by Kira Brady
He clapped slowly. “Bravo, Zetian. You should have been in show business. All I need is a fur cape and a bloody broadsword.”
“You are too kind, my lord. Hold on to that image while you meet these demands.”
“Right. So you want me to laugh then.” He settled into the damned chair and called the first petitioner.
There were quite a few requests for basic necessities: food and water, help rebuilding shelters in the Drekar-controlled territory from Ballard east to the Gas Works, and arms for the merchants along Ballard Avenue to fend off looters and hungry citizens. Leif told Zetian to take care of it. He hadn’t realized how many people depended on him. The citizens of Ballard still looked to the Regent for safety and leadership. Not the Drekar as much—they would happily seize power for themselves—but the very human descendants of those Scandinavian immigrants that Sven had brought with him when he had carved out his kingdom by Puget Sound.
Still, Leif didn’t understand why Zetian couldn’t handle these requests by herself. Finally Grettir brought up Snorri Longren, and it became apparent that Longren, a Dreki who was older than dirt, wouldn’t listen to anyone but the Regent.
“Try to think like your brother,” Zetian hissed low before the Dreki climbed to Leif’s place on the hill. “He’s hoarding resources for himself that rightfully belong to you. He flirts with madness. You must hold him to the edge, or end him. It is your duty.”
Leif allowed a small shiver of recognition before he steeled his shoulders. Immortality came with a price. He had been searching for a cure to the madness that plagued them, but he hadn’t found one yet. All the more reason for Zetian to rule, so that Leif could tend his experiments.
“I can’t share what I don’t have,” Longren said. With red hair to match his infamous temper, gold rings on all his fingers, and a green suit to set off his green eyes, many people took him for an Irishman. The oldest Dreki among them, he’d pillaged the world over before Sven had convinced him to settle on the new frontier. Leif had no doubt that his knowledge was worth more than all his buried resources combined, if only madness hadn’t warped the data in his brain.
Leif tuned out most of Longren’s apologetic response to how he would like to use his personal resources and fortune to help rebuild the city, if only he could. Drekar couldn’t lie, but they could obfuscate like crazy. Leif had better things to do with his time. He finally cut him off. “Are you telling me that you don’t have two tons of fresh water tanks buried somewhere in North Bend?” Longren’s eyes widened a fraction. Leif showed his teeth. He might have left politics to Sven all these years, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have claws of his own.
“How can I know what remains after the disaster?” Longren asked.
“You can fly out there and dig it up. Christ, man, do I have to do everything myself?”
Drekar didn’t share. They didn’t cooperate with Kivati. They didn’t help humans out of the goodness of their own hearts. Leif wondered how his brother had built his empire. Norgard had manipulated the hell out of his people, forcing them to work together for his own ends. Surely that was an accomplishment in and of itself.
Zetian brushed her jet-black hair behind her ear in a signal to cut off this interview. He could hardly keep all her signals straight.
“Longren,” Leif said, “I expect a report of your assets in, oh, three days. At that time, I will decide how best you can be of use to this operation. You will not leave the territory. You will arrive in the Great Hall to give your accounting in person to me. I will have your word on the matter.”
Longren’s jaw tightened. “I am old, Regent. The blackened sky is no place for these weary bones.” Leif’s stomach clenched. “I would ask you a question in private.”
“No.”
“But—”
Leif stood. “The answer is no. You will find me those resources. You will stay here where I can use you.” Sven had always thought the older ones weak, but Leif knew they had a great deal to teach. How much wisdom had Longren collected in his four centuries? How much art, language, and culture could he recount to rewrite old history books that had been lost in the fire? Leif didn’t want to be in charge of a dying people. He wouldn’t let them choose to give up. “Go. I’m done here.”
Longren left. There were still more petitioners, but Zetian saw the look on Leif’s face and knew better than to push. She ordered Grettir and Joramund to dismiss them.
“You did well, my lord,” she said.
“I hate this.”
