The Myth Manifestation

by Lisa Shearin

  Stunned silence was followed by angry swearing in Dwarvish by the ambassador.

  “Uh . . . among other things, he said grimtogs can’t do that,” Rolf translated. “He also said what he and Lord Danescu did should have worked.”

  Rake stood there, radiating malice down the floor drain, looking like he was seriously considering ripping up the concrete with his bare hands and going after the thing, catching it, and choking the life out of it, needle teeth be damned.

  The dwarves were staring at where the grimtog had performed its vanishing act, mumbled something under their collective breath, and took a simultaneous step back.

  “That’s bad,” Rolf said.

  I let out an exasperated sigh. “What now?”

  “Finding a grimtog in a barrel is lucky.”

  My eyes went to the slimy trail the escaped-to-who-knows-where grimtog had left behind. “And if it gets away?”

  Rolf actually winced. “The curse of the dwarf beer gods is unleashed upon the establishment.”

  Rake bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Dammit,” he whispered.

  There was a commotion by the door as Ian pushed his way through the dwarf delegation. He assessed the scene at a glance and naturally finished his summation of the situation with me.

  I was covered in skunky beer.

  “This looks like a long story,” Ian said. “Would you like to clean up first?”

  Rake closed the pub until evening for cleanup and further investigation.

  While we’d been in the back, two of Rolf’s teammates had taken the initiative of clearing the pub of the few delegates who had been at one of the tables, then closed and locked the doors.

  I guess when you knew there was a chittering critter in a keg, it was time to cut everyone off and close up. As a result, the incident—unlike the grimtog—had been contained. Since the grimtog had escaped the clutches of a master dark mage, an impulsive SPI agent, and a dwarf mage ambassador, neither the ambassador nor any of his delegates would be telling anyone about what had happened here.

  To help explain things to Ian, Rolf continued to act as the dwarf translator, and I hit the pub’s ladies’ room to clean up as best as I could. There was no way I was strolling through the lobby like this. When we’d finished here, I’d get Rake to have someone show me the back way to my room for a much-needed shower.

  Rake was overseeing a hotel maintenance crew, who had removed the grate from the floor and was running one of those Roto-Rooter camera-on-a-cable thingies into the drain.

  The grimtog was long gone, but we needed to get any residue it had left for the lab folks back at SPI HQ. A grimtog—or any real and solid creature—couldn’t just ooze its way through the metal of a drain and re-form on the other side. But that was exactly what had happened—it had oozed, re-formed, and laughed its slimy ass off at us.

  And we were no closer to knowing how it or the bukas had gotten into the hotel.

  Chapter Ten

  I knew Rake had mages working in his hotel, but this veered into miracle territory.

  Not only did the Regor Regency’s ballroom look as though it had never been demolished by bukas, it’d now been turned into a cross between a Gilded Age movie set and the Yule Ball from Harry Potter.

  I was on Rake’s arm, his date for the evening.

  It was a working date.

  After taking three showers, and washing my hair twice, I was as de-skunked as I was going to get.

  As the hotel owner and host of the summit, Rake was expected to mingle with the delegates. Being his date gave me the ideal opportunity to check out some of the more important, controversial, and potentially troublemaking delegates one on one. Even though it was a formal event, everyone was wearing their badges, including Rake and me. Everyone knew who Rake was, but if his guests had to sully their formalwear with a lanyard and badge, he would suffer the same. Though judging from the chatter in languages I couldn’t begin to understand, most of them already knew each other.

  I was wearing a simple, short strand of pearls with my little black dress. Rake had offered to deck me out in diamonds or the gems of my choice, but I would’ve felt awkward wearing them—even if I hadn’t been surrounded by my coworkers. Everyone knew I was dating Rake, but wearing jewelry everyone knew I’d never be able to afford on my salary would get tongues to wagging about just what I had done to earn them. Yeah, I know, but I’m an old-fashioned girl that way, so I went with pearls I’d bought myself. All the pieces were fake, but well-made.

