Magic Triumphs

by Ilona Andrews

The People and the Guild representatives collectively groaned.

  “Will you stop?” I growled at him. “Just stop, Nick! Stop! It’s not Roland.”

  “How do you know? There are two possibilities: either he is orchestrating this, or you are complicit in his machinations.”

  “Shut up!” Rowena snapped at him.

  “He has a point,” Phillip yelled. “There is no evidence of this supposed dragon. It is a magical impossibility. In fact, I wrote a paper—”

  “Your paper was hogwash,” Luther cut in.

  “Precisely,” Saiman added.

  “I am the Grand Magus. I won’t be spoken to like this!”

  The table erupted in screams.

  “I’ll speak to you however I please!” Luther shot back.

  “You’re a loose cannon, Luther!” Phillip shook his finger at him.

  “It’s Dr. Loose Cannon to you!”

  “Evidence!” Nick raised his voice, trying to out scream the others. “You have no evidence, no armor from these warriors, no scales, no evidence!”

  “Tell them!” Grigorii pointed at Drest.

  “Tell them what?” Drest asked.

  “You know what,” Grigorii yelled.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Drest shouted.

  “Coward!” Grigorii spat.

  “Senile fool!”

  The druids and the volhvs banged their staffs on the floor, glaring at each other.

  “We need to wake Yu Fong!” Phillip yelled. “He has actually seen the creature. We can ask him directly.”

  “Over my dead body!” Dali snapped.

  Everyone on the Pack side looked outraged.

  On one side, Evdokia sighed and rolled her eyes. At the other end, Desandra clapped her hands over the cacophony, chanting, “Fight, fight, fight . . .”

  I turned to Curran. “Do the roar thing.”

  He shook his head. “Not yet. Let them scream themselves out.”

  The front door burst open. Hugh d’Ambray strode inside, huge in a cloak and the black armor of the Iron Dogs. A beautiful woman followed him. She wore a blue dress and her hair was unnaturally white.

  I’d left my sword in the parking lot. That was okay. I’d take him apart with my bare hands.

  Julie squeezed in behind them.

  My mind took a second to process the fact that Julie wasn’t trying to stab him in the back. In fact, she looked like she . . . Like they came in together. Like she went and got him.

  Why me? Why? I couldn’t take much more of this; I really couldn’t.

  D’Ambray raised a big bag and emptied it over the table. Metal clattered onto the wood: a skull in a helmet, a pair of daggers, amulets, photographs of Pictish symbols tattooed on human skin. I suppose I should be grateful he didn’t dump a rotting corpse on us.

  The table went completely silent.

  “I’ve come to help you with your dragon problem,” he said.

  Nick turned the color of an eggplant. Next to me, Curran had gone completely still.

  “Well?” Hugh grinned. “Don’t all of you thank me at once.”

  The white-haired woman smiled and gave us a little wave. “Please excuse him. He forgets about manners sometimes. My name is Elara. You may know me as the White Warlock. I’ve heard so much about you. It’s so nice to meet all of you. I’m Hugh’s wife.”

  The world stood on its hands and kicked me in the face.

  * * *

  • • •

  HUGH D’AMBRAY HAD a wife. He owned a castle. He lived in the middle of Kentucky’s wilderness. They’d first encountered Neig’s troops over a year ago. They’d fought them and developed some strategies. He was glad to share those strategies with us. He had no doubt that Neig was a dragon. He could field three hundred of his Iron Dogs and personally lead them to assist us with this fight. He regretted he couldn’t field more, but he’d had to leave a force to guard the castle. In return, he expected the city of Atlanta to help him with some herb sales.

  Herb sales.

  I sat and listened to all of it as if I were under water. It didn’t seem real. It was so bizarre, my brain refused to digest it.

  His wife was the White Warlock. I’d caught Evdokia’s glance once or twice. She didn’t seem shocked. The witches had known. Julie wouldn’t even look at me. They came in together. She went and got him.

  Maybe he’s married and living happily in some castle somewhere.

