Magic Triumphs

by Ilona Andrews

  Made sense. The ley line carried you forward at a high speed, but once it ended, it would spit you out at the ley point into the waiting arms of whoever wanted to ambush you there. There was no avoiding it.

  “You didn’t tell me?”

  “You were in labor,” Curran said.

  “Doolittle categorically forbade it,” Barabas said. “Anyway, nothing came of it. He must’ve decided the route was too vulnerable. This time he’s going with trucks. He’s been flirting with the local teamster guilds, and there is a rumor he’s hiring mechanics.”

  “If he starts actively acquiring mechanics and drivers, I want to know about it,” Curran said.

  Barabas nodded.

  “And trucks,” I said. “He doesn’t have enough trucks sitting around, and he won’t be satisfied with just any trucks. He’ll get top of the line, probably directly from the manufacturer, so they all match. He might even paint them gold.”

  “Would he steal them?” Barabas asked.

  “No,” Christopher said. “It’s beneath him. He would take them as spoils of war, but he won’t stoop to theft.”

  “We have two more immediate problems.” I brought them up to speed on the box and the burning man parade. Christopher leaned forward, listening intently. When I finished, Barabas glanced at him. Christopher shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “So, what’s the question?” Barabas asked.

  “Doesn’t matter. They killed Mr. Tucker. The answer is no,” I told him.

  Barabas glanced at Curran. “What do you want to do about this?”

  “There is nothing we can do,” Curran said. “We wait until this asshole shows his hand.”

  “You said there were two problems,” Christopher said.

  “We have to protect Conlan,” I explained. “He’s like a lighthouse shining in the night. The sahanu will be drawn to him. Curran and I have to be able to move around the city.”

  “We can take him to the bear clan house,” Curran said.

  He wouldn’t like this part. I reached into my pocket, took out the folded photograph, and put it on the table. The three of them leaned in to look at it.

  “Avag Barsamian,” Christopher said, his eyes dark. “Landon’s second.”

  “How dangerous is he?” Curran asked.

  Christopher leaned back, one leg over the other, braiding his long fingers into a single fist on his knee. “He’s one of the Golden Legion, so he’s a formidable navigator. He’s skilled in diplomacy in a way very few people are. When Avag negotiates, he crosses from savoir faire into art. He’s cunning and cautious, and he has nearly infallible instincts. I used him on several occasions. They send him in when things are complicated.”

  “He was escorted into the Keep with a briefcase and came out without one,” I said.

  “How sure are you?” Curran asked.

  “Rowena’s vampire took the photos. They have others. The next day Robert brought us the offer of alliance from the Pack.”

  Nobody said anything. Barabas frowned. Curran’s face turned inscrutable. Christopher pondered the wall.

  “Also, this may or may not be related,” I added, “but Raphael asked me to let Ascanio go.”

  “When?” Curran asked.

  “The same day Avag brought them an offer.”

  “Did you?”

  “I did. It’s not about me or Clan Bouda. It’s what Ascanio wanted.”

  Silence fell again.

  I tapped my fingers on the table. “Something important was in that briefcase.”

  “It may have been a gift,” Barabas said. “They brought a gift, Jim took the trinket, listened to what they had to say, and sent them on their way. I’ve seen Curran do that a dozen times.”

  “My father doesn’t send trinkets. He poisons the flowers in your garden, and when your child sniffs one and becomes sick, he sends the antidote in a vial carved out of amethyst and corked with a diamond as a gesture of good faith and friendship. Whatever it was, Jim took it.”

  Barabas frowned. “Robert’s timing is obviously suspect.”

  I nodded. “There are two possibilities: either they said yes to Roland and are going to betray us, or they didn’t mean whatever they said to Roland and they are not going to betray us.”

  “Three,” Barabas said. “They may be thinking it over.”

  “They don’t even have to fight against us. They can just not show up and it would weaken us.”

  “If the Pack abstains from the conflict between us and your father, and Roland wins, the Pack will be next,” Barabas said.

  Christopher stirred. “Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres . . .”

