The Library, the Witch, and the Warder

by Mindy Klasky

  David waited until the transition was complete before he reached into the shadows by the cabin door. He tossed down a set of black sweats, certain Connor would hate the shapeless clothes. Oh well. Shifters couldn’t be choosers.

  “Would it hurt you to keep a chair on the porch?” he asked, after Connor had pulled his arms and legs through the garments.

  “Keeps the riffraff out.” Connor grunted as sat next to David. He kicked at the pile of bones, spreading them over the dark patch where the roast had rested for the evening. “Thanks for that.”

  “Looks like you needed it.”

  “I’ve been down here almost three weeks. Squirrels don’t have a lot of meat on them, and I didn’t want to risk taking down a deer. The way my luck’s going, someone would ignore the No Trespassing signs, find the remains, and report a wolf on the loose.” He ran a hand through his hair, grimacing when he came up with twigs. “What have I missed back home?”

  “I checked with Empire Memorial before I drove down,” David said. He paused, giving Connor a chance to brace for bad news. “Three of your men didn’t make it. Noah, Steven, and Zeke.”

  Connor threw back his head and howled. The raw, raging sound was torn from a human throat, but it still raised the hair on the back of David’s neck. He clenched his fists to keep from covering his ears.

  Only after Connor’s echoes had died away did David dare speak again. “Last time, we did it your way. This time, we’re doing it mine. This is how we’re going after Apolline.”

  42

  David and Connor crouched on the bank of Rock Creek, peering into the gloom beneath the canopy of trees. They were deep in the park, far from any of the roads that crisscrossed the tract of land. Early morning sunlight sifted through the growth above them. Half the branches had already lost their leaves.

  The creek took a bend in front of a massive pile of fallen logs. A casual observer would assume the obstruction was from a long-past winter storm, the trees fallen victim to wet snow and heavy winds.

  But David made out more ominous signs. Strategically placed wedges kept the entire structure from slipping downstream. A mud-covered passage led from a haphazard doorway to the creek. From David’s current vantage point, it looked as if the land dropped off steeply beneath the tree trunks, a slick ramp diving down to some sort of underground chamber.

  Connor raised his head, sniffing at a breeze that drifted downstream. His lips curled back in a silent snarl. They’d found the salamanders’ lair.

  David’s belly tightened in anticipation. O’Rourke had been right in the Imperial Old Library. Warders didn’t fight battles. They performed rituals with their witches.

  Well, David wasn’t a warder anymore. He’d seen to that, taking down Pitt. Whatever vestige of the Academy’s blessing he’d retained after his fiasco with Haylee was well and truly gone.

  He might as well go out in a blaze of glory.

  He just hoped it wasn’t a literal blaze. He’d had enough of Apolline’s fires to last a lifetime. And who knew how many salamanders she had down there with her?

  He and Connor had argued for the past twenty-four hours. The shifter wanted to scout out the enemy. He wanted to know exactly how many fire-lizards they were up against. He wanted to be certain Apolline had the Collar with her.

  But David had argued none of that mattered. The element of surprise was their most valuable asset. They’d have to fight however many salamanders were there; it didn’t matter if there were two or twenty. If Apolline didn’t have the Collar, they’d make her tell where she’d hidden it.

  They were a warder without a witch and a wolf without a pack. They didn’t have the luxury of planning.

  David took a deep breath. Held it for a count of five. By habit, he offered up the briefest of appeals to Hecate before raising his hand and counting down with silent fingers: Five, four, three, two—

  A creature appeared in the mouth of the den, bobbing low before emerging on the riverbank.

  No, not a creature. A man.

  John Brule.

  A swirl of wind circled upstream. Brule stiffened and looked down the riverbank, losing no time pinning first Connor, then David with his onyx eyes. He took a step away from the burrow.

  “Monsieur Hold,” he called softly, pitching his voice so it barely reached them. “Monsieur Montrose. Well met, at last.” He extended his right hand, ready to shake.