  She had known where he was, and she didn’t tell me.

  I realized the room was silent. Everyone was looking at me, including d’Ambray. He must’ve asked me a question.

  I took a stab in the dark. “I need to think about it.”

  “We should adjourn,” Ghastek said.

  “Great idea!” Phillip reached toward the pile of armor on the table.

  “No!” Luther slapped his hand away.

  “Do not touch me.”

  “This is the best evidence we have so far!” Luther said. “You’re not getting your paws on it.”

  “It’s not,” Saiman said, turning to Ghastek. “He has a live specimen.”

  Luther and Phillip swiveled to Ghastek. Luther opened his mouth and struggled to form words, but nothing came out.

  “He’s had it for twenty-four hours and he didn’t notify anyone,” Saiman snitched.

  “The yeddimur is the property of the People,” Ghastek said.

  The three experts screeched in unison, like they had suddenly turned into harpies.

  “Enough,” Curran roared.

  Silence claimed the table.

  I turned to Luther. “You’re the leading expert on infectious magic.” I looked at Ghastek. “You’re the leading expert on magic virus–induced transformations.” I turned to Saiman. “You have a wide variety of expert knowledge across several fields.” I glanced at Phillip. “You’re a professional skeptic terrified for your reputation. Work together.”

  Ghastek looked taken aback. “You want me to . . .”

  “Share,” I said.

  He blinked.

  “Work together. Publish a joint paper afterward if you want, I don’t care. Just get me something we can use.”

  Curran rose to his feet. I got up and we walked out.

  Behind me, Hugh murmured, “That went well.”

  “Give them time,” Elara said.

  “Steed,” Hugh said.

  I stopped. One wrong word to Christopher and I would murder him. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Barabas. His eyes had gone bright red.

  “You’ve survived,” Christopher said.

  “You know what they say about me. Hard to kill. I have some things to apologize for.”

  “Come by the house,” Christopher said. “303 Forest Lane. We’ll talk.”

  I forced myself to resume walking.

  Curran and I got into the Jeep. I chanted at the engine until it turned over, and we drove out of the parking lot. It had rained while we were inside. The city seemed annoyed, like a cat who’d gotten wet.

  “Am I crazy?” I asked.

  “No,” he said.

  “That did just happen?”

  “It did.”

  “Julie went and got him after Kings Row.”

  “It appears so.”

  The city rolled past us.

  “He walks up to Christopher and says ‘hi,’ and Christopher says, ‘Come by my house’?”

  Curran didn’t answer.

  “He put Christopher into a cage and nearly starved him to death, and now it’s all forgive and forget?”

  “I didn’t forget,” Curran said, his face grim. “I remember Mishmar.”

  I’d almost died in Mishmar, because Hugh had teleported me there and tried to starve me into compliance.

  “
I remember Aunt B,” I said.

  Curran didn’t say anything.

  “What the hell did he ask me?” I asked.

  “If you would accept his help.”

  “I feel like I’ve gone nuts.”

  “Join the club,” he said.

  He braked, thrusting his arm in front of me. The vehicle screeched to a stop.

  “What is it?”

  “Look.”

  Straight ahead a large post-Shift building sat on the corner of the city block. The lights were on and in the glow, I could see people sitting at the desks, phones to their ears. It had to be almost ten o’clock. Who would be calling anyone at this hour . . .

  My brain finally noticed the sign illuminated by the feylanterns: SUNSHINE REALTY.

  I turned to Curran. “Can we? Can we please?”

  My husband’s eyes flared with gold. “Oh yes.”

  We left the car running and headed to the door.

  “The whole body or just the head?” he asked, cracking his knuckles.

  “Just the head.” I pulled magic to me. “Freakier that way.”

  Curran tried the door and swung it open for me. Oh goody. Unlocked. I walked in. My husband followed.

  A young blond woman looked up at us from her desk. “Hi, there. My name is Elizabeth. Are you here to sell your house?”

  “Elizabeth, is the owner in?”

