by Kira Brady
“Quiet, please!” Jameson ordered.
“Gas lighting is a waste of time until we address the direct threat,” she continued. Her lips clamped around each word, but they slipped out anyway. “Wraith attacks have tripled in the last week. Hungry, weakened humans are easy prey for possession. And also to prevent weakened humans, the soul-suckers should be ki—”
“Stop,” Leif ordered before she could rally the mob in a direction he most firmly did not want to return to. “Stop. Thank you. You’re correct. Safety is more important than power, but wraiths fear the light. The two tasks go hand in hand.”
She glared at him with both parts hate and fear. Ye gods, it cut him. This hatred borne of prejudice he had little control over, but he never wanted to inspire fear in his dependents. He would never be a leader like his father or brother. Fear was not something he would seek out. She made him want to jump out of his chair and apologize, but he didn’t know what for. For not being able to solve all the world’s problems? For “sucking souls,” as she so unflatteringly put it? For existing?
Her dark eyes flashed silver.
Leif caught his breath. It might have been a trick of the light.
But the mob swallowed her up in the next instant, and Marks reclaimed his attention. “The girl has a point. What we really need is protection against your kind.”
“Yes!” Admiral Jameson sat back in his chair. “Finally. What can we do to protect our people from creatures like you? I don’t know about this soul stuff, but I’ve seen what happens to a man after you do your kiss-of-death thing. It isn’t right, it isn’t safe, and, damn it, you should be stopped!”
Leif ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “And if I designed something like that, then could we stop this blasted waste of time?” He heard Zetian suck in a breath, but he was too tired to care. He’d botched this meeting, and he might as well continue.
Corbette, who’d been quiet all this time, gave a slippery smile. “It would be a show of goodwill.”
“Fine.” Forget wraiths, aptrgangr, and demon men—Leif was the monster here. The world might have turned upside down, but some things never changed. “Are we done?”
“Go.” Admiral Jameson dismissed him. “But the council will be watching you.”
Leif stood. “Good day, gentlemen, ladies.” He strode to the council doors, and the crowd parted to get out of his way. The hall was empty. He concentrated on the malachite ring and reached out along the invisible tether that connected him to the blood slave. It pointed toward the stairwell. “Mademoiselle?” he called out. His unnatural hearing caught the slight sound of a door closing, and he ran to the stairwell, following the faint scent of rose petals. The need to find her drove him. He told himself it was because her eyes had flashed silver, and he had questions. A purely scientific inquiry. Except his pursuit of science burned with a cold flame.
This need burned hotter.
Leif opened the door onto a wide, circular staircase that was open in the middle. He peered over the banister and caught a glimpse of a dark hooded figure five floors below. Nothing else moved in the stairwell, so he threw his legs over and jumped.
Air swooshed past him. One flight passed. Two. Three more in close succession.
Bone and sinew shot out of his back, sending the sound of ripping fabric echoing in the tower. His membranous wings unfurled and caught the air, halting his free fall. He beat them once, twice, before dropping to his feet on the stairs below the woman.
Who scrambled backward like her feet were on fire. She pressed her back against the wall as if she could tumble through it to escape. The whites of her eyes showed, reminding him of a little black mouse in the paws of a cat.
She was terrified.
“Excuse me.” He pulled his wings back into himself. He couldn’t do much to repair the ripped suit. “I was under the impression you were familiar with my kind.”
She said nothing, but he caught the glint of light off the knife in her hand.
“I need to ask you some questions. Tell me—” He stopped himself. “Please. Please tell me what you know about aptrgangr. About wraiths. Did you know your eyes flash silver?”
“Pah-lease,” she mocked. Spinning, she would have run back up the stairs if he hadn’t caught her by the hood of her jacket. She tried to knife him. He was faster. Defending himself, he grabbed her and pinned her arms so she couldn’t move. So small compared to him, but surprisingly strong. Her loose black clothes hid muscle. The top of her head barely hit his sternum. He remembered the spark he had seen in her eyes in the council chamber. Her spirit called to him, heady and filling. He barely felt her struggle in his arms.
