by Mindy Klasky
He’d completed his work on the thumb drive; there wasn’t a hint of what he’d done on his home computer or anywhere in the cloud. Even if the files were ultimately denounced as fraudulent—and there was no way that could be determined—they couldn’t be linked to David in any way.
Checking to make sure no one lurked in the shadows on Main Street, David twisted the thumb drive into pieces. The plastic shell went in the trashcan in front of Parkersville Fire Station Number One. The metal sheath was buried beneath a pile of pink spoons in the can in front of Ice Dreams. The flooded, scratched, and torqued memory chip went into the recycling bin at Town Hall.
Next, David drove down to Upper Marlboro, in Maryland’s Prince George County. He’d never set foot in the town before, for business or for pleasure. No one could connect him with the place.
It took three tries to find what he was looking for, but he finally succeeded in the county courthouse. A pair of public telephones hung on the wall in a dimly lit corridor, long-neglected holdovers from the days when reporters filed breaking news from the county seat.
He dug change out of his pocket and dialed a number from memory. A wheezy treble answered on the first ring. “Help Desk!”
“How’s your Snake form going, Kyle?”
“Mr.—”
David cut him off before he could say too much. “I need your help. When do you get off work today?”
“Five o’clock.” The kid answered without hesitation.
“Can you meet me at the DC Courthouse? Say, five thirty?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Excellent. And Kyle? Make sure you aren’t followed.”
He hung up, before the cadet could make a mistake.
40
David sat on a bench in the plaza in front of the DC courthouse, as far from the street lamps as possible. His shoulders were hunched, and his hands dangled between his knees.
He knew he should feel guilty about what he’d done to Pitt. He’d acted dishonorably. He’d lied.
But every time he tried to muster regret, he thought about how Pitt had purposely destroyed David’s life. About what the toad might do in the future. Pitt was a menace that had to be put down, even if that cost David what was left of his career.
Freed from a warder’s honorable obligations, David was finally able to settle other scores. It was time to resolve things with the salamanders once and for all.
As twilight deepened, David watched the stream of people leaving the building. Litigants crowed about their cases. Court employees headed home at the end of their long workdays.
But a handful of people walked into the building. A few were mundanes, people with business before the DC night court. In addition, David quickly spotted a vampire—risking immolation with the sun barely below the horizon—and a pair of kitsune leaning close to compare notes as they climbed the steps, their fox tails barely disguised in a series of intricate braids.
It was 5:45 before Kyle appeared, his face flushed with worry. Aidan O’Rourke strode behind the cadet, his head freshly shaved.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Kyle gasped. “I didn’t realize he was following me until I got off the subway. I took the stairs instead of the elevator at the office so no one would see me leave. I don’t know how he guessed—”
David cut him off. “You took the stairs instead of the elevator at the office.” He turned to the old warder warily. “O’Rourke,” he said.
“Montrose.” The man gave away nothing with those two syllables.
“What are you doing here?”
“If I followed him, someone else could have.” He paused, just long enough for David to nod in acknowledgment, and then he confirmed, “We’re clean.”
“You don’t want any part of this,” David warned.
“And that one does?” O’Rourke nodded toward Kyle, who was following their conversation as if it were a tennis match.
“He can always claim I forced him. No one would believe I forced you to do anything.”
O’Rourke’s face was carved into dark planes by the overhead lights. “You brought me food and drink. I pay my debts.”
“If the court ever finds out you’re helping me—”
“That’s one advantage of being burned. No one gives a damn who I help.” He glanced toward the courthouse entrance. “What are we waiting for?”
David wasn’t going to get a better invitation than that. He led the way up the stairs.
They made it through security without any hassle. David turned down the long corridors, past the courtrooms, through the warren of offices that hummed with business during the day. The stairwell he chose was darker than he recalled. At the bottom, he set his palm against the iron lock, taking time to expand his warders’ senses around the tumblers. A few twists and a solid click… The door squealed in protest as he pulled it open.
The light switch was where he remembered. The tables, too, with their disarray of books. David stepped back to let Kyle and O’Rourke survey the mess.
“Gosh!” Kyle gasped, sounding more like Jimmy Olsen than ever.
David pointed to the computer terminal in the corner. “That’s why you’re here.”
The kid crossed the room as if drawn by a magnet. “I’ve only seen a monitor like this in movies! And a tower! This has to be at least fifteen years old. Maybe more!”
“Can you turn it on?”
Kyle didn’t answer. Instead, he lowered his hand to a toggle switch, the same on/off button David had tried multiple times before. The kid’s lips moved, and David realized he was offering up a prayer—to Hecate or maybe to some god who cared about computers. Kyle pressed the switch and nothing happened.
David’s belly tightened. Kyle merely fell to his knees. For a moment, David thought he was upping the ante on his prayers. Then he realized the cadet was fiddling with a nest of wires behind the machine. He fastened several connections, sat back on his heels to study the results, then exchanged two links.
His hand was steady on the toggle when he tried again. The screen bloomed to life with a wavy image of a sword impaling a scroll of parchment.
“Yes!” Kyle shouted, pumping his fist in the air.