“But you did it anyway. That is the measure of a ruler; the willingness to do what is necessary, no matter the circumstance, no matter the pain. They do not respect love, only fear.”
The Drekar had had that motto pinned before Machiavelli was a twinkle in his ancestors’ eye. They tended their human flocks, provided for their meals, but always used fear to bait the hook. Now things were changing. Humans had learned of their existence and were seduced by their power. Every day some idiot landed at his doorstep begging to be made immoral in exchange for his soul. It didn’t work that way, of course, but someone had been spreading rumors.
“Tell me about Sven’s slaves,” he said. He hadn’t wanted to ask, but it occurred to him that Zetian might know more.
She rolled her task list, her long red nails scratching against the thick vellum. “He collected them since the great age,” she said, speaking of the Viking Age when Sven had come into manhood. “It was tradition. I believe Fafnir taught him, or if he didn’t, I don’t know.”
“There are more?”
“Slaves were always taken in the raids.”
“But the blood slaves. Do you know the magic that binds them?”
She hesitated. A crow passed overhead—Corbette’s spy. She waited for it to fly out of earshot. “Free will.”
“A sacrifice?” He mused over it. There was power in sacrifice: blood, life, virginity. Free will was a new one to him, but he saw how it could be used. Giving up one’s persona. Blind obedience. “And how is it such a secret?”
“He took street kids. No one noticed them missing, because they didn’t exist to begin with. Scrappy fighters, the lot of them. He educated them. Gave them a home. Family. He gave them their every desire. A chance to be rich on their own. A chance for revenge.”
“So how do I free them?”
She finished rolling the list and tied a red satin ribbon around it. “They earn their freedom once their promised service is fulfilled.”
“And how are those terms decided?” He wondered how much Grace still owed.
“I don’t know. I don’t know!” Zetian threw her hands up, sending her breasts swaying in their silk wrappings. “And I don’t care. Use them, abandon them—it’s all the same to me. But you’re not doing them any favors by keeping them home in bubble wrap. You’re only prolonging their enslavement.”
“But—” He broke off when he spotted a black dragon with silver-tipped scales hurtling toward them from the east. “Thorsson.”
The dragon roared.
“Something is wrong,” Leif said.
As the dragon neared the Gas Works, shouts rose from the workers. Leif knew without looking that signs against the evil eye were going up. Otherwise brave men would make the sign of the cross or flash the pagan symbols tattooed on the tips of their fingers. More would clutch the gris-gris most wore beneath their shirts to ward off evil. Stupid. Irrational. But Leif shouldn’t blame them; the dragon roaring toward the park was a terrible thing to behold. Even he could see it. The size alone dwarfed a man. The razor-sharp claws and three rows of jagged teeth were the stuff of nightmares. Spikes ran along the dragon’s spine from his head to his tail, and steam trickled from between his jaws.
Still, it irked that they feared Drekar when they were under Leif’s protection. And their silly charms wouldn’t ward off a dragon, even if they were true magic, which few were. Fake shamans and counterfeit wards were more plentiful than rats along the Interurban.
The dr
agon tacked, dropping from the higher air current, flapping his huge membranous wings as he landed agile as a bat on the hillside. Leif was struck by the majesty of the great beast. The beauty. He would never forget the first time he’d seen a dragon flying out over the North Sea. Until Sven, Leif had only ever seen his own reflection in the lake behind his grandfather’s fields. He’d agreed wholeheartedly with his newfound brother: it was a crime to hide something so beautiful away in the shadows.
Thorsson Turned. The Aether rippled over him like a sunbeam bouncing off the morning tide. A flash, and then Thorsson was on his knees, his back dripping with sweat, his chest heaving from his hurried flight.
“What happened, Thorsson?” Leif asked.
“Where is the coal?” Zetian demanded.
Thorsson raised his head. His lip curled back from his teeth. “The Thunderbird lost it. Kingu has returned.”
