Strange Brew

by P. N. Elrod

  “I still don’t get why anyone would target you,” Cyrus said, circling back around to the main point. “Why not order a hit on the head of the Circle? Or at least the head of the local branch?”

  An unpleasant rolling sensation bloomed in my gut. It might have been the pizza, but I didn’t think so. Because I’d just had a flash of Adam, sprawled helplessly against the wall; only this time, he was wearing Cyrus’s face.

  “Why not me?” I countered, swilling the last of the now-lukewarm beer.

  “Out of all the possibilities? Don’t you think it’s a little—?”

  “I’ve been in the news lately,” I reminded him.

  After Hargrove’s predecessor turned dark and tried to take out the Were Council, I’d been forced to shoot him. Unfortunately, Gil and I were known to have had problems—to the point that he’d been agitating for my dismissal before he ended up dead by my hand. I’d been cleared of wrongdoing by the Circle’s investigation, but that hadn’t stopped the media speculation. For the first time, I was glad of it.

  “I’m still going to have the clan post a guard,” Cyrus said stubbornly. “It may not be necessary, but I’ll feel—”

  “A guard on who?”

  His eyes narrowed. We were so close, I could see the tiny lines that framed them, graven by years of laughter and squinting against the sun. Only he wasn’t laughing now. “On you.”

  I just stared at him. I hadn’t even anticipated that, and I should have. I’d ostensibly joined Arnou, Cyrus’s clan, a few months ago, after playing a part in saving the life of the leader’s daughter. Not that a half-Were who had steadfastly refused the change could ever really be a part of any clan. But after my mother’s family tried to force me to change, I’d needed protection and Sebastian had provided it. It was the Were way to return a favor in kind, and by adopting me into Arnou, he’d ensured that no other clan could touch me.

  But having them stick up for me now would be a disaster. If the Assassins even suspected that Arnou was helping me, they’d become the next target. Way to repay them for taking me in.

  “I don’t need protection, Cyrus,” I told him forcefully. “And I don’t think the clan would appreciate you dragging them into this.”

  He frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  A surge of frustration zinged along my nerves, making my muscles bunch and jump even lying completely still. “Exactly what I said! I don’t expect trouble, but if anything happens, I’ll deal with it. Alone.”

  “You don’t seem to understand what belonging to a clan means,” he said slowly. “You don’t go it alone—ever.”

  “You know damn well I’m no more part of Arnou than I was of Lobizon,” I said angrily. And suddenly, I didn’t want to be there, didn’t want to wait until morning, wanted to beat the living shit out of something now.

  I started to get up, but Cyrus rolled on top of me, pinning me in place. And for the first time, he looked angry. “Oh, forgive me. Because I was under the impression that Sebastian threw three representatives of Lobizon out of court just last week, for daring to threaten the life of our newest clan member!”

  I stared up at him, my heart feeling like someone was squeezing it in a fist. “He shouldn’t have done that. I’m not—”

  “Not what?”

  “Not worth it!” I threw him off and started for the door, only to find that he’d gotten there first.

  He grabbed my arm and I hesitated, not sure if I planned to push him away or hit him, and he drew me in before I could decide. I could smell the vaguely spicy scent of him, feel the warmth of his body, and in a flash, something sparked between us. We were kissing, almost biting, as we shoved against each other. A series of sensations slammed into me: a warm hand at the back of my neck, a broad chest pushing me against the door, a hot mouth on mine, a rough tongue stroking in.

  We stumbled toward the bed, fighting for dominance, until we hit the side of the mattress. We stood there, vibrating, bodies hard against each other, for a long moment. Then Cyrus seemed to come to himself, to remember who he was with—the little half human who might break if you looked at her wrong—and his touch softened. His hand ghosted over my face, followed my hairline, and drifted down my temple to trace the line of my jaw. Then strong hands were pushing up my shirt, sliding tenderly up my rib cage, thumbing a nipple, making me shiver.

  But not with desire.

