posse, but for once his optimism was misplaced.