Forged in Fire

by J. A. Pitts

  “You look wonderful this evening,” he told her.

  She smiled demurely. “Flatterer.”

  He laughed, a mellow sound that drew smiles from those around them.

  “Guilty,” he said. “But you are stunning this evening.”

  “Thank you,” she said, curtsying. “The dress, the hair. It’s all a charade. Monday, I’ll be back in blue jeans and a work shirt, stocking shelves at the food pantry.”

  “Ever the pragmatist,” he said. “How lucky I was to find a discerning opera fan among the creamed corn and chickpeas.”

  Then it was her turn to laugh, and he drank it in. She had a beautiful laugh that would capture some young man’s heart before long. One musical trill and he would fall smitten into her arms.

  He loved the way the light shone on her silky black hair. While he could have relations with her, as was his wont, there was more value in enjoying the beauty of her. Even the way she sipped her champagne was a work of art.

  She scrunched her face, wiggling her nose, as if the bubbles tickled her.

  Her beauty was natural, he surmised. Not painted on like many of the women in this room. She exuded a certain je ne sais quoi that eluded many women.

  “Isn’t Orphée wonderful?”

  “Quite lovely. I’d heard good things about this performance, and if they fulfill the promise made before intermission, the ending should be spectacular.”

  The matrons mingling in the vestibule grew suddenly restless, flitting about as if a hound had set upon a flock of geese.

  One of the women from the box next to his own nodded at him as she passed them, her agitation palpable.

  From the midst of the blue hair and fur coats, the house manager struggled to make his way forward. Once he cleared the flock of opera groupies, the manager bore intently toward Frederick.

  Frederick stepped forward, automatically putting himself between the urgent fellow and his date.

  “I beg your pardon,” the manager said, his face red with a patina of sweat across his balding brow. “There is an urgent message for you, sir.”

  He held out a piece of folded paper. Frederick took it with raised brows. The man stood by, as if waiting for a response.

  The note was brief. Certain assets in Seattle had recently been compromised. Mr. Philips had urgent information that needed Frederick’s immediate attention.

  It must be serious, he thought, for Mr. Philips to interrupt my night at the opera.

  “A thousand pardons,” he said, turning to the young woman. “It is my bad luck to be deprived of this fine opera and your delightful company this evening.”

  He turned to the manager. “Please see that she enjoys the rest of the performance and arrange a taxi to see her home.”

  “Assuredly, sir,” the man said, mopping his brow with an embroidered handkerchief.

  Was he nervous? Frederick was a patron of the theater. Was the man afraid he’d offended him by interrupting his date?

  “My good man,” Frederick said, taking him by the arm and turning to face the girl. “I entrust this beauty into your care, just as I entrust my elusive time to the wisdom of your artistic vision.”

  The manager blushed and a crooked smile crossed his face. “Thank you, sir. I do hope you can return to see the performance another evening.”

  Frederick shrugged. “C’est la vie.” He turned to the young beauty, took her empty hand, and raised it to his lips. “You will forgive me?”

  She giggled as his lips brushed the back of her hand. “I’m sure I can find a way,” she said.

  He straightened and gave her his most winning smile. “Another night, perhaps, we can pick up where we left off?” He let a bit of his fire flow into his words. Allowed the power to brush against her like a summer breeze.

  “Perhaps,” she said, blushing. “I would hate to think I wasted this dress.”

  “You are by far the most beautiful creature here this evening,” he said, his tone serious, his eyes filled with flame.

  She gasped, but the smile did not leave her lips. He leaned in, kissed her lightly on the cheek, and turned to the door.

  He would carry her scent the rest of the evening.

  Once he cleared the crowd, he called his driver to have the car brought around front. Then he checked his phone. A message from Mr. Philips. “Number one,” he said, and the phone began to ring.

  “It was a ritual murder,” Mr. Philips said.

  “Do you believe it is a message from her?” Frederick asked.