  He was being too damn gentle, and I didn’t deserve that, didn’t want it, not now. I shoved him down onto the bed, sending the pizza box flying, and crawled between his thighs. He stared up at me, startled and hungry, and something in my chest tightened. I wanted to—god, I didn’t even know.

  I yanked his T-shirt up until it caught on his arms and face, covering everything above the rough-bearded skin of his Adam’s apple. Grasping the material firmly, I twisted it a couple of times, preventing him from easily freeing his raised arms. “That’s my favorite shirt,” he complained, but his voice was rough and his chest was rising and falling rapidly.

  I didn’t answer, and the makeshift blindfold stayed in place. He started to say something else, but I kissed him again, this time through the thin cotton, and he groaned and opened his mouth. “Leave it,” I murmured.

  He stayed tense for a moment longer before letting his body relax, trusting me. It was a bit of a balancing act to hold on to the shirt with one hand and unbutton his jeans with the other, but I managed it. They were heavy, so in case he wrecked the bike he didn’t get too much asphalt embedded in his flesh, and difficult to budge so I didn’t bother pulling them off. Just pushed them down and took him in.

  He inhaled sharply, and the muscles of his thighs flexed hard beneath me. I shut my eyes, concentrating on the feel of his pulse beating against my tongue. He’d hardened before I reached the tip and started letting out soft desperate-sounding noises from behind the makeshift gag. They were sweet and damn near addictive, but not nearly frantic enough. They did nothing to ease the furious thing inside me.

  He was holding back, like always. The guy could tear a house down with his bare hands, but he never showed me any sign of it. He was always so cautious when we were together, so conscious of the difference between us, so afraid he might hurt me that he never left a single bruise.

  It felt like judgment, just another way I was inadequate. Not Were enough for him, not human enough for the Corps. Angry tears sprang to my eyes, and I wiped them away, livid. I wanted to teach him to lose control, to want something so badly, he forgot to be careful, to want me. But that wasn’t going to happen.

  I scrambled up on numb, shaky legs, Adam’s face wavering in front of me. Yet another way I’d failed, and suddenly I could barely breathe. I felt almost hysterical, like I was going to shatter into pieces if something didn’t break soon.

  “Lia . . .” Cyrus had felt the bed move when I rose, but I pulled up the bottom of the T-shirt and pressed my mouth to his, smothering any questions he might ask. For a moment, the world contracted to his body under my hands, the rough-slick feel of his tongue in my mouth. I finished him off with my hand, my face pressed into the skin just below his jaw, until he came with a noise that sounded like pain.

  “I’m sorry,” I told him, reaching into my bag.

  “For what?” he panted, sprawled bonelessly on the bed.

  I dropped a quick kiss on his mouth, which was surprisingly soft, even edged with late-evening beard bristle. “For this,” I said, and with a swift uppercut, knocked him out.

  I’d have much preferred to use a potion, but Weres are really resistant. Of course, they are to socks to the jaw, too, meaning that I had maybe a minute before Cyrus came around. My hands shook slightly as I fitted magical restraints around his wrists, binding them to the frame of the bed. It wouldn’t hold him for long, but I needed only moments to get away.

  He was going to be pissed when he woke up, but better that than dead.

  The Corps had assassins who were given special training for assignments like these. But as
Simons had noted, none would be impervious to a powerful illusion. Unlike Jason, they would probably recognize it and try to disperse it, but in the meantime, they would be vulnerable. And while illusions wouldn’t bother or probably even register on Cyrus and his wolves, other magic certainly would.

  I was the only one who had a chance of surviving both. So this was my fight. If Cyrus brought in the wolves, someone would bleed and maybe die because I’d waited for help I wasn’t supposed to need. And I really thought enough innocent people had died because of me today.

  I TOUCHED THE door and felt a tingle at the back of my neck. It told me that the outer edges of my body’s energy field had brushed up against something they didn’t like. I hadn’t tripped the ward yet, but it was already ruffled and it wouldn’t take much more. I withdrew my hand and it calmed down, but I was left with the impression that the heavy old door was glowering at me.

