Magic Rises kd-6

by Ilona Andrews

  “Temper, temper.”

  He opened his mouth and growled. Ha-ha, hurts to talk, doesn’t it?

  “You look in pain. Do you want a time-out to pull yourself together?”

  He parried. His sword came over his head, slicing forward. I dodged and too late realized he had expected me to, because as I moved, he continued the swing, drawing his blade back. For a moment he looked almost like a batter, his body angled, his hips turned, as he put all of his momentum into the underhand swing. I barely had time to thrust my blade before his.

  The blow knocked me back. I staggered. He kept coming, pounding on me with methodical heavy strikes. The precision of a scalpel, the power of a sledgehammer. I shied left, right, turning, trying to keep movement to a minimum to keep from getting tired out.

  He thrust.

  I blocked, half an instant too slow. The sword grazed my right shoulder. Pain lashed my muscle. Argh.

  “Dance faster, Kate!”

  His jaw started working again. That was some regeneration. I ducked out of the way. Hugh rammed me with his shoulder. I flew and crashed into the wall. My back crunched from the impact. You sonovabitch. He sliced at me. I ducked under the cut and twisted away. His blade struck stone. It cost him a third of a second and I landed a mule kick to the back of his knee. The knee bent, Hugh pitched forward, and I smashed the heel of my left hand into the back of his head. Face, meet rock.

  Hugh grunted, a savage sound, one part pain, three parts pure fury.

  I could cut through him. I could bury my sword in his back right now. But it wouldn’t look like an accident.

  I launched a kick.

  Hugh dropped down and swept my leg from under me. I dropped. I was still in the air when Hugh’s enormous fist flashed, coming toward me. I hit the ground, flexing my stomach, as I fell.

  Hugh hammered a punch into my solar plexus.

  Aaahhh. Aaahh, that hurt. Pain drowned me, hot, intense, and blinding. My stomach melted into agony, the air turned to fire in my lungs, and every nerve in my body screamed.

  Hugh rolled to his feet fast like a dervish and flung blood from his face.

  I squeezed the sword grip in my hand, fighting through the pain. I had to get up. He could’ve killed me. He hadn’t, but I could not let him win. No. Not happening.

  He would expect me to roll to my feet and catch me on the way up.

  I could swear I heard people screaming somewhere far away. “Get up, Kate.”

  Hugh’s right foot swung back, aiming for my side. “No time to rest.”

  I rolled into the kick, my knees bent. His foot connected with my shins. I grabbed his boot and kicked straight out at his other leg.

  Hugh crashed down. I rolled backward and to my feet, sword up.

  Hugh flexed and hopped off the ground. He bared his teeth at me, his eyes alight with madness. He looked insane.

  You know what, fuck it. Accident or not, I no longer cared. I would end him here.

  I grinned back, my own deranged psychotic smile.

  Hugh bellowed like an animal. It was a happy roar.

  I charged. His defense was too good for the inside strike, so I went for the arms. Big body, big heart. Let’s see how much blood you’ve got in you, Preceptor.

  We clashed and danced across the clearing. I sank into the flurry of strikes, melting into the rhythm, fluid, quick, the sword so natural in my hand that wielding it was like breathing. He was fast, but I was faster.

  “You want to know how I killed Erra? Like this.” I sliced his left bicep. “And like this.” Another cut, across the chest. “Hang around. I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  He scored a cut across my side. I opened two gashes across his arms. Two to one. I liked those odds.

  Hugh shook his head, trying to fling blood out of his eyes. I kept coming. He took a step back. Another.

  Twenty-six years. Twenty-six years of looking over my shoulder, of living in constant paranoia. Twenty-six years of worrying about being found, of pretending to be weaker, of denying myself basic human contact. I let them fuel me. My sword became a whip, lashing, cutting, slicing, turning, drawing hot red blood again and again. He tried to match it, but I was too fast. I thrust and laughed when the sword found resistance.

  Pain hummed inside me, but it had receded into a far place. He cut me, but I didn’t care. The real world faded. Only anger remained. I was so tired of losing everyone I loved. He was everything that caused me pain and I had to destroy it.