  “He is!” She put an extra spoonful of sugar into her voice.

  “Can you get him for us?” I asked.

  “Who should I say is here?”

  “Tell him it’s Kate Lennart.” The first pulse of my magic shook the building. “Daughter of Nimrod.” A stronger pulse. People looked up from their desks. “Blood Blade of Atlanta and her husband, the God-King Curran Lennart.”

  The whole building resonated, as if someone had struck a giant gong.

  Curran’s human face broke and a monstrous lion head appeared on his shoulders. My husband roared.

  * * *

  • • •

  WHEN WE GOT home, Curran went to Derek’s house and I went across the street. George opened the door and held her finger to her lips. I snuck after her upstairs.

  “Where have you been?” George whispered. “Derek said the Conclave broke up an hour ago.”

  “We had to make a stop.” We didn’t kill anybody. After Curran roared, everyone cleared out and then we had a discussion with the owner about appropriate phone marketing etiquette, calling hours, and the meaning of “take us off your calling list.” He walked away on his own power without a scratch on him, but I was confident the unwanted calls would stop.

  Conlan was in his room, asleep on the bed. Martha lay next to him, curled up around my son.

  “Let Mom have him tonight,” George said. “She lost him yesterday. She needs this.”

  I didn’t want to leave him. I wanted to pluck him out of the bed, take him home, and snuggle with him to reassure myself he was okay. But he was asleep and so was Martha. I escaped the house without waking anyone.

  As I crossed the street, I saw wet tire marks leading up Christopher and Barabas’s dry driveway. The lights were on.

  I should wait. It was late. Even by shapeshifter standards.

  No, screw it. I marched to the house and knocked on the front door.

  Barabas opened it and stepped aside. “It’s for you.”

  Christopher walked out of the kitchen, a cup of tea in his hands. He was barefoot and wearing sweatpants and a simple dark T-shirt. His eyes were clear—no hint of Deimos—and his pale hair framed his face like a silk curtain. “Come in. Tea?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll get you some chamomile,” Barabas said. “You look like you need it.”

  “Right now, I’d have to drown in calming tea for it to do any good.”

  “I’ll fix you a cup.” Barabas went into the kitchen.

  I slipped my shoes off, walked into the living room, and sat on the sofa. Christopher sat in a big blue chair. There was a quiet elegance about Christopher, even when he slumped barefoot in a chair.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  “He put you in a cage. He starved you for weeks. You were covered in filth. I don’t know of any person, aside from Raphael, who has the right to want to kill him more than you. And you invited him to your house. Help me understand this.”

  Christopher looked into his cup. “Do you want to kill him?”

  I sighed. “No. I don’t. I should, because his centurion killed Aunt B, because he broke Curran’s legs, and because of Mauro. Curran probably will kill him given a chance. But right now, all I want is to understand you.”

  “Hugh kidnapped you and starved you nearly to death. Why don’t you want to kill him?”

  “Because I met my father. I’ve trained all my life to murder him, and when we met, I put it aside. My father has the impact of a supernova. He had Hugh since he was a small child. He shaped and molded him, and Hugh had no defenses against that. It was never a fair fight. My father bears a lot of responsibility for Hugh d’Ambray. That said, Hugh is a butcher.”

  “He is,” Christopher said.

  Barabas came over and handed me a cup of steaming chamomile tea. “Drink.”

  I took a sip. He landed in a leather chair, pulled a folder from a bag next to it, and began reading the contents, pen in hand.

  I drank my tea. We sat in silence for a couple of long minutes. I exhaled. The world settled down.

  “Fine,” I said finally, setting the cup on the side table. “Tell me about Hugh d’Ambray.”

  Christopher smiled. It was a small smile, tinged with regret. “The first time I realized something was off, I had just been made Tribunus, second in command after Morgan, who was Legatus of the Golden Legion at the time. We were in Boston: your father, Morgan, Hugh, and I. Roland wanted to meet with a senator about matters of magical policy. The meeting went well. We were planning to leave in the morning. A hospital across the street from the hotel caught on fire. Hundreds of burn victims, mostly children. D’Ambray went down there. He healed for hours. By morning, he could barely stand. Morgan sent me down there to tell him Roland wanted to leave.”