  David took his own hand from his pocket, where his Torch hummed, bright and strong. Brule had returned it to him. Brule was greeting them now, outside the safety of his den. Brule was still their ally.

  But before David could shake, his mind exploded in a nightmare of jasmine and rage.

  43

  Neko!” Jane cried before David could travel through the ether. She repeated her familiar’s name even more urgently: “Neko!”

  Hearing the blind rage that fed her command, he reached into his pocket with his left hand. He closed his fingers around his Torch, trying to gauge whether Jane was in physical danger.

  As he narrowed his concentration, Brule closed the distance between them. The salamander’s silver hair flared around his face, a sunlit halo that emphasized the whiteness of his teeth. His smiling lips curled in his meticulously trimmed beard, and he said, “I’m glad you came, mon ami.”

  His fingers were cold as they closed around David’s. Connor stepped to his side, and the salamander extended an equal greeting to the wolf.

  Channeling through his Torch, David focused on the energies surging inside his brain. Neko materialized beside Jane, the familiar’s emerald bar leaning into Jane’s jasmine. She was still broadcasting wordless, mindless rage, but Neko’s signature was more complex. He was amused and somewhat surprised. And underneath that sly joviality, there was a streak of something else: Disgust.

  David gathered the strands of his warder’s powers. He’d reach for Jane from this riverbank. She was more important than any dispute with the salamanders. Besides, Brule was the only fire-lizard who knew that he and Connor had arrived. He could go to Jane and guarantee her safety, then come back to this final confrontation for the Collar.

  Before he could voice the first of his excuses to Connor and Brule, Jane seared his mind with a burst of power. He’d never felt any witch summon that amount of energy. The bolt she’d just released was hotter than the flames that had scorched his face in Apolline’s mansion.

  Another blast, this one brighter than the salamander queen’s fire circle.

  A third, and he was blinded, his senses overwhelmed by the sheer power of Jane’s unfettered rage.

  “Neko?” he sent, the instant he was able.

  “A little busy here,” came the familiar’s reply.

  Connor was moving toward him, concern puckering his brow. Brule stood behind the shifter, his head cocked at an angle as if he fought to hear the conversation inside David’s head.

  Another blast from Jane. Another. Another.

  Finally, her incandescent rage was burning off. He could sense thoughts beneath her emotions, hear the words she chanted to herself with every bolt of fire. Jason. And then, a sigh wreathed in despair: I’m such an idiot. Another blast of magic. Jason. A final bolt. Such an absolute idiot.

  “Neko,” David sent again.

  “She’s fine,” the familiar answered. “Or at least she will be.”

  “I’m coming.”

  “Don’t.”

  “She needs me.”

  “Not now.” The familiar’s refusal was firm.

  David hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes to enhance his concentration, narrowing his focus on the distant familiar. But when he heard a grunt followed by a loud splash, his eyes snapped open.

  Brule and Connor grappled in the riverbed. The salamander’s fingers were wrapped around Connor’s neck; he was holding the shifter’s head underwater.

  Connor arched his back, heels scrabbling for a purchase against the creek’s slippery floor. Hissing all the while, Brule shifted his weight, pla
nting a knee in the other man’s belly. Connor rolled to his right, obviously trying to smash the salamander against a rocky outcropping. He lost his purchase and tumbled back into the water.

  This was all a trap—Brule’s hail-fellow routine, his easy handshake. The salamander had baited them by returning David’s Torch, reinforcing the promise of an alliance. He’d greeted them alone outside the lair, offering the guise of friendship.

  But the instant David was distracted by Jane, Brule had pressed his attack. He now used his considerable weight to pin Connor beneath the surface of the swift-flowing stream.

  David had to act. He could not let Connor die. Not here. Not today.

  He pulled Rosefire from the ether, automatically igniting ward-fire. He didn’t care who saw the burning sword. The Eastern Empire already had him on six counts of exposing magic. Who cared if they added a thousand more?

