Magic Slays kd-5

by Ilona Andrews

  He was worth it.

  The Jeep rolled over the huge roots. The road needed clearing again—the thick trees crowded it, like soldiers trying to bar passage to intruders. Magic hated all things technology and gnawed its monuments down to nubs, turning concrete and mortar to dust. Skyscrapers, tall bridges, massive stadiums—the bigger they were, the quicker they fell. The same force that had turned the Georgia Dome to rubble also nourished the forests. Trees sprouted here and there, growing at record speed, as nature scrambled to reclaim the crumbling ruins that were once proud achievements of technological civilization. Underbrush spread, vines stretched, and before you knew it, a fifty-year-old forest rose where ten years ago were only thin saplings, roads, and gas stations. It made life difficult for most people, but the shapeshifters loved it.

  The Pack’s humble abode really deserved a better name. “Keep” didn’t do it justice. It sat in the clearing among the new forest, northeast of the city, rising against the massive trees like a foreboding gray tower of doom. The tower went down for many levels underground. Not satisfied, the shapeshifters kept building on to the Keep, adding walls, new wings, and smaller towers, turning it into a full-fledged citadel of Pack supremacy. As I maneuvered the Pack Jeep to it, I couldn’t help but note that the structure was beginning to resemble a castle. Maybe we needed a neon sign to brighten things up. MONSTER LAIR, WIPE YOUR PAWS AND CHECK YOUR SILVER AT THE DOOR.

  I drove the Jeep through the massive gates, parked in the inner yard, went inside through a small door, and walked down the narrow claustrophobic hallway. The narrow passages were one of Curran’s defensive measures. If you tried to storm the Keep and broke through the gate and the reinforced doors, you would have to fight through a hallway just like this one—three, four men at a time. A single shapeshifter could hold off an army here for hours.

  The hallway led me to the stairway of a million steps. My leg screamed in protest. I sighed and started climbing. I just had to keep from limping. Limping showed weakness, and I didn’t need any enterprising, career-motivated shapeshifters trying to challenge me for dominance right about now.

  I had once mentioned my desire for an elevator, and His Majesty asked me if I would like a flock of doves to carry me up to my quarters so my feet wouldn’t have to touch the ground. We were sparring at the time and I kicked him in the kidney in retaliation.

  Eight o’clock equaled about two p.m. in shapeshifter terms. The Keep was full. People bobbed their heads at me as I passed. Most of them I didn’t know. The Pack counted fifteen hundred shapeshifters. I was learning the names but it took time.

  By the second flight of stairs, something started grinding in my knee. I had a choice: either I had it fixed now or it would fail me the next time I had a serious fight. My imagination painted a lovely picture of me lunging into battle and my leg snapping like a toothpick. Great.

  I stopped on the third floor and not-limped my way to Doolittle’s medical ward. The woman in the front room took one look at me and ran back to get the doctor. I landed in the chair and exhaled. Sitting was good.

  The double doors opened and Doolittle emerged from the depths of the hospital, looking fussy. In his fifties, dark-skinned, his hair cut short, Doolittle radiated kind patience. Even if you were near death, the moment you looked into his eyes, you knew that he would take care of you and somehow everything was going to be all right. In the past year I had been near death quite a few times, and every time Doolittle had fixed me. He was hands down the best medmage I’d ever encountered.

  He also carried on like a frazzled mother hen. That was why normally I avoided him at all costs.

  Doolittle looked me over, probably searching for signs of bleeding and shards of broken bones poking through my skin. “What’s the problem?”

  “Nothing major. My knee is hurting a little.”

  Doolittle peered at me. “The very fact that you are here means that you’re on the verge of fainting.”

  “It’s really not that bad.”

  Doolittle’s fingers probed my knee. Pain shot into my leg. I clenched my teeth.

  “Heaven help me.” The good doctor heaved a sigh. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  Doolittle took my hand, turned it palm up, and sniffed my fingers. “Crawling around on all fours is very bad for you. Not to mention undignified.”

  I leaned toward him. “I’ve got a client.”

  “Congratulations. Now, I’m just a simple Southern doctor . . .”