Leif hardly knew where he was, or what his body was doing, before he felt her lips beneath his. They were soft and so very sweet. She tasted of cardamom, like glögg at Yuletide, reminding him of warm fires and happier times.
He couldn’t help himself. He dipped his tongue between those lips, seeking more, seeking deeper penetration and a fuller taste of her spirit.
Pain lanced through his tongue. He swore and pulled back. The metallic taste of blood spread through his mouth. The minx had bit him.
She scuttled back out of his reach. “Stay the fuck away from me.” The knife shook as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, hard. She spit on the stairs. The bit of blood and saliva sizzled when it hit the worn wood.
With effort, he reined in the baser part of his being. What was wrong with him? He’d practically raped her soul in a stairwell. If he wanted to prove her fears correct, there was no better way to go about it. “Forgive me. I don’t know what came over me—”
She laughed. It was a grim sound. “I know your kind. You’re all the same.”
“That is patently untrue.” Though his actions a moment ago hardly supported that statement. He knew perfectly well that his brethren weren’t in accord on the need for consent, but he had always held himself to a higher standard. This caveman routine was beneath him. “But I suddenly understand the need for chaperones. Instinct, in the face of a beautiful woman, turns a man into a flaming idiot.”
“Fuck off.”
“I only wanted to talk to you.”
She snorted. “I know what you wanted.”
“No, really. I—”
“Save your lies for the council.”
Wasn’t that a damning indictment of his honor and professional conduct? “Please. Let’s start over. I’ll introduce myself properly, will that do?”
“I don’t give a—”
“Leif,” he said over her. “Leif Asgard. Younger brother to your former—ah.” He scrambled to find something reassuring. Announcing he now held her slave bond wasn’t the correct way of going about it. “I’m a scientist. With your silver eyes, you could be a Shadow Walker. Am I right?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She tried to inch past him in the stairwell without touching him. Stubborn woman. He admired her spirit. She might be scared, but she wouldn’t be cowed.
Still, he needed her to cooperate. She’d sabotaged his session in the council, and he was still mad. Whether he liked it or not, they were tied together. He had stayed out of her way for the last six months—he’d avoided all the blood slaves since he’d inherited that blasted ring—and things had been going swimmingly. Now was not the time for her to muck things up.
The dragon in him disagreed. He growled at the thought of letting her go now that he’d had a taste of her. But that was his baser self talking, and Leif ruthlessly tamped it down. The girl seemed to want to bite any hand that reached for her, even one given in aid or kindness. Tiamat damn him, but he wanted to reach for her anyway. He could still feel the heat of her lips, still taste her sweetness on his tongue.
She caught sight of his face and took a hasty step back.
Bloody hell. He shut his eyes quickly and prayed for self-restraint. Why would this skinny, pugnacious girl have such an effect on him? It must have been too long since he had last fed. He would have to
resolve that issue immediately. This poor woman seemed to have enough on her plate without being ravaged by his demonic hunger. “I’m really not a bad sort,” he said softly.
“Look, if you’re so good, why don’t you donate your blood to ward houses? Runes could keep those”—she swallowed—“things outside. People would be able to tell if their friends and loved ones had been taken. Possessed bodies wouldn’t be able to pass over the threshold.”
“You know runes?” he asked. “What kind of runes? Old Norse or Druidic? Who taught you? Which would you—”
She scowled. “Forget it.”
“Would a human be able to conjure enough magic to use a rune? Perhaps a Shadow Walker could . . .” The puzzle hovered in front of him, so striking in his mind that he barely noticed his informant slipping away.
Until she tried to stab him in the balls on the way past.