It was late afternoon by the time Grace headed to the House of Ishtar to get paid. She hadn’t gotten into a fight with the walking dead since the alley where Asgard had found her, which, considering her luck with aptrgangr, was eerie. She couldn’t ignore the itch at the back of her neck. Her black eye from the human fight had turned into a real beauty. As she walked from her shop in Flesh Alley, she made a point to pull down the broadsheets that had been tacked to old electric poles through downtown. She skimmed a couple. Oscar had been right: Corbette had closed Queen Anne to outsiders. He was marshaling his troops, but no one knew his target.
She found the House of Ishtar in ruins. Overturned furniture and broken windows. Shredded drapes and smashed china. Maidens swept the floors and hammered boards over the empty windowpanes. A pile of trash in the front yard burned merrily. What on earth? Grace slipped in the back door and looked for Elsie.
Ianna, High Priestess of Ishtar, breezed into the receiving room, head high, power dripping from every jeweled finger. Not an inch of skin showed beneath her chin, but the clinging silk enumerated every curve. Her blond hair was pulled back in all manner of twists and braids, and still more jewels hung glittering in the candlelight. The sexual promise that was often in her warm voice and inviting eyes was gone.
She was all business, cracking the whip with a glance. “Ladies, please! I want this mess cleaned up, and I want it cleaned yesterday. We have not survived the mountains falling just to shut down over a little indoor windstorm.” She clapped her hands, then spotted Grace. Blood rushed to her face. “You!” She pointed her ruby-encrusted finger at Grace like a revolver. “You did this.”
“How could I—?”
“The fence, damn you. Your runes are lousy, good-for-nothing hocus-pocus!”
“Hey now, I didn’t have a chance to finish them—”
“You let the Kivati desecrate my temple!”
“Kivati?” Why would the Kivati attack the Drekar-owned House of Ishtar? She thought they had a truce. “Even if I had finished, the runes only keep out wraiths. There isn’t a keep-everything-out spell.”
“What did I pay you for, you little fool?”
Grace crossed her arms. This was so not her fault. “I can’t do anything against the Kivati, unless they’re dead.”
“Of course not! But this. This!” Ianna swept out a hand to encompass the general destruction. The china cabinets were smashed, tea sets scattered about in tiny porcelain fragments. The velvet drapes hung shredded from the dowels. The cold breeze blew through the empty leaded panes. Glass shattered. “This is all your fault. I’ll ruin you.”
Grace felt her stomach slip into her shoes. She had banked on finishing this job and getting a nice referral to the other houses for her work. There were all sorts of pretend shamans hiring themselves out with protection tricks, but none of them had her knowledge and expertise. This was something she could do that was constructive to buy her freedom. Not destructive. Not killing and death. “You hired me for two jobs,” she said. “I did the other.”
“Oh, yes.” The Priestess planted her fists on her generous hips. “Protecting us from the aptrgangr hoards.” Her voice rose again. “They would have been better than smashing my house!”
“I killed the aptrgangr for you,” Grace said mulishly. “There were more than you said there’d be.”
Ianna laughed. “You are not getting a penny from me.”
Grace could feel Elsie hovering around the corner out of sight. The Maidens were all industriously ignoring the scene like she’d never helped them out of a scrape. But it was her word against Ianna, and the High Priestess owned them. Grace pulled out her last card. “I’ll tell Asgard.”
The Priestess dipped into an exaggerated bow. “Be my guest. I’ll send him the bill for this. I hope he adds it to your debt.” She straightened. “Now get the hell out of my—Erik, darling!”
Grace turned and found the Regent’s insane right hand towering over her. How a man that thick could move so quietly, she had no idea. He’d always seemed more frost giant than dragon. Even in human form, his eyes were perpetually slit. He smiled, showing a mouthful of sharp, pointy teeth.
Grace tried not to back up.
“She hurt you?” He pointed to Grace’s bruised eye. “I can fix it.” His eyes changed, interest flickering in the inhuman depths. He let his gaze wander down.