  Served me right for trying the front entrance. I looked around, but the building that housed Colafranceschi’s loft was well-warded, with every other entrance just as impenetrable. But the place had four stories and a lot of windows, and wards like that were expensive. I was betting that the ones guarding the upper floors weren’t so high-end.

  The building next door was almost as tall and was close enough to make doing a Spider-Man impression at least feasible. And as a bonus, it was open to the public, containing a very loud bar on the first floor. I decided I needed a drink.

  It was not a slick tourist trap. My sleeve stuck to the sticky bar top, there was a tear in the pleather cover of my stool, and the place looked like its last cleaning had been about the time Dean Martin signed the faded photo behind the bar. But Jim Beam would probably kill any germs on the glasses, so I ordered a double.

  Simons was a little overconfident about my ability to shrug off illusions. Mother’s blood helped, but I was half human, too, and therefore not entirely immune. Powerful illusions could still play games with me, assuming I was clearheaded enough. Luckily, alcohol seriously messes up concentration, sense perception, and memory, all of which are needed for a good illusion to work.

  It’s impossible for any mage to fake the thousands of bits of sensory info needed to make even a simple false impression seem real. The trick to getting someone to mistake a fantasy for reality was to plant a few powerful suggestions, then let the person’s own imagination take over. It worked surprisingly well, unless said imagination was too preoccupied with its own pink elephants to notice yours.

  I tossed back the whiskey about the time a shaft of angry, bloodred light stabbed into the bar. A glance toward the street showed me a couple of large guys in biker gear headed in the door and, when they moved toward a table, an equally tall woman behind them. A woman with familiar almond-shaped eyes and close-cropped silver hair.

  My choking fit won me a condescending look from the bartender and a disinterested glance from the woman. Then she did a double take, her eyes widened, and she threw out a hand. A wave of disorientation hit me—so sharp, it was almost a physical pain; then the guys who had come in ahead of her drew a couple of SIG 552s out from under their table and started blasting everything in sight.

  I hit the dirty floor, wondering how the hell they’d smuggled two commando subcarbines in without my seeing them, while the mirror over the bar detonated in a storm of gunfire that rained glass over everything. It took me a second to notice that the people at the other tables not only hadn’t ducked for cover, but were staring at me like I’d lost my mind. I shook my head, blinked a couple of times, and looked up to find the bartender scowling at me.

  “I’m cutting you off,” he said while the scene in front of me shattered and re-formed—like the mirror that wasn’t broken and the guns that didn’t exist, except for the one in my hand.

  Shit!

  I scrambled to my feet and ran into the street, but she was gone. A map charm showed me seven people within a block radius, and only one of them was alone and heading away at a fast clip. I took off in pursuit, hoping I’d guessed correctly, and in less than a minute caught a glimpse of her trying to spell open the lock on a shop’s door.

  Why she didn’t head home, where she had not only powerful wards but presumably a host of newly minted Assassins as well, I didn’t know. Maybe she assumed I’d have backup, although considering how powerful that off-the-cuff illusion had been, I was really glad I didn’t. Someone that good might be able to convince my allies that I was the enemy, at least long enough for me to get dead.

  That kind of power warranted caution, so I hit her with a locator spell in case I lost her again. She felt it, of course, and went dark and furious, giving up on the door in favor of throwing something back at me. A disorienting sphere exploded onto the concrete as I leapt behind a mailbox, but my shields were up and absorbed the shock before it could send me into a dead faint.

  I looked up in time to see her image wink out of existence. I kept my eyes on the spot where she’d disappeared, since cloaking spells don’t tend to cover movement very well. I’d probably be able to pick her out as soon as she made a break for it, unless she did so very slowly.

  My leg was throbbing again, but I scuttled across the street pretty fast anyway, not knowing what other nasty surprises she might be carrying. My shields weren’t even close to 100 percent at the moment, and there were things that would get past them. I headed for a Dumpster near her last position, wanting to be as close as possible when I fired. She was an assassin, not a war mage, so her shields likely wouldn’t hold up for long.