  Besides, the salamanders had built their lair far from human paths. No mundane eyes would see Connor trapped beneath the surface of the stream. No human would cry out at Brule pinning the shifter, holding him down until he no longer had the strength to struggle.

  David waded into the creek. The water was colder than he expected, slicing through his jeans like shards of glass. He ignored the pain, pushing himself past the shock before Connor drowned.

  One step. Brule kicked the shifter hard, connecting a boot to Connor’s temple.

  Two. The salamander pressed on Connor’s yielding chest, shoving the limp body deeper beneath the water.

  Three. David called out Brule’s name, shifting his weight to swing his sword.

  The fire-lizard looked up, as if by reflex. He darted a hand toward his leather boot and came up with a narrow blade, a throwing knife. David barely saw sunlight glint on steel before he dropped to his knees, dodging the attack. Icy water surged against his chest, stealing his breath.

  Brule exploded out of the stream bed, scrambling up the bank toward the pile of debris that marked the lair. David lost precious seconds banishing his sword so he had two free hands. He hefted Connor out of the water, dragging the shifter’s dead weight toward the riverbank.

  He propped Connor against the trailing roots of a willow tree. The shifter’s face was deathly pale; his lips were blue inside his matted beard.

  The water, was flowing fast enough to pull the shifter downstream. David closed his arms around his friend’s chest and tugged him higher onto the bank. The effort forced a gout of water from Connor’s lips. He groaned and turned to vomit up more of Rock Creek.

  David clambered up the muddy bank, pulling Rosefire back from the ether. Brule had almost reached the salamanders’ lair, would have slithered inside already if he weren’t weighed down by sodden clothes and slippery boots.

  “Brule!” David shouted, arresting the fire-lizard’s progress.

  The salamander whirled and threw something at his feet. A burst of light exploded and mud flew up.

  But Brule had miscalculated. The earth was too wet for fire. A dozen tiny flames hissed and died before they could work any damage.

  David poured energy into Rosefire, raising a full arm-span of ward-fire from the sword’s edge. He lunged as he swung his blazing weapon, using both hands to keep the motion steady.

  Steel-colored flames sizzled as they bit into the salamander’s side.

  Brule hissed, thrashing to escape. David pressed his advantage, sheathing Rosefire in the traitor’s body.

  Brule’s eyes opened wide. His head jolted back. His fingers scrabbled at his gaping wound, as if he could cauterize it and keep his bright green blood from flowing.

  David pulled Rosefire free and glanced back toward the willow. Connor had crawled up the bank. He crouched on all fours, shoulders heaving as he coughed up half the creek. His feet were still perilously close to the water. He’d freeze if he slipped back into the stream. But at least he was breathing.

  As David turned back to Brule, the salamander pulled himself toward the entrance to the lair. Emerald flames dripped from his side, great gouts of imperial blood sizzling on damp leaf litter. Brule fell to his knees two steps shy of the threshold. Stretching out his hands, he dragged himself up the muddy slope, shuddering with effort as he tipped over the edge into darkness.

  David shimmied up the bank, determined to see this battle through to the end. He could just make out Brule’s feet in the gloom beyond the doorstep. Gripping Rosefire tightly, he drew his ward-fire back to a mere flicker and plunged into the lair.

  Brule was sprawled before him, mouth stretched in a rictus of agony, obsidian eyes rolled back in his head. Verdant fire licked at his side, but David could already see the flames were fading.

  The salamander was dead.

  Before David could turn back to help Connor in the creek bed, he caught the glint of eyes in the darkness. Automatically, he swept Rosefire in a massive arc. Ward-fire illuminated bodies, at least two dozen, salamanders all.

  And every last one was writhing toward him, fire pouring from savage claws.

  44

  David poured his energy into ward-fire.