  “The whole of Gaul is divided into three parts?” I asked.

  “The opening line to Gallic Wars by Julius Caesar,” Christopher said. “Caesar conquered Gaul tribe by tribe. Had they unified from the start, Rome’s first emperor would’ve never made it back to Rome. There is a copy of this book in the Pack’s library. I’ve seen Jim reading it. He knows that divided, we will fall.”

  “Jim isn’t an idiot, and he’s been Curran’s friend for over a decade,” Barabas said. “I don’t see it.”

  “Roland has a way of subverting friendships,” Christopher said. “It’s a policy of isolation. He becomes your family, your friend, your confidant.”

  A shadow passed over his eyes.

  “Then he betrays you,” I said. “He did it with you, Erra, Hugh, me. The list goes on.”

  “Hugh was a special case,” Christopher said. “We were adults. Hugh was a child.”

  “Hugh could’ve walked away. Instead he committed one atrocity after the next.”

  “It’s not that simple.” Christopher shook his head.

  There was more there, but now wasn’t the time to dig for it. I turned to Curran. His face showed all the varied emotions of a stone wall. He’d gone into his Beast Lord mode.

  “Is there any way for us to be sure that Jim won’t betray us?” I asked.

  “No,” Curran said.

  That’s what I thought. If we confronted him with the pictures, he would deny everything and we wouldn’t be able to determine if it was the truth. If he was playing us, he would pretend to be outraged; if he wasn’t, he would be outraged that we didn’t trust him. Either way told us nothing.

  “We have to assume Jim betrays us. It’s the only safe way to plan.” Barabas rubbed his face.

  I looked at Curran. “Does he have any gaps in his armor?”

  My husband turned to me, and his face was pure Beast Lord. “Everyone has gaps. Ours is sleeping on the pillow. Thinking of hitting Jim where it hurts?”

  “No. But if Roland is pushing on a pressure point, we want to know about it.”

  Curran leaned back, his voice calm and measured. “Short term, siding with Roland would be to Jim’s benefit. They lost a lot of people and an alliance would avoid further bloodshed. There are those within the Pack who would welcome that solution. From that position, not showing up at all is his best option. However, Jim thinks long term. If he fails to support us, he’s left with Roland as victor. Your father doesn’t do alliances. He wants obedience. Jim will chafe at it and so will most of the others. Besides that, if Jim betrays us, Clan Bear, Clan Bouda, and Clan Wolf would rebel.”

  “I don’t know about Clan Wolf,” I said.

  “Desandra always votes in your favor,” Barabas told me. “She’ll often say provocative things to stir shit up, but she always supports you.”

  Clan Bouda, Clan Bear, and Clan Wolf would comprise close to half of the Pack. Jim would face a civil war.

  “Perhaps Jim is thinking longer term,” Christopher said.

  Curran turned to him. “Explain.”

  “People always long for the good old days,” Christopher said, his light eyes thoughtful. “We look at the pa
st with rose-colored glasses.”

  “I have no plans to take the Pack back from Jim,” Curran said. “He knows this. Jim is paranoid, but he is a more effective Beast Lord.”

  “But he doesn’t have your charm,” Barabas said. “He hardly ever roars and makes everyone cringe.”

  “People as individuals are intelligent,” Christopher said. “People as a political body are finicky. They gravitate toward symbols of strength and power. You have a bigger presence than Jim.”

  “So, you think he hopes Roland will take me out?” Curran asked, his voice almost nonchalant.

  “Not you.” Christopher looked at Conlan.

  No. I could believe that Jim would sit the fight out, but he wouldn’t go that far. “He wouldn’t,” I ground out.

  “By now he likely knows that Conlan can shapeshift or suspects he may be able to in the future,” Christopher said. “Shapeshifters tell stories about you now. In a couple of decades, they will be legends. If Conlan is allowed to grow up, he’ll be the son of the first Beast Lord, the man who created the Pack, the man who knew no equal while he ruled. He will have the physical power and the enhanced shapeshifting of a First. He’ll be a natural leader. If you see a weed in your garden, would you pull it out now, while it’s small and weak, or would you wait until it grows?”

