Couldn’t have worked.
Asshat must have missed. The fireball I thought I’d shot at him had to have been some kind of hallucination brought on by hysteria. Or maybe somebody had laced my cookies with LSD.
But what kind of hallucination catapulted a guy across the parking lot?
Hell, I didn’t even know how the cat had laid her target out. Presumably it had involved claws and teeth. Maybe it had been muscle memory for both of us.
Thing was, I’d researched that concept for my books, and it takes a hell of a lot of practice to embed a skill in your brain until you can use it when somebody is trying to kill you. Hours and hours of practice. Practice I’d never had. Not. Even. Once.
“Why aren’t I dead?”
Both hands stung. I shook them absently, then stopped, breath caught, staring at them. Were they smoking faintly, or was that my imagination?
The tatts on my palms weren’t in any language I knew, though in my books they were spells: the left deflected energy, while the right emitted magical blasts.
Tattoos I didn’t remember getting.
Why had I never questioned that? Yeah, I’d figured I must have been drunk, but looking back on it, I didn’t even remember taking a drink at all the night before. So where had they come from?
Before I could follow that thought to its logical conclusion, a police car bounced into the parking lot and screeched to a halt. I started toward it, thoroughly relieved.
At least, until a cop jumped out of the car and pointed his gun at me. “Down on the ground! Get down on the ground now!” he bellowed.
“Okay! All right, don’t shoot!” Deeply terrified -- not of being shot, but that I’d kill the officer with another instinctive magical blast -- I lay down on the sidewalk.
Had I used magic? Had Asshat missed?
Why aren’t I dead?
* * *
Much to my relief, I managed to avoid either getting shot or zapping a cop. I did, however, wind up going to the Graven City Police Department to tell a detective why I sent six guys to the ER. The only bright spot was that I got to drive my own car rather than ride in the back of a cruiser.
The GPD was housed in a long, two-story cream-brick building built in 1966. Its pale blue walls were hung with shadow boxes displaying uniforms from decades past, along with portraits of various police chiefs and officers of the year.
Detective Randal Peters interviewed me in the Violent Crimes Investigations Division. I’d expected a setup like the rows of metal desks I’d seen on TV cop shows. Instead, it looked more like a cube farm.
Peters’ cubical was papered with cartoons, wanted posters, and colored Post-its with cryptic notes in illegible handwriting. He also had a phone, a computer, and a sad drooping houseplant on one corner of his desk.
I knew how it felt.
“If not for the damage you did to those bastards, I’d wonder if you’d staged the whole thing as a YouTube hoax.” Peters told me. “No offense, but you don’t look like you could beat up six grown men.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.” Calliope in my lap, I looked at his computer monitor, where a video the cops had pulled from Asshat’s cell was running in a loop. It cut off before I did the Harry Potter bit, damn it. I would have liked some kind of confirmation.
Or not.
One of the video thugs swung at the tiny Summer, who whipped around and kicked his legs out from under him. He was still in mid-air when she punched him in the face so hard, his feet flew up as he hit the ground. It felt really weird watching it, as if it hadn’t happened to me at all.
I stroked Calliope, trying to take comfort from her silken fur. I’d attempted to put her in the cat carrier, but she’d yowled until I’d let her out. I felt like yowling too. If this whole night was a sleepwalking episode, it was past time I woke up.
“You’re lucky as hell, you know that?” The detective shook his balding head. Peters was a big man, with a wide worn face that went with his wide, worn body. He had the slab shoulders that suggested he’d been a football star back in high school or college, and he wore a blue oxford cloth shirt straining over his rounded belly. The belly revealed it had been a long time since he’d participated in any kind of athletic activity. “You must have more lives than a cat, given how many times you should have died tonight.”
I cuddled Calliope. “Yeah, trying not to think about that.”
“The last time I saw moves like those was in that superhero movie…” He waved his pen, evidently drawing a blank. “What’s the name of that thing? About the guy with the hammer.”
“The Avengers?” I blinked, startled. “You’re saying I fight like Thor?”