  He fought like Voron: skilled, smart, and deadly. Fighting him was magic. It was like sparring with my father. But I had beaten Voron when I was fourteen. I would beat Hugh as well. I was too angry to stop.

  I walked him backward across the courtyard. It was him and me and two swords. I could go on forever. I would go on forever. He would slow down first.

  Die, Hugh. Die for me.

  Die.

  “Kate!”

  Curran.

  I pulled back, just enough to glance in the direction of his voice. He was in the window on the right. Lorelei stood next to him, her face slack with shock. Bloody hell.

  Every window had someone in it. People had piled out onto the balconies. Above us on the parapet, Hibla’s djigits leveled crossbows at me. At the far tower, two more of Hibla’s werejackals primed the scorpio.

  Reality crashed into me like a runaway train. If I killed Hugh, they would fill the courtyard with arrows. I would die.

  I didn’t care. It would be worth it.

  I turned and glimpsed George as she moved away from us.

  George would die with me. They’d hit her with enough arrows that even her shapeshifter regeneration wouldn’t be able to cope, and even if she survived, the Pack would retaliate. There would be a bloodbath.

  I had to disengage. I wanted to keep fighting so bad, it hurt.

  I thrust to Hugh’s chest, dropping the angle sharply. He parried, but we both knew it was a quarter of an inch too low. My blade slid along his and I felt it sink into his right oblique muscle. Anger faded from his features. The wall was right behind him. Hugh took a slow, deliberate step back. I followed, my sword an inch into his upper stomach. If I pressed, he’d suffer a lacerated liver.

  He leaned against the wall. A slow smile stretched his bloodstained lips.

  “I’d like to hear it.”

  Hugh leaned forward, forcing the sword to bite deeper into his muscle. A strange expression claimed his face, a kind of focused but slightly amused look, possessive, no, inviting . . .

  Hugh opened his mouth. “Uncle.”

  It wasn’t a surrender. It was a dare. A year ago I might’ve mistaken it for something else or convinced myself I was reading too much into it, but a year of being in love and being wanted gave me enough of a basis to identify that look. Hugh was turned on.

  It wasn’t an act. This was real.

  Damn it all to hell.

  Do not react.

  I freed the sword, wiped it on my shirt, and offered it to him hilt first. “Excellent sword. Thank you for the workout.”

  “No, thank you.” Hugh pushed from the wall. Blood soaked his T-shirt. His face swelled on the left side. He must’ve turned when I rammed his face into the wall. Probably tried to save the nose. A broken nose made your eyes tear. I would’ve finished him much faster.

  All the aches and pains screamed at me at once. My stomach hurt. My left side was likely cut. My right side felt slightly off, with a familiar throbbing pain. Cracked rib. Hopefully not broken. My arms ached in ten different places. My T-shirt hadn’t turned completely red, like his, but bright stains blossomed on it here and there.

  I turned, stretching slightly. Ow. I felt like someone had beaten me with a bag of razor-studded potatoes.

  A small noise made me pivot. Curran marched toward us, his face dark, his eyes almost completely gold. He must’ve jumped out the window. Imagine that. Whatever would Lorelei do all by her lonesome?

  “You owe me a rematch,” Hugh said.

  “M
aybe. One day.” When you aren’t surrounded by two dozen bodyguards.

  “That’s a promise.”

  Curran moved toward me. “Are you okay, baby?”

  “He calls you baby.” Hugh laughed. “I love it.”

  “Shut up,” Curran said.

  I raised my voice, so the audience could hear. “About my prize?”

  Hugh smiled. “Of course,” he said, his voice carrying. “You are welcome to anything in the courtyard.”

  I turned and pointed at Christopher in the cage. “I want him.”

  Hugh blinked and locked his jaw.

  Yes, yes, you’ve been had. Put your big-boy pants on and pay up.

  Hugh’s face looked grim. He really didn’t want to give up his torture toy.

  “Is there a problem?” Curran asked.

  “No problem.” Hugh raised his voice and barked an order in another language.