  “This is nuts,” I told him.

  “In my former life I was the Legatus of the Golden Legion,” Christopher reminded me, his voice gentle. “My existence depended on eliminating my rivals before they came into their full power. I would eliminate your son now, in a way that couldn’t be traced back to me. Perhaps a raid by Roland’s covert team on the grandparents’ clan house while your son is there. Everyone would be murdered. A great tragedy, an atrocity. Terrible. It would evoke outrage, of course, but also breed fear. Terrified people cling to familiar leaders. As to the two of you, there are few greater challenges to a marriage than the death of a child.”

  I hated this. I hated sitting here and imagining people who were our friends plotting to murder my kid. There was something wrong with the world that it was even a possibility.

  “What do we do? We have to warn them that this could happen, and we can’t tell Mahon,” I said. “If he even suspects it, he’ll storm the Keep, roaring, and he will get himself or someone else killed.”

  “We’ll tell Martha,” Curran told me.

  Martha would defend Conlan with her dying breath. My imagination flashed a picture of her mangled, bloody body curled on the floor around my son. It was too much. I got up.

  Curran was looking at me, concern in his eyes.

  “I need a minute.”

  I opened the door and stepped onto the Guild’s main floor. Mercs moved here and there, some tired and covered in grime or blood coming from a gig; others, clean and bored, waiting for one. A group of Curran’s elite team sat on the raised platform stuffing their faces. The food in the Guild mess hall had gone from slop to legendary. Shapeshifters challenged each other to the death for power and had the potential to snap into psychotic spree killers, but give them bad food and they were mortally offended. The first time Curran smelled the old mess hall’s food, he’d gagged. He overhauled the mess hall the moment he had the chance.

  The mercs were grinning. Ella, petite and pretty, said something. Charlie shot back a reply, his eyes narrowed to mere slits. Douglas King rocked his massive six-foot-five frame back in his chair and laughed, the light reflecting from his bald head and off the mess of glyphs and runes tattooed there. The man was obsessed with “magic runes.” The weapon sellers around Atlanta knew this and were always peddling junk to him, because he’d buy anything as long as it had some mysterious inscription on it. The last sword he bought was engraved with a word in Elder Futhark. He’d brought it to me to read. It said DICKHEAD, spelled out phonetically with Norse runes. He barely survived the disappointment.

  A few years ago, I would have gone and sat right up there with them. Back then I didn’t have a care in the world. My biggest worry was paying my meager bills and trying to earn enough for a new pair of shoes.

  Suddenly I felt homesick, not for the house but for a different time and a different me. Not-in-charge-of-anybody me. Not-protecting-the-city me. Not-wife me. Not-mom me. Just me.

  That’s the way Voron had intended me to be. I’d been his version of a lone gunman. No ties, no roots, no attachment to friends or possessions. Back then I could’ve picked up at a moment’s notice and vanished, and nobody would’ve worried or cared. I was a no-name merc, minding my own business. But inside I was still the same. Still a killer, still Roland’s daughter. Hands still bloody, and no amount of magic could turn that blood to dust.

  Back then I’d given Curran a speech. I couldn’t remember exactly what I’d said, something about dragging my beat-up carcass to a dark empty house. Nobody cared if I made it home. Nobody waited up, nobody treated my wounds, nobody made me a cup of coffee and asked me about my day. When I thought about it now, my memories of that time seemed gray, as if all the color had been leached out of them.

  When I thought of my house now, it was filled with warmth and light. It always smelled of seared meat or a fresh pie or fresh coffee. It was my little piece of the world, welcoming and comfortable, a place I’d built with Curran. A place for Conlan. A place where I belonged.

  Christopher was right. We looked at the past with rose-colored glasses.

  I’d picked this new life. I built it day by day. I had friends, I had a husband who loved me, I had my son and a city to protect. Standing here wallowing in self-pity and wondering who might betray me next and how I would deal with it accomplished nothing.