  This could’ve been a fun evening. I liked getting all spiffied up, and going out on the town with Rake was a guaranteed good time. At least it had been. But even if we’d been on better terms, we needed to be concentrating on business right now, not each other.

  There would be no dancing this evening, so the ballroom had been set up to facilitate flow and conversation. The broken chairs and tables had been replaced, and scattered amongst them were club chair and side table groupings for more intimate conversation areas. In two of the room’s four corners were fancy chaise lounges, but instead of coffee tables set in front of them to hold drinks and food, there were fish tanks, complete with filtration but empty of fish.

  “What is that?” I tried to be casual and not stare.

  Rake glanced at the bizarre tableau, then went back to surveying the arriving guests. “For the Atlanteans. They can be out of water for a few hours at a time, but they’re more comfortable if they can dip their proboscis—”

  “Their pro what?”

  “Proboscis. An extendable tube with a mouth and nose at the end. They breathe and eat through it.”

  My expression froze. “Extendable?”

  “A mix of an elephant’s trunk, except smaller, and an inchworm, but larger.”

  “Okaaay.”

  “Yes, it’s an inelegant mode of respiration,” Rake agreed. “The Atlanteans prefer to dip their proboscis in water to breathe. Their bodies begin to excrete a gelatinous residue if they’re out of water for more than an hour.”

  “That would explain the plastic slipcovers on the chaise lounges,” I said. “I thought someone’s great-grandma had been turned loose in here.”

  Rake nodded toward the main ballroom doors. They were ten feet high, but even so a blue-skinned, vaguely humanoid delegate, wearing nothing but a leather and fur loincloth, had to duck his head to get through. He grinned and gave Rake a friendly wave. He was followed by a female wearing the same, but with the addition of a top that covered what needed to be covered and no more.

  “The Jötunn,” Rake said. “They’ve been assigned rooms on the second floor. I’ve had two conference rooms converted into guest rooms, and added a refrigeration unit to keep the temperature at a comfortable level for them. They’re too tall for the elevators, but the stairs are workable for a short distance.”

  “How many beds did you have to put together?”

  “We connected four king-sized mattresses, and I had linens custom made.”

  Lars Anderssen had met the two Jötunn at the ballroom doors and was giving them a warm welcome.

  I was surrounded by supernatural and mythological beings I’d only read about in books and SPI training manuals. It was exciting and intimidating at the same time, and I found myself looking forward to this.

  Tonight was more than a chance for the delegates to schmooze. It allowed us to watch them while they did it. You could tell a lot about someone by how they interacted with their peers.

  I caught a glimpse of one of the Atlanteans dashing through the door and making a beeline for the aquarium, hurriedly dipping its trunk-like nose in the water. The little guy seemed embarrassed, and saw me looking. I flashed what I hoped was a welcoming and understanding smile, and gave him a little finger wave.

  I stopped mid wave and turned away, clasping my hands in front of me. “Oh crap,” I said, still smiling. “Are the Atlanteans the ones who reproduce with their . . . uh, those things that look like their fingers?”

&
nbsp; Rake chuckled. “No, darling. Those are the Yerenn. They’re on the other side of the room, speaking with the djinn ambassador. Don’t worry, the Yerenn understand about humans waving. Just don’t shake hands with them. That type of behavior isn’t allowed until after they’re ceremonially mated.”

  I should so not be here. I was a one-woman, inter-species incident waiting to happen.

  Nearly all the supernaturals here were greeting each other with handshakes. When among Earthlings, and all that, I guess. “The Yerenn must think all this is downright pornographic.”

  “Oh, they do. It’s scandalous.” Rake grinned wickedly. “They love it. The more hand-shaking they get to watch, the better.”

  I glanced over to watch Ian slowly making his way around the room, his eyes missing nothing. This was far from being my partner’s first rodeo. The delegates flowed and ebbed around him as he stoically did his job, watching everyone. Maybe nothing shocked him anymore.