  Here we go. Behind Doolittle the nurse rolled her eyes.

  “. . . but it seems to me that it would be much more prudent to have a working leg. However, since you have no major bleeding, no concussion, and no broken bones, I shall count my blessings.”

  I clamped my mouth shut. Any discourse with Doolittle when he was in this mood would just result in an hour-long lecture.

  The Pack medic whispered. His voice built to a low murmur, a measured chant spilling from his lips. The pain in my knee receded, dulled by medmagic. Doolittle straightened. “I’ll mix you a solution and send it up to your quarters. Will you be needing a stretcher?”

  “I’ll make it on my own power.” I pushed to my feet. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I left the hospital and continued my climb. The knee screamed but held. Eventually the stairs ended, bringing me to a narrow landing before a large reinforced door. During business hours, eleven a.m. to eight p.m., the door stood open. I walked through it and nodded to the guard behind the desk on the left.

  “Hey, Seraphine.”

  Seraphine tore herself away from the bag of popcorn long enough to duck her head, sending her nest of braids into a shiver, and went back to her food. Being a wererat, she had the metabolism of a shrew. The rats ate constantly or they got the shakes.

  Derek stepped out of the side office and nodded at me.

  “Your nods keep getting deeper and deeper.” Pretty soon it would be a bow, and we’d had words about that. The only things I disliked more than being bowed to was being called Mate.

  He shrugged. “Maybe I’m just growing taller.”

  I surveyed him. Derek used to be embarrassingly pretty. Beautiful even. Then terrible things had happened, and now nobody would call him pretty, not even in weak light. No sane person would dare to even bring up the subject of his face. The boy wonder wasn’t disfigured, although he thought he was and nobody could tell him different. His face had hardened and lost its perfect beauty. He looked dangerous and vicious, and his eyes, once brown and soft, were now almost black and had no give in them. If I met him in a dark alley, I’d think very hard about stepping aside. Luckily, he’d once played Robin to my Batman, and whatever happened, he was on my side.

  We headed down the hallway. Derek took a deep breath, the way shapeshifters did when they sampled the air for scents. “I see Andrea is back.”

  “She is. And how is His Great Fussiness today?”

  Derek’s eyes sparked a bit. “His Majesty is in an ill humor. Rumors are flying that his mate almost got herself shot.”

  Derek worshipped the ground Curran walked on, but he was still a nineteen-year-old boy and occasionally he came out of his shell for a quip. His humor was dry and hidden deep. I was grateful it had survived at all.

  “Where are my boudas?” Before I became a Beast Lady, Aunt B, the alpha of the boudas, and I struck a bargain. I’d help Clan Bouda when they got in trouble—and they got in trouble a lot—and in return Aunt B gave me two of her finest, Barabas and Jezebel, who’d help me navigate the murky swamp of the Pack politics. They referred to themselves as my advisors. In reality they were my nannies.

  “Barabas is asleep in the guardroom and Jezebel went downstairs to get some food.”

  “Any messages for me?”

  “The Temple called.”

  This ought to be interesting. I’d gone to the Temple trying to restore a Jewish parchment to figure out my aunt’s identity. She took exception to that and t
he Temple had suffered some damage. The rabbis had chased me off the Temple grounds, but not before one of them healed my wounds. I hadn’t handled the entire situation very well, so when the storm was over, I’d packed the parchment’s fragment and sent it to the Temple as a gift, with my apologies.

  “Rabbi Peter sends his regards. He’s very happy with the parchment. It has some sort of historical value. You’ve been forgiven and you may visit the Temple, provided you give them twenty-four hours’ notice.”

  To mobilize their forces, no doubt, and lay out an adequate supply of paper and pens to counteract whatever trouble I unleashed. Jewish mysticism was difficult to study, but it gave its practitioners great rewards. When rabbis said that the pen was mightier than the sword, they meant it.

  Derek’s lips curved into a slight smile. “Also, Ascanio Ferara got himself arrested again.”

  “Again?”

  “Yes.”