  Hibla strode out, pulling a large keychain from her pocket. Two djigits followed. We watched as they unlocked the doors.

  Hugh pulled off his shirt, displaying an award-winning torso. He was built like an anatomy model—every muscle honed to precision and just the right size: strong, powerful, but flexible. And bloody. I must’ve cut him over twenty times. Most of the wounds amounted to little more than nicks and shallow gashes. He was really good. Had I been less angry, he might’ve won. That thought worried me.

  Hugh turned his left arm, showing off three precision cuts across the bulging triceps. Had I managed to cut deeper, I would’ve disabled the arm with each one. “Look at this.” Hugh indicated the cuts to Curran. “Like a fucking artist.”

  I started toward the cage.

  “Touch her again and I’ll kill you,” Curran said quietly behind my back.

  “She doesn’t need your help,” Hugh said. “But any time you want to play, let me know.”

  I kept walking. My hip hurt, too. Red seeped through my jeans. Another cut. Deeper than others. Hell would freeze over before I limped.

  The djigits swung the door open and backed away from me, hands in the air. Christopher stared at me with owl eyes.

  “Come on,” I told him.

  He blinked. “My lady.”

  “You’re free. Come with me. We have food and water.” I reached for him.

  He grabbed my arm with both hands and kissed it. “My mistress. My beautiful mistress. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  He had a death grip on my wrist.

  “My kind mistress, my sweet mistress, thank you, thank you . . .”

  “Barabas!” I called. I was ninety percent sure I’d heard him during the fight.

  A movement and he appeared by my side as if by magic. “Alpha.”

  “Deadly mistress,” Christopher whispered. His fingers brushed my blood. He stared at me, his face all shining eyes. “My lady! Will serve forever . . .”

  “Shhh.” I put my left index finger to my lips. “Hush now.”

  Barabas reached over me and gently disengaged Christopher’s fingers. “That fight was amazing,” he said quietly.

  Good to know I still gave good show, because I sure as hell wasn’t good for much else. “Please make sure he gets a shower, a fresh change of clothes, and some food and water. Don’t give him too much, because he’ll gorge himself. He isn’t all there.”

  Barabas pulled Christopher out of the cage. The man stared up at him. “I died, didn’t I? Are you an angel?”

  “Sure,” Barabas said. “Follow me to the Heavenly Shower.”

  Christopher walked a couple of steps on wobbling legs and spun back, looking at me with an expression of complete desperation on his face.

  “Go with the angel, Christopher,” I said. “We’ll talk later.”

  Barabas turned him around and guided him into the building.

  I turned to follow them. Curran stood in my way. “What the hell were you thinking?” he asked quietly.

  “Move,” I told him, keeping my voice down. The audience was dispersing but not fast enough for my taste.

  Lorelei chose that precise moment to rush out the door. She saw my face and stopped. That’s right. Keep your distance, delicate flower. The weak human is still very angry. In my mind, I dashed at her and swung. She had a thin neck. Wouldn’t be too hard.

  I crushed that thought. I wouldn’t lose it.

  Curran clenched his teeth. His face had that relaxed icy quality that usually meant a storm was about to erupt. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Not right now.” I’d had it with him.

  “Yes, now.”

  “But how will Princess Wilson survive without your manly protection while you and I talk?”

  Gold rolled over his eyes.

  “I tell you what. She is over there and I’m here. Pick.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Then I’ll pick for you.” Watch me walk away.

  “Is that a threat?”

  “No, that was a test and you failed it. Don’t follow me.”

  He grabbed my arm. I jerked back. “Do not follow me,” I snarled through my teeth. “Or I swear to God, I’ll get my sword and fucking stab you in the heart with it.”

  He let go. I marched across the yard, picked up Slayer, and kept walking all the way into our room, where I barred the door.

  CHAPTER 16

  Sometimes the simple pleasures in life are best. Like a hot shower after a sweaty, bloody fight. A dull, heavy numbness crept into my arms. Hugh hit like a battering ram. I would really pay for blocking him in the morning, but the pain had already started. I felt tender all over. With luck, I’d still be able to move tomorrow.