  Ian was getting more than a few interested and assessing looks from some of the delegates. When the summit officially began tomorrow morning, we would all be wearing our SPI-issued, SWAT-lite uniforms. The delegates were being told to direct any concerns for personal safety to us. From the looks my partner was getting, he’d be on the receiving end of more than his share of security emergencies. Hopefully none of them would find out that Ian was a god—well, “god” with a small “g”—or at least the descendant of one. If they did, Ms. Sagadraco would probably need to assign security people to protect Ian from his new groupies.

  The SPI commandos who had drawn duty for the reception were dressed formally to try to blend in as much as possible. Rake and Ms. Sagadraco wanted the delegates to be protected, but at the same time, didn’t want to make it look like they were surrounded by a small army.

  Gethen Nazar and three of his team were likewise trying to blend in with the guests.

  Vivienne Sagadraco was the serene center of the hurricane that was the welcome reception for the Centennial Supernatural Summit. More than once I caught her wearing the tiny smile she used when in the presence of people whom she didn’t like. After having seen her twice in her dragon form, I knew what was behind that smile.

  Cross me and I’ll go dragon and stomp you like a ketchup packet.

  Though I’m sure Ms. Sagadraco had a classier way of putting it, but the intent was the same.

  The dwarves put in a brief appearance, but as soon as the social niceties had been observed they had hightailed it back to the pub, which had been reopened.

  Maybe they were hoping to find another grimtog, catch it, and appease their beer gods.

  We could use the luck, and I didn’t really blame them for leaving. They were the shortest race at the summit, and any social interactions with the other delegates involved them essentially talking to crotches or bellybuttons, neither of which were known for their conversational skills.

  Rake had had tall barstools and tables placed in the ballroom, but while the dwarves may have appreciated the gesture, if I were them I wouldn’t have liked having to climb just to sit down. Though maybe their problem wasn’t with the presence of barstools in the ballroom, but the absence of beer.

  On the far side of the ballroom were two of the races that needed to be closely watched if they got within fifty feet of each other. The distance between their ambassadors was suitable for a shouted conversation—or a duel. Neither had weapons in their hands, but that wasn’t reason enough for our people to stand down. Until one of them blinked wrong, our folks were giving them the benefit of a doubt.

  I spotted the elven colonial governor through the crowd. I’d never met either one of the colonial governors, but all SPI agents who would be working at the summit had been briefed on the major players. Fyren Balmorlan’s photo had been all too accurate. The elven governor was tall, thin, and pale. All of those were characteristics of a classic elf, but the governor’s genetic makeup had taken it a couple chromosomes too far. He was too thin and too pale to pass among humans without a second and probably a third glance. I’d thought I was pale, but I could see this guy bursting into flames quicker than a newborn vampire at high noon. In fact, the only being I’d ever seen who could get that pale was a vampire who hadn’t eaten in way too long. Come to think of it, Fyren Balmorlan looked much the same way. Hungry, that is. According to his SPI bio, it wasn’t blood he wanted, at least not to drink. His eyes darted dismissively over the other delegates, his thin-lipped mouth was barely visible on his face, and when it occasionally would curve into a smile, it twitched, as if the muscles hadn’t had much practice making that expression.

  The Balmorlan name was familiar to me. They were a known elven crime family here, and considered notorious on their home world. Naturally, the patriarch of the family here would get himself appointed governor.

  Fyren Balmorlan was surrounded by a small retinue. Since the colonial governors had business here other than that covered by the summit, Ms. Sagadraco had allowed them four, rather than two staff.

  There was movement by the main ballroom doors. Not the kind of movement that involved casual strolling and hobnobbing; these were people getting out of something’s way. My hand went for the gun strapped to my thigh under my dress. I know, sexy secret agent-like, huh? Then I remembered it was my paint pistol. My real gun was tiny and in my equally tiny purse.

  It wasn’t a monster. Though to many in the room, it was almost as bad.

  The goblin colonial governor had arrived.

  As a people, goblins were lean and muscled like Olympic swimmers.

  Gremien Pivaine wasn’t like his people.

