"Thank you all for coming, although I don't recall sending anyone an invitation." His voice boomed over the crowd. "Nothing travels faster than gossip, eh?" The crowd echoed with nervous laughter. "About a year ago, this town suffered a blow. Ghenna, the terrible reaper of souls and the love of my life, disappeared. Without her, our council - and our city's - ground to a halt. Nobody can get anything done."
Murmurs of assent burbled around the room. "What about Archmagus Medoci?" a voice rang out.
Death waved a dismissive hand. "Medoci was an asshole who nobody misses." More than half the room laughed, but you could almost hear the scowling of the minority. "But my poor Ghenna made peace on that council."
Beside me, I heard O'Meara's knuckles give an audible pop. Her fist was clenched so tightly it looked like the tendons might snap. Apparently, Archmagus Ghenna wasn't universally beloved.
Death's eyes came to rest on O'Meara. "Course, there are some differences in opinion, which is why she entrusted me with this small item." Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a black rectangular object: a small journal. Its cover pulsed with wards. There was a sharp inhalation from the crowd, and Death's smile became manic. "I see some of you know what this is already. But to educate the ignorant, this little black book has lists of every deal Ghenna ever made, an accounting of her long history, and every secret she ever managed to ferret out during her long life."
A chill went through the room that wasn't entirely metaphorical. Whomever Ghenna had been, she had her fingers in a lot of pies.
"Now, I see a lot of anxious faces. Relax. Death doesn't have your number. The book is sealed. And will remain so until it touches the hand of the one who avenges her death."
I clenched my teeth and waited for him to point in my direction. Instead, Death slipped the book back inside his jacket and steepled his broad hands together. "Ghenna was always in favor of swift justice and harsh penalties for those that violate the code. Yet there is a wrinkle in the way, a fold that prevents us from drawing the line from the crime to the culprit. There is a new theory on offer. Fellow magi, we have a witness that both Ghenna and Medoci were killed by a dragon."
The crowd began to murmur.
"But let's be perfectly honest: there's always someone to blame. Ghenna didn't always pay attention to the details of guilt or innocence so long as blood filled the altar." The murmuring grew, and my stomach started to retreat toward my tail. I instinctively pressed closer to O'Meara as Death continued. "Ghenna's anchor was the concept of the hunt, so in four days from now, as the full moon rises, there will be a mountain lion hunt. Anyone who brings me the head of one Thomas Khatt before sunrise the next day gets the little black book and whatever secrets it contains."
"Bullshit!" I called out. Death raised an eyebrow. "What is this? The plot of a Saturday-morning cartoon show?" I spat.
Death shrugged. "Blood sports and cartoons are both entertainment."
"And you think I'll just be waiting around to play this game? I don't kill people for fun."
Death laughed and grinned at the crowd. "Isn't that just like a cat? He's already assumed he'll win." That yielded scattered chuckles from the audience before he pointed at a spot on the landing in front of his throne and addressed me directly. "An hour before the hunt, you're going to be standing right there." Death pointed. "So you get your hour's head start. You win if you come back with your head attached after twenty-four hours. You get the book, Thomas. And with that leverage, nobody will trouble you again, not Oric, not whomever gets on the council. Isn't that something worth fighting for?"
O'Meara's hair burst into a corona of flame. "You cannot do this! It is not your place to render justice, Death! That is reserved for the council alone!"
Death's smile turned patronizing. "If he were a familiar, that might be true, but since he is not a member of the TAU, he lacks the legal protections. As it is, I believe there is a small fine for the death of an unsanctioned familiar still on the books. Chief?" Death looked at the group of inquisitors standing by the roulette wheel.
One of them shrugged. "Ten groat, maybe even fifteen."
Death laughed as O'Meara fumed. A few of the magi in the crowd joined in, but not the majority. "The real question everyone in this room needs to ask themselves is: are you willing to help a cat who's in over his pointy-eared head, or do you want the book?"
"And if I don't show?" I growled.
"Then the hunt never ends. You won't be able to talk to a magus without wondering if they're after your head. That's your choice." He stared at me, hard, and a tiny spell zipped between us. You let my friend die to save your own long-tailed ass. I don't care what she did. You are going to swim in blood in tribute to her. Even if you survive, the death will never wash out of that coat you wear.