  Assuming I could find her.

  And assuming she didn’t take me out first.

  Another spell hit the ground when I was almost there, this time a disruptor with the punch of about twenty human grenades. It picked me up and threw me into the side of the nearest building. If I hadn’t been shielded, I’d have broken every bone in my body when I landed. As it was, I bounced off bricks, slammed into concrete, and rolled back to my feet in time to see a vague ripple streak into a side street. Dammit!

  I followed, gun up, and activated the tattoo on my left arm. It was a small horned owl that Father had given me when I joined the Corps. I didn’t use it unless absolutely necessary, because, while it fed partially off the world’s natural energy like a talisman, it also drained my own reserves somewhat. But in this case, I thought it might be worth the power loss.

  Immediately, my vision grew ultrasharp and clear, better than I could see in daylight. And like the predator on my arm, I was also more prone to notice any flicker of movement now. Not that there appeared to be any.

  Everything was suddenly deathly quiet, as though I was wearing sound-muffling headphones from the shooting range. An icy shimmer of fear flashed up my spine, and for a moment I thought seriously about casting a cloaking spell on myself. I was supposed to be the hunter, not the prey, but for some reason it didn’t feel that way. But I had only so much energy to go around, and those spells use a lot. I decided against it.

  I’d always prided myself on my sixth sense. Like an itch at the back of my brain, it fills my head with wary alertness. I was usually almost glad when the moment finally came and things went bad.

  I wasn’t feeling so much that way right now.

  To my surprise, I made it to the corner without incident. For about the hundredth time, I wished I’d inherited at least some of my mother’s ultrasharp senses, but no such luck. And to human ears, nothing moved along the whole street, nothing breathed.

  Then a door opened and a couple came out, the man obviously inebriated, the woman amused. The corner of my eye caught a shadow running down the side of the buildings, using the couple’s laughter as a distraction, and I took off after it. As soon as I did, the streetlights began flickering overhead and a chorus of mad growls echoed down the street. The couple glanced at me as I ran past, but they didn’t turn to see what might be chasing me.

  Another illusion, then.

  I picked up speed, and so did the harsh panting on my heels. I told myself that
the sounds were imaginary, but my nerves weren’t buying it. I put my head down and ran faster, ignoring my leg, which had stopped throbbing and started screaming.

  My focus narrowed to the thin tug of the spell, ignoring outside distractions, until a stream of bullets smashed into my shields. For a moment, I didn’t know if they were real or not, until one took out a streetlight overhead. I lunged into an alley for cover, the faint smell of electrical smoke drifting down around me. Nothing else entered, yet the snarls were still right behind me. That settled it—they weren’t real, just illusions designed to herd me into a trap. A trap that the four mages running down the street had just sprung.

  There was no point in subtlety—they knew where I was. And the longer we played around, the more time Colafranceschi would have to get away. And that wasn’t in the game plan.

  The mages had guns up, not shields, making it clear that they didn’t intend to talk before blowing me away. My own shields wouldn’t hold for long against four opponents, not as drained as they already were. So I threw a vial onto the concrete that sent a dense white cloud boiling up around us and dropped my defenses, too.

  My tattoo allowed me to see through the smoke, but it looked like my attackers didn’t have that advantage. One slammed full speed into the metal side of a trash can, and another pulled up right before he hit a wall, tripping over the first guy in the process. But the third and fourth mages were a little savvier, and one of them must have had a tattoo to increase hearing, because he stepped around the corner and fired straight at me.

  The bullets went over my head because I had gone into a crouch as soon as the fog hid me. I fired at point-blank range, my bullets biting deep into his chest even as I turned, shoved the barrel underneath his buddy’s chin, and pulled the trigger. He jerked violently and went down. I went with him to avoid the splatter of bullets from one of their friends, who had recovered enough to zero in on the direction of my shots.