  I’d made no progress on Serenbe. I still had no idea who’d sent me the box. I had to figure out how to protect Conlan. I would take this moment, get all of my “woe is me” out of my system, and be done, so I could do all of the other things I had to do.

  At the table Douglas bared his right arm and flexed, showing off a bicep the size of a baseball. Yes, yes, you are big and mighty. New tattoo, too.

  Wait a minute.

  I pushed from the wall and made a beeline to Douglas.

  “Hey, Daniels.” Ella grinned at me.

  “It’s Lenna-a-a-art,” Charlie sang out. “It’s been Lennart for two years. Get your shit straight, Elle.”

  “New ink?” I asked Douglas.

  He bared even white teeth. “Yeah.” He tapped the skin on his arm, still red from the needle. A serpent in the shape of a sideways S. Between the loops of the serpent, a broken arrow formed a Z, the section with fletching vertical, the rest of the arrow diagonally piercing the loops, and the last bit, with the arrow head, pointing down. Serpent and Z-rod.

  I almost heard a click as pieces snapped together in my head.

  “It’s Scottish,” he said.

  “Pictish,” I told him. “Nice one.”

  I turned and walked away to my small office.

  “What the hell was all that about?” Charlie asked behind my back.

  “You cut her some slack,” Ella told him. “Someone tried to kill her baby today. She beat her to death with her hands. I was dropping off a package for Biohazard and I got to see the body. The chick had no face left. Just raw hamburger.”

  I walked into my office, leaving the door open, and went to the bookcase filled with my reference books. It was either here or at Cutting Edge. I ran my fingers along the spines. Not that one. No, no, no . . . There. I pulled a green volume off the shelf. V. A. Cumming, Decoding Pictish Symbols.

  I flipped through it. There. Two circles, joined together, with wavy lines through them, two dots in the center, and a Z-rod, a broken arrow. Double disc and Z-rod. It looked right. The proportion, the thickness of the rectangular piece connecting the two discs. It felt right.

  I landed in my chair, the book in front of me. Nobody knew much about the Picts. Everyone knew about
Hadrian’s wall, but the Romans had built another one, the Antonine wall, in AD 142. It bisected Scotland. The Romans called the “painted” people on the other side of that wall Picts. Later, they were called Caledonians. Nobody knew for sure who they were or how long they lived in Scotland. Some claimed they were Celts, others argued that they came from Gaul. Pictish myths referenced Scythia and arriving to Scotland a thousand years or so before Anno Domini. Nobody knew for sure.

  They left behind metal jewelry and Pictish stones. Dozens of ancient stone steles, covered with mysterious carvings. Most occurred on the eastern side of Scotland. But the earliest Pictish stones dated back to the sixth century. Way too late for Erra’s invaders.

  There was no Z-rod on the box, but the knife matched. The knife looked like it came from the British Isles.

  Picts didn’t wear torques. Some of the archaeological hoards traced to them contained heavy-duty chains, but nobody knew their purpose. However, Celts definitely wore torques, and they had eventually spread through the British Isles.

  I needed an expert on Picts. Unfortunately, there was no such thing. The next best bet were the Druids. The Druids didn’t like me. They didn’t like anybody. The specter of human sacrifice hung over them, and so they did their best to project a benevolent image. They wore white robes, waved tree branches around, and blessed things. But nobody I knew had ever been invited to a druid gathering. They never answered questions about their rituals or ancestry either. Showing up on their doorstep and asking them to help me decipher Pictish symbols would get me a nice pat on the back, followed by a door in my face. I didn’t even know where that doorstep could be.

  I needed help. Somebody who had an in with the pagans. Somebody familiar with old magic . . . Somebody who wasn’t afraid of Druidic history and whom they couldn’t bullshit.

  Roman. He was a pagan, a black volhv, and his mother was one of the members of the Witch Oracle.

  I needed to visit the Covens anyway, now that my father was going on the offensive. We’d made a plan together: the Covens, my aunt, and me. But the witches seemed to be dragging their feet with getting it implemented.