  Flames leaped from Rosefire’s edges, a dancing steel-grey curtain. David gripped the sword with both hands, planting his feet and raising the blade above his head. He pledged his strength to Hecate, swore that he would honor her, serve her till the day he died, regardless of the court’s approval, separate and apart from any service he gave to any witch. He offered himself to the goddess forever, if only she would save him now.

  Burning steel teeth tore into the rotten tree trunks above him.

  The flames started as ward-fire, blossoming with grey in their hearts. As they spread, they sparked little tongues of green. The sword was kindling the salamanders’ ichor, slime they’d left upon the lair they’d used for years.

  As David poured more energy into his sword, its flames surged higher, burning off the surface coating of green on the ceiling. Only the steel-colored flames survived, drowning out every vestige of grass-green. Silvery smoke roiled against the roof, billowing back toward the advancing salamanders.

  David drove deeper into the cave.

  A dozen steps in, a salamander surged through the wall of smoke. David braced for impact. Before the fire-lizard could reach him, a massive branch fell from the ceiling. The wood was completely alight, steel-grey fire consuming what had once been a mammoth oaken trunk.

  David despaired. Salamanders reveled in fire. They’d danced in ecstasy in the garage beneath the National Mall. They’d writhed through Apolline’s fire circle. Now he’d given them the only thing they needed to prevail. He’d sealed his fate with fire.

  But the attacking salamander screamed as steely flames burst against his skin.

  Another lizard burst through the smoke, only to trip over his writhing fellow. Three more stumbled toward David, but they misjudged the distance, hitting Rosefire’s biting edge instead. Another burning tree trunk crashed to the floor.

  David blinked hard, peering through grey smoke. The fire-lizards had been arrayed in a half-circle around the back of the den. They’d stood like a phalanx, protecting their queen. Now they’d broken ranks, panicked by the burning ceiling.

  Squinting in the murk, David could just make out a darker circle against the mud-slick floor. Ignoring the burned and burning fire-lizards, David threw himself toward the hole.

  A last pair of salamanders hissed defiance, fighting the silvery conflagration to reach him. Golden crowns were emblazoned on their leather jackets. These men were Apolline’s private guards, and they would stop at nothing to save their queen.

  As they rushed David, he flashed a command to Rosefire. The guards careened into a wall of ward-fire and were immediately blinded, instantly destroyed by steel-grey flame.

  As their bodies crisped, David reached for the dagger in the nearest lizard’s hand. The salamander’s fingers were scorched bone, wrapped around the obsidian knife. But to David, the volcanic blade was cool to the touch. He could not be harmed by ward-fire of his o
wn making.

  Before other guards could take their place, David sheathed his sword in the ether. He slipped the bodyguard’s dagger behind his belt, nestling it against the small of his back. He raised one last blinding wall of ward-fire, thrusting it toward the well-caught ceiling, and he slid down the passage to whatever waited below.

  45

  Apolline Fournier sat on a throne fashioned out of the same obsidian as David’s hidden knife.

  Her shoulders were thrown back, emphasizing the long lines of her leather coat. Her jet black hair was sleek and manicured, not a strand out of place. A circle of crimson fire burned around her feet, tiny flames licking her boots, constantly burning but somehow never consuming the leather.

  The Collar was draped around her neck.

  “Warder Montrose,” she said, a kiss of a French accent flavoring her words. “Bienvenue.”

  “Apolline,” he said.

  She flinched, as if she smelled something rotten. He remembered Brule’s refusal to reference his queen without an honorific.

  Overhead, David could still make out the crackle of ward-fire, punctuated by the crash of tree limbs falling to the cavern floor. The screams of salamanders were gone. His conflagration had destroyed the last of the Apolline’s guards.

  “You’ve taken John out of commission?” she asked. The flames around her feet darkened as she spoke, as if the question cost her something dear.

  He inclined his head. He would have preferred to answer by pulling Rosefire in from the ether, but there wasn’t room to maneuver the sword in this tiny chamber.

  Apolline accepted his silent admission with her own curt nod. “And my guards?”

  “Burned or fleeing.” Another branch fell above.