  I stood under the water, trying not to think, and concentrated purely on shampooing my hair and then dragging a soapy sponge against my cuts. It hurt and I welcomed it.

  Andrea once told me that I had a problem processing emotional pain. I couldn’t handle it, so I replaced it with physical pain instead: either I inflicted it on others or I suffered through it myself. Well, I had physical pain aplenty. If she was right, I should be floating on a cloud of bliss right about now.

  Finally the water ran clear. I stepped out and looked at myself in the mirror. The gashes on my thigh and stomach had come open. Demet was really, really good at medmagic, but I was still human and now I was all cut up to hell. In the past, Doolittle had spent so much effort on healing me that some of my old scars had faded. Clearly, this created an imbalance and the Universe had decided to compensate.

  Half a dozen shallow cuts crossed my arms and torso. Hugh’s handiwork. I shouldn’t have let him goad me. Voron always told me that he’d trained Hugh to fight, but also to command and plan. But he had trained me to kill. Hugh would be directing an army, leading it into battle, while I was a lonely assassin on the sidelines, cutting my way through the mass of people to my target. In a simple one-on-one sword fight, I had an edge.

  Neither of us had used magic. I still didn’t know the full extent of his, and he still didn’t know much about mine. At least I hadn’t given myself away completely.

  Someone had left bandages on the night table. Probably a gift from Doolittle. I bandaged the worst of it, sat on the chair very carefully—my thighs hurt—and slumped forward. My body hurt all over. I closed my eyes. It was just pain. It would pass. I just needed a minute. I still had three hours before my shift with Desandra started.

  Someone knocked. I stared at the door, hoping to burn through it with my gaze and explode whoever was on the other side.

  Knock-knock.

  “Yes?”

  “Can I please talk to you?”

  I didn’t recognize the voice. Okay. I pulled on a clean T-shirt and a new pair of jeans, picked up Slayer, and opened the door. A young man stood in the hallway, dressed in a djigit outfit. Young, barely eighteen. Dark blond hair, brown eyes. He stood, rocking forward on his toes, as if expecting to be jumped any second.

  “What is it?”

  “You’re looking for the orange creatures,” he whispered in a hea
vily accented English.

  “Yes.”

  “I will take you where they nest. If you pay me. But we have to go fast and be very quiet.”

  Aha. “What’s your name?”

  “Volodja.”

  A Russian name, short for Vladimir. “How far is it?”

  “Two hours. On the mountain. I want three.” He held up three fingers. “Three thousand dollars.”

  “Sounds like a good deal to me.”

  “I’ll wait in town by the statue.” He took off down the stairs.

  My howling in the dark had paid off. Someone got upset over the blood test and now they had decided to make me disappear. The only other party interested in getting rid of me would be Lorelei, and she had no reason to fight with me. She was winning.

  They really thought I was stupid. At least he didn’t offer to sell me a nice beachfront property in Nebraska.

  I pulled off my T-shirt—it hurt—and strapped myself into a bra. It also hurt. I put the T-shirt back on, found my boots, and headed to Doolittle’s room. I’d finally found the end of a thread in this messy knot. If I pulled on it the right way, it would lead me to the guilty party. But I’d need backup.

  The door stood wide open and I heard Aunt B’s voice from down the hall. “And then I told him that beads were just fine, but a woman had to have certain standards . . . Come on in, dear.”

  How did she know? I was pretty quiet. I stepped through the door. The debris was gone. A clean, tidy room greeted me, furnished with new bedding, chairs, and desks. Doolittle sat in a wheelchair. I did my best not to wince. Eduardo stretched out on the bed to the right. George sat on the other bed. Keira sat on the windowsill, while Aunt B occupied a chair. Derek lay on the floor, reading a book.

  Everybody, except Doolittle and Aunt B, studiously pretended not to look at me. We’d been attacked, we were still under siege, and the shapeshifters had turned grim. My fight with Hugh must’ve made things worse somehow. Either that, or all of them also knew that Curran had found himself a new main squeeze. Awkward.