  “Nay, it was not she who must be obeyed. It was one of Jean-Paul’s surviving lackeys. There was no attempt to hide the evidence. It is as if he wanted you to know his identity.”

  “I see,” Frederick answered, walking toward the car.

  Jean-Paul had been such an unfortunate blight on his kind. There was no excuse for his level of depravity. It served the wretch right to be cut down by one of the humans. Of course, the precedent that set had unknown consequences. He shook his head. Not many dared to raise a hand against the Draconis Imperi. The great council had not been convened in over a hundred years. Would this Beauhall woman cause the members of the august body to slither from their dens?

  And what of the rabble, the self-styled Reavers who wished to eschew centuries of quiet control and rule openly? Jean-Paul had been rumored to have dealings with those wild ones. Were his remaining minions lashing out, rudderless, or were they in league with these pitiful excuses for dragonkind?

  The chauffeur stood with the door open, allowing Frederick to slide across the expensive leather before closing the door. “I will be in the office as soon as possible.”

  “My apologies on the opera,” Mr. Philips offered. “I know how much you hate to leave things unfinished.”

  “Not to worry. I will see it again.” And the girl, he thought to himself. He would definitely see her again.

  “Shall I try the witch?” Mr. Philips asked. “She has not returned the last several calls we have made. This is not a tactic we are used to from her.”

  “No,” Frederick said. “I’ll make the attempt. It will be better, if she answers.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  He hung up the phone and called a number he’d had memorized for years. “Where are you, my dear Qindra? Why do you no longer take my calls?”

  Eight

  Wednesday was running into late afternoon by the time I made it out to Broken Axel Farm. Jude Brown only had a couple of mules he used to plow with and didn’t see a need to do much more. He was a kindly old man, retired from Boeing while I was still in elementary school. He loved working the earth, and this way he didn’t have to answer to anyone’s deadlines but his own.

  This was my third stop of the day and the last. The air was crisp and clear, which meant cold in the Pacific Northwest.

  The mules stood steaming in the paddock. I was writing out the day’s receipt while Mr. Brown rambled on about everything from the weather to local crime.

  “Damn shame, I was telling Buster over at the Grange,” he said. “Never knew why anyone would want to go killing young girls like that.”

  I stopped writing and looked up. “Who’s been killed?”

  He laughed. “You young folk don’t pay attention enough. I was telling you how somebody killed a couple of party-time girls up in Vancouver and a barista from over in Redmond. Young girls, all of ’em. Damn shame.”

  I finished the invoice and handed it to him. “Serial killer, you figure?”

  Jude Brown nodded once and spat onto the ground by his pickup truck. “Real hoodoo, there. Nancy, up at Pete’s Alehouse, said she had a sister that lived in Surrey. She claimed the girls were strippers, ran with a bad crowd. But the girl from Redmond was going to college, had a boyfriend, was making her own way.”

  I blew into my hands, my breath steaming. The cold still hurt my right hand from where I’d gotten so burned by the dragon fire. It felt like there were bands of steel biting into the hand when I held the tongs or pick
ed up something.

  “After the mess down at Green River, I’d have hoped we were through with all that nonsense,” he said, taking out his checkbook.

  “Did they say where the barista worked?” I asked while he wrote out the check.

  “Got something about it in my truck. Hang on.” He handed me the check and walked around to the passenger side, pulled out a newspaper, and walked back. “Some place called the Monkey Shines.”

  I gasped like someone had punched me. I took the paper from him, and he leaned over, pointing out the small article.

  Camille Preston, 22, was found murdered in her apartment on Tuesday. Her parents were not available for comment. Redmond police are not releasing much information, but the young woman’s boyfriend claims it was a ritual murder.

  “It was awful,” he said, his eyes red from crying. “She lay in the middle of a double circle with all kinds of markings around the edge. The candles around the circle were still burning and she was warm.” He paused, coughing. “They cut out her heart. I don’t know if I’ll ever sleep again. They took her eyes,” he said before breaking down and crying again.