21
A Head Full of Ghosts
"You will regret this," I swore to Death and anyone else who'd meet my eyes. Then we left. Death was still talking. I did not care to listen.
Outside in the scorching heat, as the adrenaline ebbed away, it took all of my willpower not to beat my head against the nearest lamppost. O'Meara's mood was no better, as her footsteps ignited the floor wax in our wake, forcing some goon to trail after us with a fire extinguisher. Angry thoughts swarmed about both our heads.
The hunters were to declare themselves twenty-four hours before the hunt. That meant we had three days to somehow convince the entire magi community that I was a very dangerous cat or get the hell out of town. I mean, that's what Oric had really wanted. He probably would have tolerated me operating in the shadows, but here I was a direct challenge to the way things were done. Despite the fact that nobody could replicate how I bond folks.
Foremost on both our minds was where do we run to?
Canada? I floated as we trudged back toward home. There are lots of cougars in Canada, right?
I've done the wilderness thing. Best bet is to hide out with the South American vampire clans and petition the dragon lords for asylum. The council has North America and Europe firmly in hand. O'Meara's mind spiraled out into the rather convoluted geopolitics of the magical world. Africa had a kill-on-sight policy regarding Merlin Council Magi. South America was still dominated by a vampire-and-werewolf alliance. Asia was a mass of ancient courts that were far less united than the countries they were located in, but only a very few would talk to outsiders, and no more than two were open to emigration.
Rudy, however, had an entirely different opinion, which he shared as soon as we had retreated to the office. "Break out the cashews and the nightshade seeds! This is gonna be awesome!" He emphasized this by using my nose as a springboard on his way to the desk, where he threw open my laptop and stomped on the power button.
"I suppose you have some sort of secret weapon in a glass case that says ‘break in case of wyld hunt’ squirreled away?" I asked, wiping my stinging nose on the back of a paw. Rudy forgot how sharp the claws on his feet were.
"Course not! But did you see? You scared Death!" He chittered with delight, tail twitching as he rubbed his paws together eagerly.
"Bloody ashes, Rudy! Yes, he's scared enough that he's going to throw the entire magi population of Vegas at us." O'Meara body-slammed the beanbag chair. "How is that at all a good thing?"
"Oh, it's not! But if the almighty Death is scared of the ‘D’ word, then think of how terrified everyone else has gotta be. Imagine if Death hosts his little hunting party and nobody shows up?" Rudy made a mind explosion gesture. "Boom goes all that rep. And trust me, he's not quite as tough as everybody thinks he is."
"He knew you, Rudy," I said, examining the glee shining in Rudy's eyes. "What happened the last time you were in Vegas?"
"That's not important!" He dismissed the question with a wave of a paw. "We gotta focus on the now. And we're so close now! If we get that book, we can finally fix the council! Appoint some magi who aren't psychopaths! Imagine that! A council that's not interested in conquering Africa or sitting on mounds of tass. Instead, one th
at's there to assure the preservation of knowledge and assist each other in prying loose the secrets of the universe!" Rudy's voice had changed as he talked, lost its normally squeaky timbre and deepened to that of a man. A single rune shimmered into existence on the center of his forehead. Similar to the sign of the council, but different, the seven dots replaced with a single central dot. Not the council of Merlins. The Merlin.
Merlin's ghost. O'Meara's thought tore through my mind like a curse. That explains everything.
Rudy continued. "Everyone has forgotten the purpose of magic! They look inward, build impossible towers, and hide in them! Whenever a visitor touches the world, they kill it and use its bones for kindling. They do not explore! It has to change! It must change!" He pointed at me. "You know it's true! You see it, you open their eyes to it. It's not enough for you to survive! You have to flourish, Thomas! They have to accept your presence!" Rudy pointed at the ground. "Here." He jabbed a claw towards the door. "You do no good hiding in the woods. It is so, so important."
The symbol winked out, and Rudy toppled forward onto the desk.
"Rudy!" O'Meara and I cried out in unison, rushing to the desk. O'Meara made to scoop him up, but Rudy held up a paw to ward off her hand.