“Excellent,” David said. “Now I’m looking for any reference to salamanders in the court records. I’m trying to locate the address of Apolline Fournier. I already know about her home on S Street. I’m hoping to find something different.”
Kyle nodded his comprehension. Already typing on the ancient, gritty keyboard, he reached behind himself for a chair.
O’Rourke shook his head in disbelief at the kid’s handiwork. “And he calls himself a warder.”
“He calls himself a cadet,” David corrected under his breath. He was just grateful for the student’s computer obsession.
“At least there’s something for a real warder to do down here.” O’Rourke nodded toward the wall of weapons on the far side of the room. “Up for a round or two while Junior works his magic?”
David didn’t want to spar with O’Rourke. Unlike the first time they’d fought, David now knew O’Rourke had been friends with his father. Failing in front of the shunned warder now would feel an awful lot like failing in front of George.
But Linda had said O’Rourke knew his mother too. And Karen Callahan Montrose had never dreamed her son could fail.
Adrenaline sparked through David’s fingertips. He’d rather grapple with the old warder than watch Kyle type in countless queries. He’d just have to remember his mother’s faith in him.
“Name your weapon,” O’Rourke said.
David’s gaze skipped over the gym equipment, ignoring the balance beam, the parallel bars, the stacks of iron plates for the Universal gym. He needed something to bleed off some of his nervous energy.
Hooks on the wall held a wide range of tools suitable for maiming and massacring. Foils, epées, and rapiers hung between a gallery of greatest hits from the Middle Ages—broadswords and maces and lances and staffs. A pair of katanas gleamed as th
ey guarded a collection of murderous-looking daggers.
David had more than enough experience with long blades. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to be on the receiving end of whatever O’Rourke could do with a staff. He crossed the room and tested the edge of a dirk. It was sharp—no blunting for the imperials who practiced there.
He lifted the blade from the hooks that captured its wristguard. It was properly balanced, well-made. He tossed a matching knife to O’Rourke.
The warder made his own test of the weapon, nodding as his thumb crossed the edge. He rotated his wrist, rolling the pommel across his lifeline. When he looked up at David, his face was split by a devilish grin.
“First man to three touches?”
David nodded his acceptance. He expected O’Rourke to lunge before David could adopt a defensive stance. The warder, however, took his time, tracing out a cautious circle. All the while he tested his blade, learning its weight, calculating proper angles.
David made the first attack. Closing the distance to his rival in three liquid strides, he swept the dirk from his side. The motion was easy. The blade was a fraction of Rosefire’s weight, and he didn’t have to account for the energy drain of ward-fire.
The dirk clanged on the floor, spinning across the wooden planks until it came to a stop against the boxing ring.
He didn’t feel the ache in his wrist until the metallic echoes stopped. By then, O’Rourke had danced out of reach, following the dropped blade and fetching up against the ropes. The sole of the old warder’s shoe had left a clear mark across David’s forearm.
“Point one: Don’t keep your grip loose, even if the weapon’s light,” the warder said.
David cast a chagrined look across the room, checking to see if Kyle had witnessed his disgrace. Fortunately, the cadet was typing furiously on the computer keyboard, fingers pounding hard enough that David worried the plastic might crack.
Looking back at O’Rourke, he saw that the warder had slipped between the boxing ropes. He stood in the middle of ring, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. He nodded toward David’s blade.
David didn’t have a choice. He inclined his chin to acknowledge the lost point. Then he retrieved his dirk and stepped inside the ring.
This time O’Rourke didn’t hesitate. He lunged before David could even raise his knife. David felt the ropes behind his back yield to his weight as he arched away from O’Rourke’s swift thrust.
His feet slipped from beneath him, and he sat down hard, his fingers tight on his dagger’s grip. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.
But he managed to make a different one. He tried to swing the blade wide, to set up a defensive perimeter of steel that O’Rourke could never penetrate. The warder merely waited until he’d completed one broad arc, and then he planted his own dirk at the junction of David’s arm and shoulder.
“Point two: Small spaces call for small moves,” O’Rourke said.
David muttered a curse under his breath, but he lowered his head, accepting O’Rourke’s second point.
The warder closed again before David could brace himself. Taking his last lesson to heart, David collapsed into the corner, letting the ropes protect him on either side. He stabbed up with his knife, ignoring everything he’d ever learned with Rosefire, any technique designed to take advantage of a sword’s superior reach and weight.
O’Rourke staggered back, forced to take a defensive stance for the first time. David immediately pressed his advantage, powering across the ring. He chopped with his blade—short, aggressive motions that kept the warder from finding his balance. He gripped his weapon tightly, determined to foil any wayward kick, any explosive thrust of the other man’s blade. Foot by foot, he forced O’Rourke back until the warder was pressed against the ropes, leaning away, bent nearly double.
David raised his arm, ready to stab the other man’s neck. Before he could close the gap, though, O’Rourke’s left fist shot out, catching David squarely on the solar plexus. Gasping on hands and knees, David felt the icy point of O’Rourke’s dirk against his nape.
“Point three: Don’t rely too much on any blade.”