  The coroner has not released a report at this time.

  “Jesus,” I breathed, handing Mr. Brown back his paper. “I knew her.”

  “Is that right,” Jude Brown said. “I’m sorry to be the one to bring you such bad news then.”

  “I bought coffee from there almost every day,” I said. Dear god. She was cute, made it a point of remembering the regulars. Once she gave me an extra cruller when I was having a bad day.

  I sat on the bumper of the pickup truck and massaged my right hand. Across the field, two crows landed and began berating the mules, who just turned away.

  “Life is a bitch,” he said. “Ain’t no two ways about it.”

  “You got that right,” I said, standing. I walked over to the fence, leaned on the rail, and watched the two crows squawking and prancing along the opposite rail.

  I bet it was the necromancer, Justin. He was a flunky of the dead dragon, Jean-Paul.

  Why murder Camille? And who were the girls in Vancouver?

  “Cold coming,” Mr. Brown said. “Almanac says we’re going to have a bad winter.”

  I could feel it down in my bones. Bad winter was right. But I’m not too sure how much of it was the weather. I needed to start tracking Justin down, stop him from killing again. I just knew it was him.

  The crows watched me, cocking their heads from side to side.

  “My old granddad used to say when you saw two crows like that, make sure you aren’t saying anything against the gods. They report back to them, you know.” He laughed as he said it, but the crows were silent, staring at me.

  “Yes,” I said, keeping them in my sight. “I’m sure if Odin or one of the elder gods wanted to hear what I was thinking, they’d show up and ask.”

  Jude Brown guffawed at that and trundled back to his house. The crows lit into the sky, squawking and swearing in their crow language.

  “Where is he?” I asked them as they flew off. “Where does the old man hide these days?”

  Nine

  Katie met me in town for dinner. I needed to stop at the Doc Martens store and replace my boots, finally. Hitting three farms in one day made for a lucrative paycheck, and, with no one to split it with, I felt like I could splurge on new boots.

  They’re not like a new car, but they are damn expensive. And, man, I missed my Docs. Hell, I should figure out a way to have Bub pay for them, the pisher. Seeing how the last pair was ruined by his teeth. Of course, I did step on his head and banish him to the hidey place where he goes when he gets killed.

  He always comes back, though. And I’d grown to like the biter.

  We got bento, which Katie loved, and I drank a couple hits of saki. Rice wine was not as good as beer, but it was a treat—a sometimes food, as my ma would say.

  I explained about the killings and how Mr. Brown thought they were related to the killings in Vancouver.

  “You might want to check with Rolph,” she suggested. “Ask him if he can get any information on the two girls killed up there. See if they had their hearts and eyes taken out as well.”

  Rolph was my dwarf friend who lived in Surrey. “Yeah, good idea,” I agreed. “But that’s three young women in the last week, week and a half. Shouldn’t the FBI or someone be investigating this?”

  “This isn’t television,” Katie said, smiling. “I’m sure they’ll investigate it locally.”

  “Creeps me out,” I said, polishing off my steamed green beans. “Like someone walked across my grave or something.”

  Katie watched me closely, seeing if I’d freak out, I suppose.

  I’d been living with Katie for the better part of the month. Most of my stuff was still at my apartment, but I was basically letting Julie, my old blacksmith master, take over my lease. Didn’t bother to tell the landlord, but what they don’t know, etcetera.

  “We should discuss this with Jimmy,” she said. “He called me, by the way. He, Stuart, and Gunther have broken some code that my father left him.”

  I watched her for anger when she said those words. She was pretty bent at Jim for holding back on information, especially when it came to their parents.

  “They have this ring mentioned in the code and they think it’s a key to something. Well, Stuart thinks it’s a key. Gunther thinks it’s something that we are supposed to protect.”

  “What’s Jimmy think?”

  She smiled, scooping up a tuna roll with her chopsticks and dunking it in a small dish of soy and wasabi. “He tried it on.”

  “Holy crap. Anything happen?”