"I'm fine! Gimme a minute." Rudy groaned. "I hate it when he does that." He grabbed the lip of a water bowl and pulled himself upright, wobbling slightly. "And don't look at me like that! I hate the way you're looking at me now. Nutty old man, should've tied his beard around that mill stone when I had a chance." Rudy muttered that last bit under his breath.
O'Meara closed her jaw and turned away. I gave myself a good shake; my fur felt as if I'd been chewing on an electrical cable. Rudy busied himself with grooming.
"You going to tell us what that was just now, Rudy? Or will you stonewall us?" O'Meara asked. Meanwhile, I got a small can of mixed nuts, opened it, and set it beside the squirrel.
Rudy shrugged, groping at the can. "It's simple. You've got a Great Dane running around your skull. I've got an old man." He pulled a peanut, made a face at it, and tossed it back.
"You were Merlin's familiar?" I said, trying to keep awe out of my voice.
This time he grabbed a hazelnut and nibbled at it. "There were lots of us. Took him a few tries before he got it right. Bonded me for maybe a year before he moved on to an owl."
"That's how you know all those old spells. The tass bombs. Merlin knew them," O'Meara said.
"Ha, he doesn't deserve any credit for those! Those are mine." Rudy puffed up his chest. "It's not his style. I forget he's there most of the time."
"What about now? What was that about?" I asked.
Rudy grumbled and picked at his head as though trying to pull the man out of it. "Nonsense! He still thinks he can prophesize! But it never works out! He don't have his anchor no more. He thought Archibald would win! And that Death would set the wolves free!"
"So are you changing your vote to running away?" I asked.
"Nuts to thaaaa— ooow!" Rudy clutched at his head as his tail went bolt upright with pain. "Jeeeeet! No, no, no!"
An abyss of pain opened in my chest, and the world went gray. My heart had a new goat-sized hole in it, joining Trevor's, but so much deeper.
"No, no, no, no," I whimpered as my legs gave way. I'd failed to protect them. Guilt joined the grief. The vampire had struck again, and I'd let myself be distracted. Why? Why'd I do that?
Surgically removing your connection to Trevor didn't help. O'Meara's voice cut through the fog of pain like a diamond-sharpened blade. I opened an eye to see her looming over me, scrubbing wetness from her eyes. Come on, before the trail goes cold.
How could she even stand? Our bond hung open; all the pain that I felt was rushing into her like a torrent. I roused myself to peer into her. The black water of grief simply fell into her mind as a waterfall into her subconscious. It mixed down there with the memories guarded by Rex. There is no time for grieving. With that, she pushed me back into my own head, into a miserable world without my poker buddy whom I had let die.
"It's not your fault," O'Meara whispered in my ear as she jammed her arms beneath my torso and lifted my dead weight as if she was a forklift.
What are you doing? I thought, not bothering to use my voice. My tongue, my everything felt as if my muscles had been replaced with sand bags, heavy and useless.
"We're going to the Stables." O'Meara marched toward the door and kicked the handicap button with a boot. The door began to open with a whirr of its underpowered motor. "There will be fresh trimmings in his stall. We use them to find out where he is, and then we will find who did this."
The thread will go back to the casinos. It's there. Hiding among the magi. It might be Doug! The way he moves without magic. What the hell do we do if one of the most powerful magi in the city has a vampire for a familiar? A vampire cheetah. That's gotta be cheating. The laugh transmuted itself into a sob as I imagined Doug's jaws closing down on Jet's neck and hearing that now-so-familiar crunch of bone. The sound was so different when it emanated from a friend.
O'Meara gave no heed to my thoughts and half marched, half staggered toward the tunnel entrance. I felt as if I were watching from afar as she hefted me over her shoulder as if I were an oddly shaped barrel. We gently descended into the tunnel on a plume of superheated air.
As she trudged along, the rhythmic press of her shoulder jammed into my ribs with every step. A comforting discomfort; I could focus on it instead of the deepening pool of Jet's absence. My eyes opened to see a crowd of goat-shaped phantasms trailing behind us, all eager to pretend that they could fill the hole. I could feel the kiss of their tiny minds, probing for entry into mine.