  Christopher looked into his cup again. “I found him covered in soot, going from child to child, sometimes healing two at a time. D’Ambray told me he wasn’t done. Morgan sent me down again, then went himself. We couldn’t drag Hugh away from those children. He was manic. By the time we came back, your father was awake, sitting in the hotel restaurant, drinking a cup of coffee and watching the rescue crews. He paid the bill, walked across the street, and told Hugh it was time to go. Hugh told him he wasn’t done. He had a boy, maybe twelve, and the child had inhaled hot smoke. It burned him from the inside out. Every time he breathed in, he made this whistling grinding sound. D’Ambray was trying to put him back together. Your father looked at Hugh for a moment and said, ‘It will be fine.’ Hugh dropped the boy to the ground and followed us out. On the way to the cars, he made a joke about a passing woman’s ass.”

  I knew that Hugh. The one who made jokes and stepped over burning bodies. The healing Hugh . . . He did save Doolittle. He saved Ascanio too, but he blackmailed me to do it. He’d killed Mauro. Mauro was my friend.

  “For the next two years, I was busy with Morgan,” Christopher said. “After I killed him and became Legatus, I looked further into Hugh. As Legatus, I answered only to Roland. I controlled the entirety of the People. I made a study of any potential rivals rising through the People’s ranks, and I studied Hugh. D’Ambray wasn’t an immediate threat. We were equal but separate, and he showed no signs of wanting to take my place. Still, one does due diligence.”

  Christopher drank his tea.

  “Other people’s pain brings Hugh discomfort.”

  I almost laughed. “Hugh d’Ambray?”

  Christopher met
my gaze. “Do I strike you as a man likely to jump to conclusions?”

  Barabas chortled in his chair.

  “The nature of his magic is such that when he sees an injury, it creates distress. Not pain exactly, but a high degree of anxiety. This mechanism allows him to precisely identify the problem and correct it. He is compelled to heal.”

  “You’re describing someone who is almost an empath, but instead of emotional pain, he feels physical pain. That kind of person wouldn’t willingly harm others. Hugh is a killer.”

  “A paradox,” Christopher said. “So I asked myself, how do I reconcile the two? And then I watched your father. What I’m about to tell you is conjecture, but it’s conjecture based on careful observation and a lot of thought. I believe your father required a warlord. He wanted someone young and with a great deal of magic. He found Hugh and he tried to mold him into the tool of destruction he needed. However, the position called for a psychopath with a sadistic streak. Hugh was never that. He was perfect in every other way: he was physically and magically gifted, a superior fighter, a talented strategist, charismatic, loyal, happy to serve, but he wasn’t a sadist. So your father used the blood bond between them to blunt his emotions. On multiple occasions, I’ve observed Hugh agitated and arguing his point. Your father would speak to him and suddenly Hugh would come to his point of view and the source of the agitation would no longer matter.”

  I should’ve seen it. Suddenly so many things made sense. Mishmar made sense. My father told him to do whatever was necessary to make me comply and numbed him enough to do it, so Hugh did it.

  “You have a blood bond with Julie,” Christopher said. “Tell me, can it be done?”

  I sighed. “Yes. I can impose my will over hers. I can make her not care. It comes with a heavy price tag.”

  Christopher set down his cup and leaned back, braiding his fingers on his knee. “What are the consequences?”

  “If you superimpose yourself on your blood bonded, eventually their mind will break. There will be nothing left except a reflection of you. They will be lobotomized. My aunt gives me a lecture on this at least once every three months, just in case I forget. She’s fond of Julie.”

  “Question.” Barabas raised his finger. “Hugh was bound to Roland for decades, and now we know Roland blunted his emotions. Then Roland broke the blood bond.”