  “Nope. Gunther thinks it’s girl magic. They want you and me to stop by, look at the ring. See if we spot anything they’re missing.”

  “Girl magic? Seriously?” I shook my head.

  “Well, he didn’t put it exactly that way, but something in the coded message made him believe the ring was made for a woman. Something about sympathetic vibrations.”

  So, we wrapped up dinner and trundled down the block to the Doc Martens store. For the longest time, the only Doc Martens storefront in the United States was in Portland, and I’m not likely to go to Portland, voluntarily, ever again. Just because I killed the dragon in Vancouver does not mean I want to mess with the one in Portland. And I’m pretty sure he can smell me.

  The guy who found the boots I wanted in my size was stunning. Even Katie thought he was a hottie. We chatted a bit, and he told us he was from Redondo Beach down in LA. He’d only come up here because of his girlfriend, and she’d dumped him.

  Seattle is a happening town. He should have no trouble finding someone else, especially with shoulders like a linebacker and wavy, blond hair halfway down to his ass. And, he was funny, too.

  We were out on the sidewalk when I realized I wanted a second pair of shoestrings for the boots. I’m hell on footwear, and I didn’t want to come back right away. As I was fishing out some gaudy colors, pink, turquoise, and purple, I heard our boy in the back, singing along with the radio. Anna Nalick isn’t my cup of meat, but the man had a damn fine voice.

  Ten

  Trisha pulled into the strip mall over in Lynnwood and looked into the mirror, frowning. Her hair was too short and the scars too vivid for her to be comfortable. Deidre had told her she looked just fine, but she could feel the way the scars crossed her body. How the swords of the trolls had cut her in half a year ago and how she felt like a scarecrow.

  She took a deep, shuddering breath and opened the car door. Once she’d gotten out of the hospital, she’d moved to Black Briar and hadn’t left. This was the first time she’d as much as stepped off the property, but she needed a break. All the drilling with her squad and the babies and all the tension with the higher-ups since Katie had bailed on the crew had her exhausted, on edge.

  Deidre was the one who suggested she go into town, buy a few things for Frick and Frack, maybe pick up something for herself. She was on
salary at the farm, so she had money. What she didn’t have much of was nerve.

  Frick and Frack were not petite children, so she worked her way through the used baby gear store, scoring a bunch of clothes and some toys she hoped they would love.

  Once she had the loot in her car, she noticed the big bookstore across the street. They had a coffee shop, the sign said, a bakery, and miles and miles of books.

  She hadn’t read a book in a long time. Maybe she needed something to distract her when the kids were sleeping. Something to wile away the long hours of darkness.

  She crossed the parking lot, dodged the few slow-moving cars on the road, and jogged into the bookstore.

  First thing she did was get a giant hot chocolate and a slice of cheesecake. They were heavenly. She sat at a table near the back of the coffee shop, flipped through a magazine someone had left on the table, and indulged in dairy, chocolate, and sugar overload.

  Across the shop, where the bookstore opened up, she noticed a gorgeous Latino guy in a nice suit browsing the magazine racks. Once she thought he was looking at her, but she dismissed it right away.

  Unless he was wondering why a freak like her had bothered to go out into public. More likely she was imagining it.

  She finished her treats and walked in among the books. First, she browsed the baby section, but the three pregnant couples there just pissed her off. They were such sheeple, chattering their magpie bullshit while killing machines like sixteen foot giants roamed the streets, invaded farms, killed lovers.

  She walked past the baby section, head down. She could feel the heat rising as the anger flashed through her. Her stomach started to feel heavy, like the hot chocolate was turning or something. She paused in the history section to catch her breath, calm her nerves. None of these people was staring at her, none of them.

  She turned around and saw the hot guy from earlier looking at her, smiling. The smile reached her lips before she could stop it, but it was quickly followed by dread. She ducked her head again, dodged up two rows, and watched as the man started walking up the main aisle toward the front. He’d walk right by her.