  He might have started out that way, but corruption had a way of rising to the surface. He was bloated with it, body and soul. Governor Pivaine viewed his people as a resource to be exploited for his own gain. I’d learned about his more public transgressions from his SPI bio.

  Rake had told me the rest.

  Gremien Pivaine had been a client at Bacchanalia. Briefly. Before Rake had personally revoked his membership for what he’d described as Pivaine’s “predilection for deviant and unsavory practices.” The staff and even the other members had complained about him.

  I hadn’t asked for details, and Rake hadn’t offered any. That the goblin governor had gotten kicked out of a sex club, even a high-class one, for deviant and unsavory practices, told me all I’d never wanted to know. Rake was the last person anyone would ever think of as a prude, so for him to say that he found Gremien Pivaine’s behavior personally repugnant told me the goblin governor was the worst kind of nasty.

  Surprisingly, he had no entourage, no bodyguards.

  The governor did have a date. She was also a goblin, and, unlike him, gorgeous in her white, body-hugging gown. Definitely a Beauty and the Beast kind of arrangement. Except this Beauty was a Beast on the inside, candy coating with an evil filling. It didn’t take a seer to sense it. Everyone in the room knew.

  This woman was the darkest of dark mages, used black magic, and liked it.

  A lot.

  Her hand rested lightly on the governor’s forearm, not touching the back of his hand. And while they were walking side by side, their bodies did not touch. I got the impression that was her idea. I didn’t blame her.

  “Damn,” Rake spat without moving his lips.

  “Him or her?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Where are his bodyguards?”

  “She is his guard,” Rake said. “He needs no other.”

  I turned my face away from the door, since I didn’t have the gift of talking without moving my mouth. “They’re coming this way. What are you going to do?”

  “Smile.”

  “You or me?”

  “Yes.”

  I turned back to face them, telling my skin that now was not the time to crawl.

  The sleaze factor increased every step closer they got. My smile probably resembled a rictus more than anything else, but at least I tried.

  “Mr. Danescu,” the gove
rnor said in greeting.

  He didn’t use Rake’s title. Nasty and petty. But powerful and influential. His name had been on Rake’s lists—both of them. Gremien Pivaine hated Rake Danescu and SPI.

  “Gremien,” Rake replied. No title, no bow, no graciously inclined head. Two could play at that game.

  “It’s been entirely too long, Rake,” the woman all but purred. “How delightful to see you again.” Her sharp, dark eyes flicked over to me. “Ah, and this must be the little seer we have all heard so much about. I expected her to be taller.”

  Dismissive and condescending. Normally I’d have a smartass response for people like that, but I instinctively knew that the smart thing would be to have her notice me as little as possible.

  For once I decided to be smart, so I reined in my instincts and kept my mouth shut. But that didn’t mean I didn’t give her one of Vivienne Sagadraco’s patented “squash you like a ketchup packet” smiles. I couldn’t turn into a three-story-tall dragon and stomp this woman, but I could enjoy imagining it.

  “I believe you know Dagara Jakome,” the governor was saying to Rake, his beady little eyes glittering in anticipation and something else, something uglier.

  “Miss Jakome,” Rake said, his expression utterly blank.

  The goblin woman laughed. “Rake, we’ve known each other much too long—and far too well—for such formality. I was so sorry to hear what happened to Bacchanalia. Such a lovely place, so many fond memories.”

  I kept my stomp-you-flat smile in place, but it wasn’t easy with the knot that’d taken up residence in the pit of my stomach.

  I didn’t need it spelled out for me. Rake wanted to kill both of them. Dagara Jakome appeared to be taking a stroll down hot-sex-with-Rake memory lane. And Gremien Pivaine was getting vicarious nasty thrills from both.

  Breathe and smile, Mac. Breathe and smile.

  “Excuse me, Lord Danescu, Agent Fraser,” Ian said from my side. “Director Sagadraco would like to see you both.”

  Without another word, we turned and began crossing the ballroom to where we’d last seen Ms. Sagadraco. Ian accompanied us.