He caught her arm a hairbreadth away from turning him into a eunuch. Her wrist twisted in his grip, and she dropped the knife. It clattered to the side. He overbalanced, and they fell, locked together, crashing down the oak stairs. He tried, despite the fact that this woman had attempted to castrate him, to protect her delicate skull from cracking on the hard ground. His large body curled around her so that he took the brunt of the impact.
Pain blossomed along his back and arms, shooting up his spine and along his limbs with red florets of blood beneath the skin. In a human those flowers would metamorphose into ugly purple bruises, but his Drekar blood sparked into action, healing the broken blood vessels and reinforcing the torn skin.
The woman moaned when they hit the ground. Leif lay still, praying the world would stop spinning sometime soon. He didn’t let go of her. He couldn’t. His muscles refused to work. His brain was foggy from being hit, repeatedly, on each step on the way down.
Beneath the fog, his body knew, instinctively, that she belonged there in his embrace. She felt good in his arms. She felt right. Her lithe body was soft and warm. He buried his face in her blue-black hair and breathed in her fragrance hungrily. She must use a rose-petal shampoo. He wanted to run his tongue over her skin.
His heart drummed loudly in his ears, drowning out all logic, all self-control.
Forget all pretense of civilization. Throw out all notions of decency. At this moment he wanted to spirit her away to a mountain cave where he could hoard her as treasure all for himself, like the dragons of old had done.
If he chose to do so, no one and nothing would stand in his way. He was a creature of power. Might made right. Besides, she had fought him and lost. By the ancient laws, she owed him forfeit.
She belonged to him.
Slowly, his head cleared and he realized she was whimpering in his arms.
Devil take him. This attraction was one-sided.
“Who hurt you?” It was obvious someone had. Someone like him, apparently. Leif wanted to cut out the bastard’s heart and skewer his head on a pike.
“You’re hurting me.”
He was indeed. “I apologize.” Again.
Leif grasped the banister and pulled both of them from the ground. He set her gently away from him. Digging in his pocket, he pulled out a card. “I truly would like to ask you a few questions in the name of scientific research. I also have information about the Shadow Walkers, should you be interested.” He watched her face, but it was carefully blank. He couldn’t tell if she knew who or what she was, or might be willing to answer some questions for answers of her own.
She didn’t take the card.
“Please?”
“You could order me,” she whispered. “I have no choice.”
“But I won’t,” Leif said. So she knew he now held her slave bond. How could he assure her that he wouldn’t abuse it? She would never believe that he sought a way to free them both.
“So polite now, huh?” She laughed darkly.
“I . . . ah . . .” Last time he checked accosting a woman twice in a public stairwell wasn’t considered polite. He reached out, and she flinched. He carefully tucked his card in the pocket of her sweatshirt, and brushed a strand of sleek hair back behind her ear.
He wanted to cup her smooth cheek and pull her close for another taste of those luscious sweet lips.
But it was not to be.
“Take care of yourself, Walker.” Leif stepped away slowly, not giving her his back in case she had another knife, but not moving as if he worried for his own physical safety.
He didn’t. His emotional safety was another matter entirely. This young woman had much too strong a pull on his baser instincts. Like the moon’s call to a werewolf, she brought out in him something he didn’t recognize. Something monstrous.
Leif couldn’t afford to become a raving lunatic. His experiments were too close to breakthrough. His people needed him. It was the only value of his damned soul. To betray his people would be unforgivable, for any reason.
“My name is Grace,” she said softly, before he stepped through the door.
“Grace,” he repeated.
The irony was not lost on him.
Chapter 2
Grace wiped volcanic ash off the thighbone with her sleeve and raised her hammer again. “Shine that closer, would you?”
Elsie obliged, moving the lantern so that it illuminated the cool ivory bone and Grace’s silver needles. The little bells around her wrist jingled with the motion, warning off spirits. Above them, the sky was black with fifteen thousand crows returning to their roost on Queen Anne.