  Ascanio was quickly turning into the bane of my existence. A fifteen-year-old bouda, he was 125 pounds of batshit-crazy hormones and had no sense to go with them. The kid had never met a law he didn’t want to break. The Pack was very much aware that outsiders viewed them as monsters, and they made a point of cracking down on any criminal activity with steel claws. The same deal that brought me Barabas and Jezebel compelled me to ask for lenience on Ascanio’s behalf. Unfortunately, Ascanio seemed bound and determined to earn himself some hard labor.

  “What did he do now?”

  “He was caught having group sex on the morgue steps.”

  I stopped and looked at him. “Define ‘group.’ ”

  “Two women.”

  It could have been worse.

  “For a fifteen-year-old kid he’s doing well for himself,” Derek said, his face completely deadpan.

  “Don’t even go there.”

  Derek chuckled.

  That was the problem with teenage werewolves—they had no appreciation for other people’s pain.

  He gave me a half bow, half nod, turned back to his office, and stopped. “Kate?”

  “Yes?”

  “You said once you didn’t care for bodyguard detail. Why?”

  Where was he going with this? “Two reasons. First, no matter how great you are, you account for only about fifty percent of the chance of success. The other fifty is riding on the body you’re guarding. I’ve seen brilliant guards utterly fail, because the owner of that body couldn’t follow a simple directive like ‘Stand here and don’t move.’ ”

  “And second?”

  “Bodyguarding is reactive by definition. You’ll get some people who’ll argue this point with you, but ultimately, you are in defense mode for most of the job. I don’t have the mind-set for constant defense. I pick fights, I get aggressive, and I end up focusing on killing the target rather than keeping my client alive. I don’t like to sit and wait. I can do it, because I was trained to do it, but it’s not in my nature.”

  Derek gave me an odd look. “So you get bored.”

  “Yep. I guess that’s it in a nutshell. Why do you ask?”

  He shrugged. “No reason.”

  “Aha.” We’d been down this road before, and then he got some molten metal poured on his face. “Don’t get yourself into something you can’t handle.”

  He grinned, a quick flash of teeth. “I won’t.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Scout’s honor.”

  “You’re not that kind of scout.”

  The grin got wider. “You worry too much.”

  “If you get yourself killed, don’t come crying to me.”

  Derek laughed and went back to the guard office.

  He was up to something. If I slammed a lid on it now, he would never forgive me for treating him like a child. If I didn’t, he might get his face bashed in again. Either way, total fail.

  Friends made life entirely too complicated.

  I kept walking, not caring if I limped. Nobody would see me here.

  On the right, Julie’s black door came up. A dagger gleamed in the middle of it—Julie got the idea from the Order. A skull and crossbones drawn in fluorescent paint shone above the dagger. Under it assorted signs screamed warnings: DON’T COME IN, ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK, DANGER, MY ROOM NOT YOURS, ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER HERE, CAUTION, STAY OUT, KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING.

  Staying in that school might have been the right thing for her, but I missed her. She was happy in the Keep. And she had Maddie for a friend, which was great because Maddie was sensible. Normally Julie and sensible couldn’t fit into the same building. She had gotten her wish—she was coming home. Except it would be on my terms and she didn’t have to like it.

  I HAD PEELED OFF THE LAST SHRED OF CLOTHES FROM my body when Curran walked through the door of our rooms. Some men were handsome. Some were powerful. Curran was . . . dangerous. Muscular and athletic, he moved with an easy, confident grace, perfectly balanced, and you knew just by watching him that he was strong and fast. He could stalk like a hungry tiger, moving across the floor in absolute silence. I’d spent a lifetime listening for faint noises of danger and he would sneak up on me just to see me jump, because he thought it was funny. But his physical power alone didn’t make him special—many men were strong and fast and could walk quietly.