“No, thanks.” She tried not to cover herself instinctively. Thorsson knew what Norgard had made of her. To be fair, she didn’t think the man’s opinion of her had changed; in his primitive testosterone-laden brain, all women were objects. She’d heard the Maidens he visited were paid extra for the privilege. Norgard hadn’t let him rough up the merchandise too much. He owned the Houses of Ishtar and liked his property alive and working. Norgard had leashed his crazy-ass henchman, but Norgard wasn’t here anymore.
Thorsson turned to the Priestess. “What happened to the House?”
“Thunderbirds,” the Priestess said, all obsequiousness. “They sent the wind.”
“But you didn’t see them,” Grace clarified. “Did you?”
Ianna’s lip pulled back from her teeth.
“Answer her questions,” Thorsson ordered. Since when did Thorsson back Grace up?
“Yes,” Ianna said. “Some showed up not a half hour later.”
“Kivati, here?” Grace asked. “Which House? East? West?”
“Does it matter?” Ianna looked to Thorsson. “They didn’t speak a word to anyone and left before I could demand answers.”
“But the Kivati wouldn’t attack a Drekar economic source,” Grace said. “We have a truce.”
“Truce.” Thorsson repeated. He ran the edge of his blade across his palm. A line of blood appeared. The cut closed in the next instant. Thorsson hadn’t been happy with the truce. He liked killing.
“Did you feel the air heat up?” Grace asked.
Ianna required a grunt from Thorsson before she answered the question. “No, a cold wind.”
“Kivati can manipulate the Aether, but they tend to heat up the molecules of air, not cool them down,” Grace said. “Ghosts are cold—”
“But what would a wraith want with the Maidens of Ishtar?” the Priestess snapped.
“Easy prey,” Thorsson said. He raised the point of his sword and mimicked jacking off. Orgasm was a moment of vulnerability, when mental shields were completely down. Wraiths could manipulate the physical world, but they couldn’t feel pleasure without a body, and they craved it. The patrons of the House would be in danger if the Maidens didn’t keep the place free of wraiths. But the bone fence hadn’t been finished.
The Priestess gave Grace a black look.
“I’m sorry, okay?” Grace said. “But it doesn’t answer the question: why here, why now? There have always been wraiths.”
“Not this many,” Ianna said. “And not this strong.”
Chapter 7
Grace tried to slip away from Thorsson, but he grabbed the back of her collar. He dangled her off the ground until her hood started to rip.
“Lemme go.”
“No.” He set h
er back on the ground and clamped his hand around her forearm, right below the gold band.
“Where are you taking me?” She hated the sweat that beaded her upper lip and armpits. Her heart pounded, and she knew he could hear it because he smiled.
“You like me? Eh, little girl?” He grinned to himself, and it was a mean look. She could easily imagine him burning and pillaging across the Baltic Sea and all the way to Moscow.
He dragged her along, his stride eating up three of hers. He was humming. She couldn’t decide if she was better off pretending to be docile or self-assured. He wasn’t going to be intimidated by her little knife, that was for sure.
After a few blocks she was panting for breath, and she realized something. He wasn’t just humming, this brainless muscle. He was humming Sondheim. Hello, little girl.
She tripped on the cracked street and would have fallen if he hadn’t trapped her arm. He swung her around the corner to where the Regent’s black carriage waited on the high street. Crap. Asgard was going to be pissed. Thorsson rapped on the door twice, yanked the handle open, and threw her in. So much for civility. She was surprised he bothered to knock. She landed on her hands and knees on the carriage floor, shiny black boots an inch from her nose and leather, oil, and the overwhelming scent of cinnamon and iron. She turned her head and found voluminous red skirts.
“My, my.” A woman’s amused voice came from somewhere up above. “Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been? Tell me, kitten, how do you manage to get tangled in my strings so often, hmm?”
“That will be quite enough, Zetian,” Asgard said. Grace winced. He pulled her off the floor and got a good look at her bruise. His nostrils flared. “Ishtar take you. What have you done now?” He touched the swelling edge of her eye, and she shied away. “My grandfather had a word for a girl like you: Trouble.”