O'Meara snorted dismissively and tossed a ball of flame over her shoulder. Close your eyes, she commanded, and I did. The tunnel flashed in my vision through my fuzzy eyelids. The phantoms were gone.
Slowly, my brain began to churn. If the phantoms were attracted to despair, then if the lights at the stable entrances failed... Oh, eldritch things beyond the veil, have mercy. It could be a feeding frenzy. O'Meara set me down, and I began to walk. My bond's mind loomed large in my own, and I could feel her shoving my thoughts this way and that. Away from Jet, towards Alice. Alice was in trouble. Memories blossomed: Alice trying to throw herself into the arms of a Trevor-shaped phantasm, knowing full well what it would do.
I began to run. O'Meara burst into a sprint beside me, but two feet cannot compete with four, and the slap of her boots on the concrete was soon distant. Shadows swarmed in front of me as the unmistakable odor of the Stables grew stronger. While her body ran far behind, O'Meara rode right behind my eyes, and with a surge of her power, my fur burst into phosphorus-white flame as I charged into the teeming mass of phantasms crowding the entrance. Trapped between the bright lights of the gate and my own brilliance, the shadowy creatures were annihilated.
As I vaulted the entrance, low keening reached my ears as I landed among the Stable folk. They had all fallen where they stood. Jet was no Trevor; he had been a central pillar of the Stables, and the floor was damp with tears to mark his passing. The lights I had charged through were holding; O'Meara and I had replaced their bulbs the other day, but the south gate had begun to flicker. Shadows swarmed against the light, surging toward the feeble bulbs. Their forms swarmed in the shape of Jet's face and horns - a grotesque cloud of goat features.
I flung myself at invading clouds of shadow goats, dodging over Alice and a circle of other ungulates. The thin tendrils of shadow that had been attempting to pull the wire out of the ceiling jerked away, and the phantasms screamed like a herd of goats at a slaughterhouse as they pulled back into the darkness of the tunnels. In their wake lay two horses I did not know by name, both of their manes and tails bleached white. Their eyes were wide open, seeing nothing, despite the heavy heave of their chests.
Their hope had been consumed. And the residents of the Stables had so precious little of it to spare.
22
Fo
llow That Ghost
We don't have any time for them, O'Meara thought at me, too busy using her mouth to suck in every molecule of oxygen she could pull into her lungs. The gatepost she leaned against was picking up sweat from her sodden T-shirt. Find Jet, find the vampire. Staggering forward, she lurched toward Jet's stall, nearly tripping over several residents.
Easy, I urged her, pulling a flashlight from a bucketful of them by the gate. Clicking it on with a tooth, I balanced it on the top of the gate, pointing the light beam down into the tunnel. Shadows scurried away.
No time. Something is very wrong. Panic fluttered in her mind, even though I could feel her smoothing mine. Her hand shook as it swept to encompass all the residents that had been reduced to teary lumps. It shouldn't be like this. From her mind flowed a long howl of mourning and pain. Rex.
I set up another flashlight and tried to look inside her, but she shoved me back. The roughness of it hurt.
Her gaze met mine. No. Not yet. Not here, Thomas. I did something in the war. I was a wreck, nonfunctional for years afterwards. They made me forget. If you push me to remember it now, I'll be less help than Alice or the rest of them.
O'Meara, I'm sure it's not that bad. I sent her the memory of a purr, a mental hug as I steered my body closer to hers. She swatted the sentiment away.
The gravity of the black hole of grief had begun to slacken as O'Meara pulled open the gate to Jet's stall. The straw was fresh and pungent, and the lower rails had shelving attached with a myriad of objects in easy goat reach. Scale models of cars were hidden among the various tools for living without hands: rods of all sizes, flat metal plates for lifting things like a spatula. A collection of vises and clamps took up the left wall. Jet had dedicated all of his considerable free time to conquering his goatness and then teaching the others what he had figured out. None of the model cars were perfect, but as I understood it, they had all been assembled after Jet had become a goat.
High Steaks (Freelance Familiars Book 3) Page 13