  It wasn’t his body that set Curran apart. It was his eyes. When you looked into them, you saw chained violence baring teeth and claws back at you, and your instinct told you that if he ever let himself off that chain, you would not survive. He was terrifying on some deep, primordial level, and he wielded that fear like a weapon, using it to inspire panic or confidence. He walked into each room as if he owned it. I used to think it was arrogance—and it was; His Overbearance had a rather high opinion of himself—but egotism accounted for only a fraction of it. Curran radiated a supreme confidence. He would handle any problem he encountered efficiently and decisively, and if you stood in his way, he didn’t have even the slightest hint of doubt that he could kick your ass. People sensed it and rallied behind him. He could walk into a room of hysterical strangers, and in seconds they would calm down and look to him for leadership.

  He was dangerous. And difficult. And he was all mine.

  Sometimes in the morning, when he worked in the gym one floor below, I’d stand by the gym’s glass wall for a few minutes before I came in to spar. I’d watch him lift dumbbells or do dips with the weights attached to his belt, powerful muscles bulging and relaxing with controlled exertion, while the bars creaked under his weight and sweat slicked his short blond hair and skin until it glowed. Watching him never failed to send a slow insistent heat through me. He wasn’t working out now. He was standing there in sweatpants and a blue T-shirt, carrying some sort of bottle, and I was ready to jump his bones. I could picture him above me in the bed.

  At least it didn’t show on my face. I had to have some dignity left.

  I’d missed him so much, it almost hurt. It started the moment I left the Keep and nagged at me all day. Every day I had to fight with myself to keep from making up bullshit reasons to call the Keep so I could hear his voice. My only saving grace was that Curran wasn’t handling this whole mating thing any better. Yesterday he’d called me at the office claiming that he couldn’t find his socks. We talked for two hours.

  I’ve faced many things in my life. But this emotion scared the living daylights out of me. I had no idea how to handle it.

  Curran smiled at me. “I was told you got in and went to see Doolittle.”

  The Keep had no secrets.

  “So I stopped there to check on your diagnosis.” Curran lifted the bottle. “You’re supposed to take a hot bath with this in it. And I have to watch you very closely from a very short distance to make sure your knee doesn’t fall off.”

  Aha. I’m sure Doolittle said it just like that, especially the watching from the very short distance part. “Would you like to sit in my nasty medicated bath with me?” And why did that just come out of my mouth?

  Curran’s eyes spar
ked. “Yes, I would.”

  I arched my eyebrow. “Are you trustworthy enough to be let into the tub?”

  He grinned. “Let?”

  “Let.”

  “I own this tub.” Curran leaned toward me. “I don’t know if you heard, but I kind of run this place. Not only am I totally trustworthy, but my behavior is beyond contestation.”

  I lost it and went into the bathroom, laughing under my breath.

  Being the Beast Lord’s main squeeze had its perks, one of which was the enormous bathtub and a walk-in shower with water that was always hot, no matter if magic or tech had the upper hand. Most things in Curran’s quarters were oversized. His bathtub was the deepest I’d ever seen, his sofa could seat eight, and his criminally soft bed, custom made to be extra wide to accommodate his beast form, rose four feet off the floor. At heart, Curran was a cat. He liked soft things, high places, and enough room to stretch out.

  I took a quick shower to wash off most of the blood and dirt and climbed into the tub. Sinking into near-boiling hot water smelling of herbs and vinegar hurt for a split second, and then the burn inside my knee eased.

  Curran came back from the kitchen, carrying two beers. He set them on the tub’s edge and stripped, peeling the clothes off his muscular torso. I watched the fabric slide off Curran’s back. All mine.

  Oh boy.

  He stepped into the tub and sat across from me, presenting me with a view of the world’s best male chest up close.

  Seducing him in the tub smelling of vinegar was out of the question. There had to be boundaries.

  Curran leaned over to hand me a beer. I reached for it and then his arm was around me. His face was too close. He laid a trap and I totally fell for it. He dipped his head and kissed me.

  On the other hand, we could do it in the tub. Why not?

  Curran’s gray eyes looked into mine. “Pupils don’t seem to be dilated. You aren’t high, you aren’t drunk. What the hell possessed you to run out of a nice safe office into a gunfight?”

  And he just shot his chance for sex into outer space. “I told you, there was a girl. The PAD opened fire and cut her leg almost completely off. She might have been twenty, tops. She almost bled to death in my office.”