“Not him, the chick. The one with the red hair and the leather.”
“Oh, you mean Black Widow.” Nerd that I was, I felt wildly flattered.
“Black Widow, that’s the one.” Despite the good-ol’-boy drawl, his hazel eyes were narrow and shrewd. “You know, there’s a lot about this that doesn’t make any damned sense.”
“Tell me about it.” I contemplated my swollen, bleeding hands as they rested on Calliope’s furry body. I was bruised and sore as hell, but that was still preferable to a bullet or a stab wound.
“I can’t believe the last guy was sitting in his car shooting cell phone video.” Peters’ smile was grimly satisfied as he contemplated the monitor. “Their lawyers are going to have a hell of a time talking their way out of this one. You’d be amazed at the theories those guys will float just to see if they can confuse a jury.” His voice dropped to a grumble. “I hate lawyers.”
“I didn’t see a cell phone. I just saw the rifle when he got out of the car and tried to blow my brains out.” Only to be stopped by freaking magic, for God’s sake -- a little factoid I had no intention of sharing with the po-po.
Jackets with sleeves that tie in the back are so 2015.
“That’s another thing -- who the hell brings a rifle along on a strong-armed robbery? Handgun, yeah. Rifle, no. That’s the kind of thing you carry when you’re planning to pick off somebody from a distance. You’re lucky he missed.” Peters beat his pen on his desk in a restless tattoo. “Has anybody threatened you lately?”
“Of course not,” I said, even as I remembered Paladin’s deep mental voice growling about Valak, whom he seemed to think was responsible for the attack. Only Valak was the villain in Paladin’s Quest, which made him not a candidate for the role in real life. He’s fictional, damn it. And so is Paladin.
I think.
Peters looked at the screen, where a tiny Summer pivoted aside, grabbed the back of a thug’s head, and slammed his face down into her lifted knee. He folded as she wheeled to take on the next one.
“Is that video sped up?”
“Not judging by the fact you’re the only one moving like Bruce Lee on meth.” He eyed me speculatively. “Haven’t you ever seen yourself fight?”
“Not really.”
“Huh. Well, you’re good at it. The ER doc says every last one of those boys has a concussion. You must’ve been pissed.”
I swallowed. I desperately wanted to go home. “I was just scared.”
“Remind me not to scare you. So are you sure you don’t know why those guys came gunning?”
“I don’t have the faintest idea.”
“They were hired muscle,” Paladin said, rage growling deep and hot in his mental voice. “And I know who did the hiring.”
A chill iced my veins. I was used to his comments, but just now he hadn’t sounded like an imaginary hero. In fact, he seemed to know more about Team Asshole than I did. And that made no sense at all.
An old terror gripped me. I’m going nuts.
It wasn’t the first time I’d worried about that kind of thing. As a teen, I’d been convinced I was on the verge of snapping like a bread stick under the weight of my losses.
But then, every teenage girl alive is an emo little bitch.
I’d thought I’d outgrown that. I was an adult now, I owned a bus
iness and wrote books. Yet somebody had tried to kill me tonight, and I had no idea why. Or how I’d survived when I really shouldn’t have.
The cop studied me with concern. “Are you okay? You just went white. You want some water?” His lips pursed. “I still think you should have let the paramedics check you out.”
“I’m fine.” I was beginning to think I wasn’t, but it wasn’t the kind of problem paramedics could solve.
Southern gentlemen that he was, Peters walked me out to my car. Correction. He walked. I hobbled. It was nine o’clock, and I’d had plenty of time to stiffen up from the unaccustomed violence.
Out of consideration for my bruises, the detective carried my purse and cat carrier. The carrier growled in irritation. Peters eyed it warily, carrying it at arm’s length. “Down, kitty.”
“Oh, Calliope’s harmless,” I said, clicking the fob to unlock my car.
Peters gave me an oh-come-on look. “Yeah, just ask the guy with fifty-two stitches in his face. Is there such a thing as a saber-tooth Persian?”