“Where the hell did you learn to fight?” David wheezed.
“Not in any Academy gym,” O’Rourke said, reaching down to help David to his feet. “That’s the problem with Hecate’s Court, with all the training they think we need. It’s all well and good when we’re waiting on witches. But the real world doesn’t give a damn for all our rites and rituals. Half the warders in the empire have never used their weapons for more than setting a circle and calling the Guardians. All those flaming swords lead to an overdeveloped sense of security.”
David finally managed to straighten. “I think I’m glad I didn’t choose a mace.”
O’Rourke grinned. “A staff is the real danger. It’s the backswing—”
“Mr. Montrose!” Kyle shouted. “I think I’ve got it!”
David let O’Rourke take both weapons before he limped across the room. The image on Kyle’s computer screen rippled, but David couldn’t tell if that was a problem with the monitor or his own inability to draw a full breath.
“These records are really a mess, Mr. Montrose,” Kyle said, his voice full of apology. “Some are saved on the C drive, and some are on the I drive, and I even found a few in the sysop files. Whoever made them didn’t care a lot about spelling either. But I think this is what you’re looking for.”
David squinted and forced his mind to parse the words on the wriggling screen: “Defendant styles herself the Salamander Queen. Defendant has residences in and about Washington DC, including 1931 S Street NW, Washington DC 20009. She also maintains a lair in Rock Creek Park, on the Pinehurst Branch north of the Rolling Meadow Bridge. Therefore, this court holds personal jurisdiction over Defendant for this case and all other matters arising in Washington DC.”
Rock Creek Park. The heavily wooded enclave cut through the heart of DC. A parkway carved out passage for cars, and scores of expensive homes backed onto the woodland. Nevertheless, the park held hundreds of acres of undeveloped space, with the titular creek itself winding for miles through undisturbed forest.
It was dark.
Dank.
Secluded.
It was the perfect habitat for a murderous, thieving salamander. He’d found Apolline Fournier.
41
Staring out at the Den, David waved a hand over a standing rib-roast, driving off another fly. At least it was October, not the height of summer heat. And the moon was high, five days past full, which seemed to deter at least some insects from swarming.
Not that wolves were picky about what landed on their dinner.
David had bought the largest hunk of beef he could find at Safeway. His aching wrist had protested carrying the thing from his car, but reaching from the parking pad to the rustic cabin had seemed like an admission of weakness. His chest still ached from O’Rourke’s sucker punch. He was tired of sitting, but his back had registered a protest after he’d paced the porch for an hour or two.
At least he’d had time to think about the past couple of days.
Everything had been a blur since his fight with Jane. No. Not “fight.” “Fight” required people to say what they were thinking. He’d let Jane think he was angry about Templeton, as if that pretentious twit was worth arguing over. He had no doubt Templeton would break her heart, probably the same way Scott had—whoever the hell Scott was. He still didn’t know.
No. His break with Jane was because of Hecate, because he’d thought he could impress the goddess by training the newfound witch. He’d been certain his connection to Jane was growing, solidifying, becoming something he could count on even when he wasn’t giving it conscious thought.
But she obviously didn’t feel the same thing, not if she was willing to ditch their training for a wild weekend with Templeton. He’d failed Jane. And now he’d never convince Hecate to accept his warder’s vow.
That was his only explanation f
or what he’d done to Pitt: He’d wanted to hurt someone as badly as he’d been hurt. And if he could keep a ruthless, power-mad martinet from ruining another warder’s life, then it was worth it.
After Samhain he was through being a warder forever. He had nothing left to lose.
And that made him a very dangerous man.
A shadow flickered on the edge of the clearing. He would have missed it if he hadn’t been staring at the same array of light and shadow for the past four hours.
He caught his breath, reluctant to move even that much. Widening his eyes to keep from blinking, he concentrated on projecting an image of safety, calm, and peace.
The wolf ventured from the forest’s skirts.
It was Connor.
He saw that in a glance. But the shifter’s coat was muddy, as if he’d been forced to lie in shallow pools. His tail was pocked with burrs. Each individual rib was visible as he shuffled three steps closer. He whined as he snuffled toward the meat.
“Go on,” David said. “You won’t catch me eating any of it.”
Connor’s lips curled back over his teeth, and he sprinted to the porch. Pinning his prize with filthy paws, he ripped off huge gobbets of meat. swallowing them whole. In shockingly little time, he was crunching the bones, slurping marrow with abandon.
David had watched Connor catch prey before—mice in his parents’ attic, a rabbit here at the Den. But he’d never seen him devour a meal. He’d never seen the power of a ravenous wolf allowed to feed at will.
Connor only jumped down from the porch when the bones were reduced to snow-white splinters. He rolled in the grass, rocking from side to side, his distended belly gleaming in the moonlight. He snarled as he rubbed his face against the ground, lost in some sort of lupine ecstasy.
Finally flipping onto all fours, he shook his entire body, flinging off bits of grass and fallen leaves. He arched his back, making his ruff stand on end. His legs stiffened, tendons standing out from muscle. He stretched his neck, down, then up, and he transformed into a man.