Grace concentrated on carving the rune—Eihwaz for protection, Thurisaz for defense—and not on the debacle of that morning. Her outburst in the council chamber in front of her new owner. He had forced her to speak. Even Norgard—the bastard—hadn’t shamed her so publicly. She’d tried to stab Asgard. Antagonized him. Called him a liar. Was she trying to get herself killed? She was usually so much smarter than that, but the new Regent had thrown her off. It wasn’t his looks; they were just as unbearably handsome as all Drekar. Maybe it was his ridiculous manner, like she’d insulted his honor. Ha. Drekar didn’t have honor.
The cold seeped into her exposed fingers, and she tightened her grip on the silver needle and hammer. She had a reputation for solid spell work, and she didn’t want to mess this up. A whole house load of Ishtar’s Maidens, including the one chattering over her shoulder, was counting on her.
“So then I says to him, ‘That position will cost you double,’ and he pays it!” Elsie said. “How a miner scrounged up silver like that, well, something isn’t right. Not in the mine, he didn’t. And him with the coal dust still lining his nails. Then he leaves me with a pamphlet from that new church they’re building out at sea. You know, the white one with the huge watchtower?”
“Uh-huh,” Grace said. She swore as her hand slipped. After three hours carving in the cold, they were starting to shake.
Elsie swung the light. “Like I want to be preached at by the likes of him!” She had once been a good girl from a good family, but even a good girl had to eat. The Houses of Ishtar paid well, and most girls stayed on past their indenture. Protection. Shelter. Food. A little luxury in the better Houses. It was more than most had in Seattle’s post-Unraveling economy. It was a good life, if you didn’t mind the work.
Grace didn’t judge Elsie, but she’d rather risk the mines herself. Luckily, she didn’t have to make that choice. She’d been a killer long before the Gates that separated the Land of the Living and the Land of the Dead had fallen. During the Unraveling, cities had crumbled into the sea, Mount Rainier had erupted, countless people had died, and an army of wraiths had escaped into the living world. The wraiths preyed on the survivors and animated the dead. People would pay good money for protection. She’d already cut her blood debt in half. Only five hundred dollars remained between her and freedom.
The golden bands around her upper arms burned slightly, a reminder of the cost of her skills. Sven Norgard could have tossed her in a brothel instead of teaching her to fight. She supposed she had
been lucky.
She hoped he rotted in hell.
“Grace? Reaper, are you listening to me?” Elsie moved the parasol so that the ash fell on Grace’s work.
“Not if you call me that, I’m not.” Grace rose from her crouch and rubbed the kink out of her neck. Even standing, she was a good deal shorter than Elsie, especially with the Maiden’s platform slippers. Grace almost wished her boots had a heel, but then she couldn’t run. Running was key. “Look, do you think if I—”
A yell from the street corner interrupted her. A moment later, a man ran into the illumination of the torches. Young and strong, he was limping, clutching his left arm with his right hand, and bleeding heavily from a gash across his skull. “Sam’s dead!” Panic laced his voice. “They got . . . they got him. I couldn’t, God!” He grabbed the bone fence and collapsed, half turning so he could see what was coming after him.
“It’s Shelton. Nancy’s best patron.” Elsie shifted her weight from slipper to slipper, nervously glancing down the street, torn between her duty to the customer and fear of leaving the shelter of the wards. She stayed inside—smart girl. “I should get the Priestess.”
“Sure.” Grace tucked her tools into the pockets of her leather corset and zipped her hoodie back up. She pulled her bone knife from its sheath strapped to her thigh. “That’s my cue.”
The problem with wraiths was that they adapted. Unlike ghosts, which haunted their former territory wishing they could touch and taste and smell again, wraiths aggressively sought to regain their living senses. That meant acquiring a body, preferably a still mostly living body. Wraiths sought out weak or injured individuals, pushed their souls aside, and climbed in the driver’s seat. Wraiths became aptrgangr, and aptrgangr crushed their victims with their superhuman strength and ate their flesh.