This time Calliope’s growl sounded distinctly smug.
“Stop that, Cal.” I relieved the detective of his hissing burden and buckled it into the passenger side. “And she’s a domestic longhair, not a Persian.”
He shrugged. “Well, whatever she is, she’s got claws like a grizzly.”
“RRrrrowwww.”
“Shut up, Calliope,” I whispered through my teeth. “Policemen are our friends!”
As I got in on the driver’s side, Peters presented me with a business card. “Don’t hesitate to call if you think of a reason those boys wanted to hurt you.”
“I’ll do that.” I gave him a little wave, started the engine, and pulled out. As I left the lot, I flicked my eyes up toward the rearview mirror and watched him watch me drive off.
“Cops make me nervous,” I grumbled to Calliope. True, Peters hadn’t actually accused me of anything, but I could tell he was suspicious. Then again, he had reason to be. The whole thing was weird.
I remembered the… Magic? Hallucination… ? that had lit up my hands. And the way Asshat had gone flying, as if I really had hit him with the kind of magical blasts Paladin used. “Which is flatly impossible. And now I’m talking to myself like a crazy person.”
Aching and muttering, I steered the Kia for home through the evening traffic. Clusters of tall buildings rose to either side -- granite spears and columns of glass housing the corporate headquarters of banks, convention hotels, payday lending empires … even a fast food franchise or two. A twenty-story building looks even taller when everything around it is less than four.
Not that I was in the mood to sightsee. “God, Calliope,” I moaned, whining shamelessly in a way I wouldn’t to another human. “Everything I have hurts. I’m not sure which I want more -- three Tylenol or a big glass of wine.”
“RRBlrrrrp roowllll.” Calliope had a way of responding as if she understood what I was saying. One of these days I was going to get that cat her own YouTube channel.
“Tylenol probably would be a better choice.” I eyed swollen hands that could barely grip the wheel. “Ooowww.”
“Mooorrrr.”
“Yeah, I know I got off lucky.”
I’ve researched enough fight scenes to know the bones of women are more delicate than the skulls of men. By all rights, I should’ve broken something. Several somethings. Instead, I’d sent six bruisers to the ER.
How?
The video of that fight could have been choreographed. Peters was right -- I had looked like Scarjo, kicking stuntman ass.
Me, the girl who could barely wear high heels without falling on her butt.
It took years of martial arts practice to burn that kind of skill into muscle memory, yet I’d never taken so much as a single class. At least, not that I could recall. I suppose I could have had training as a child, before the trauma that caused my amnesia. Even so, I hadn’t set foot in a dojo since.
Then there was the problem of using theoretical training against people who were really trying to kill me. Even black belts with years of experience can freeze when somebody jumps them in a parking lot.
I wouldn’t have put a scene as far-fetched as my Scarjo act in one of my books.
I got home, released Calliope from her carrier, and trudged upstairs to my bedroom, still wrestling with the general weirdness of the night.
Even more inexplicable were those two… spells? Whatever I’d done to toss Asshat across the parking lot. Just like the sleepwalking incident when I’d seen sparks stream from my hand.
Pausing, I stared at the lace canopy draped over my bed, strings of tiny lights wound through the fabric. Maybe I’d imagined the lights were sparks, but what if that hadn’t been it?
What if it really is magic?
Frustrated, I undressed and slid into bed. I tried to shut down the train of thought, but it kept right on chugging.
If this was one of my books, Paladin would solve the mystery by chapter fifteen. He’d now be hunting down the responsible psycho with justice and hellfire burning in his wolf-pale eyes.
Me, not so much. I was going to be up half the night with my brain racing in too-tight circles, like Calliope trying to run on a hamster wheel: a tortured coil of fur and pissed-off.
I lay there under my great-whatever’s wedding ring quilt, staring up at the gauzy canopy with its strings of lights. My choices seemed to come down to either accepting magic’s existence or check myself into Chez Rubber Room. Neither alternative was particularly appealing.
Then there was the really terrifying question: why had the Dimwit Posse picked me to jump? Of all the people who made attractive robbery targets, the owner of a used bookstore didn’t crack the top ten. Or hell, the top fifty.
“They were hired muscle,” Paladin had said. “And I know who did the hiring.”
Yeah, well, I couldn’t even think of anybody who’d flipped me off in traffic. I was still wondering just who the hell he meant when sleep sucked me down.
By all rights, my dreams should have been nightmares fueled by the violence of the night’s events.
Paladin had other plans.
“Summer,” he breathed in my ear, drawing me from the cool depths of sleep. “Ah, Elder Gods, I almost lost you today.” His voice sounded raw, strained with an unfamiliar note of retroactive fear. “And I couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t save you. If you weren’t so well-trained…”
I opened my eyes to velvet darkness and the warm circle of his arms. The bed gave under his solid weight as he spooned me from behind, sheltering me in the curve of his big body. “Paladin?”
“We’re in trouble, baby. Valak must have caught your scent during your little magical sleepwalking episode last night. He sent those bastards to find out if you really had the power he sensed.” His voice dropped into a grim growl. “And you proved you do. There’s going to be more trouble because of that.”
I turned my head, frowning back at him in the dark. “Why? Valak doesn’t even exist! I don’t understand…”
“You will.” His arms tightened, pulling me close as if he thought something was going to take me away. “That fucking spell needs to break, but you’re going to be pissed when it does.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Never mind. Summer, I have to have you. Now, before…” he said, his voice low and fierce. “Will you let me give you a dream?”
“But this is a dream.”
Now amusement threaded his voice. “Not like the one I’ve got in mind.” His erection thrust against my bare ass, a thick demand.
I’d almost died today, and I wanted to live with him. “Yes. God, yes. Please…”
His arms tightened, and the bed fell away.
* * *
It was dark in the grove, the only light cast by the torches that stood driven into the ground around the combat circle. Beyond it, two hundred adults of the tribe waited, tense and silent in the dark. Eager to see if Paladin’s Heir deserved
to inherit the god.
Only a few of our people were absent, protecting the tribe’s children back in our camp, lest the Valakans attempt a raid.
We had good reason for caution, for we were in a bitter war with the people of chaos. Our god-king, Paladin, had fallen in battle against Valak and his forces just the week before. We’d driven our foes from our territory, but the cost… Oh, Elder Gods, the cost…
I had to work to keep the grief from my face as I recalled seeking his body in the forest where we’d fought the enemy tribe. I’d felt him fall, known I must find him quickly. So I’d reached out with my magic as my warriors waited, seeking the god’s cool power. What would become of us if the enemy took the god’s torc before I found it again?
When the king died, I knew, the god had fled into the coil of bronze around his neck to wait for rescue. Paladin could not remain in a dead man, just as he could not survive without some material home. The torc had always been his magical shelter, making it a great prize indeed. Valak would be searching for it, eager to get his bloody hands on his enemy’s repository.
I was an avatar of Eris, goddess of birth and death. I could not fail to find Paladin’s torc. It would be a double blow to our tribe, for the god-king to fall and me to fail to recover him. It would be proof we were false gods.
Unworthy.
My warriors would stretch me out on the great stones and cut out my heart, and I’d deserve no better. My death would free Eris to fly to some better host among our tribe.
But I’d not failed. The torc’s power had called to my magical senses, drawing me through the forest like the echo of tribal drums. We’d found the king surrounded by the hacked bodies of those he’d slain. And it seemed it had taken every one of them to kill him, for he’d died of many wounds.
Despite my grief, I felt pride. He’d been a great warrior.
As the fighters bowed their heads in respect, I’d pulled the torc from around his clay-cold throat. Tears streamed down my face as I cleaned the avatar’s blood from the coil of twisted bronze. Paladin’s power pulsed through my fingers even as I mourned. The God King had been a good leader for our people, and a kind, skilled lover.
Paladin (Graven Gods Book 1) Page 4
