“Hello, Jim,” I said, keeping my tone friendly. “Fancy meeting you here.”
The shapeshifter who had spoken to me took off. Jim came close and patted Marigold’s neck.
“Long night?” he asked. His voice was melodious and smooth. He never sang, but you knew he could, and if he decided to do it, women would be hurling themselves into his path.
“You might say that.”
Jim was my partner from the days when I worked exclusively for the Mercenary Guild. Some merc gigs required more than one body, and Jim and I tackled them together, mostly because we couldn’t stomach working with anybody else. Jim was also alpha of the cat clan and the Pack’s chief of security. I’d seen him fight and I would rather take on a nest of pissed-off vipers any day.
“You should go home, Kate.” A sheen of faint green rolled over his eyes and vanished, his animal side coming to the surface for a moment.
“What happened here?”
“Pack business.”
The wolf on the left let out a short yelp. A female shapeshifter ran over to him and picked up something off the ground. I caught a glimpse of it before she stuffed the object into a bag. A human arm, severed at the elbow, still in a sleeve. We had just gone from code green seven to code green ten. Shapeshifter murder. Accidental deaths rarely resulted in detached limbs strewn across the intersection.
“Like I said, Pack business.” Jim glanced at me. “You know the law.”
The law said that the shapeshifters were an independent group, much like a Native American tribe, with the authority to govern itself. They made their own laws and they had a right to enforce them, as long as those laws didn’t affect nonshapeshifters. If the Pack didn’t want my help on this investigation, there wasn’t a lot I could do about it. “As an agent of the Order, I extend an offer of assistance to the Pack.”
“The Pack appreciates the Order’s offer of assistance. As of now, we decline. Go home, Kate,” Jim repeated. “You look worn-out.”
Translation: shoo, puny human. Big, mighty shapeshifters have no need of your silly investigative skills. “You squared this with the cops?”
Jim nodded.
I sighed, turned Marigold around, and headed home. Someone had died. I wouldn’t be the one to find out why. It irked me on some deep professional level. If it was anybody else but Jim, I would’ve pushed harder to see the body. But when Jim said no, he meant it. My pushing wouldn’t accomplish anything except straining relations between the Pack and the Order. Jim didn’t half-ass things, so his crew would be competent and efficient.
It still bothered me.
I would call the Paranormal Activity Division in the morning and see if any reports were filed. The paranormal cops wouldn’t tell me what was in the report, but at least I’d know if Jim had filed one. Not that I didn’t trust Jim, but it never hurt to check.
AN HOUR LATER I LEFT MARIGOLD IN A SMALL stable in the parking lot and climbed the stairs to my apartment. I had inherited the place from Greg, my guardian, who had served as knight-diviner with the Order. He had died six months ago. I missed him so much it hurt.
My front door was a sight like no other. I got in, locked the door, pulled off my noxious shoes, and dropped them in the corner. I would deal with them later. I unbuckled the leather harness that held Slayer, my saber, on my back, pulled the saber out, and put it by my bed. The apple pie beckoned. I dragged myself into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stared at an empty pie plate.
Had I eaten the pie? I didn’t remember finishing it. And if I had, I should’ve taken the empty plate out of the fridge.
The front door had shown no signs of forced entry. I did a quick inventory of the apartment. Nothing missing. Nothing out of place. Greg’s library with his artifacts and books looked completely undisturbed.
I must’ve finished the pie. Considering the insanity of the last forty-eight hours, I had probably just forgotten. Well, that sucked. I took the pie plate, washed it while murmuring curses under my breath, and put it in its place under the stove. I couldn’t have pie, but nobody could deny me my shower. I stripped off my clothes, shedding them on the way to the bathroom, crawled into the shower, and drowned the world in hot spray and rosemary soap.
I had just toweled off my hair when the phone rang.
I kicked the door open and stared at the phone, ringing its head off on the small night table by my bed. Nothing good ever happened to me because of phone calls. There was always somebody dead, dying, or making somebody else dead on the other line.
Ring-ring.
Ring-ring-ring.
Ring?
I sighed and picked it up. “Kate Daniels.”
“Hello, Kate,” said a familiar velvet voice. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
Saiman. Just about the last person I wanted to talk to.
Saiman had an encyclopedic knowledge of magic. He was also a shapeshifter—of sorts. I had done a job for him, back when I worked for the Mercenary Guild full-time, and he found me amusing. Because I entertained him, he offered me his services as a magic expert at a criminal discount. Unfortunately, the last time we had met was in the middle of the flare, atop a high-rise, where Saiman was dancing naked in the snow. With the largest erection I had ever seen on a human being. He didn’t want to let me off that roof either. I had to jump to get away from him.
I kept my voice civil. Kate Daniels, master of diplomacy. “I don’t want to speak to you. In fact, I don’t wish to continue our association at all.”
“That’s very unfortunate. However, I have something that might belong to you and I would like to return this item to your custody.”
What in the world? “Mail it to me.”
“I would but he would prove difficult to fit into an envelope.”
He? He wasn’t good.
“He refuses to speak, but perhaps I can describe him to you: about eighteen, dark, short hair, menacing scowl, large brown eyes. Quite attractive in a puppy way. Judging by the way the tapedum lucidum behind his retinas catches the light, he’s a shapeshifter. I’m guessing a wolf. You brought him with you during our last unfortunate encounter. I’m truly sorry about it, by the way.”
Derek. My one-time teenage werewolf sidekick. What the hell was he doing at Saiman’s apartment?
“Hold the phone to him, please.” I kept my voice even. “Derek, answer me so I know he isn’t bluffing. Are you hurt?”
“No.” Derek’s voice was laced with a growl. “I can handle this. Don’t come here. It isn’t safe.”
“It’s remarkable that he has so much concern for your welfare, provided that he’s the one sitting in a cage,” Saiman murmured. “You keep the most interesting friends, Kate.”
“Saiman?”
“Yes?”
“If you hurt him, I’ll have twenty shapeshifters in your apartment foaming at the mouth at your scent.”
“Don’t worry. I have no desire to bring the Pack’s wrath on my head. Your friend is unharmed and contained. I will, however, turn him over to proper authorities unless you come and pick him up by sunrise.”
“I’ll be there.”
Saiman’s voice held a slight mocking edge. “I’m looking forward to it.”
CHAPTER 2
I MADE IT BY 3:00 A.M.
Saiman occupied a suite on the fifteenth floor of the only high-rise still standing in Buckhead. Magic hated tall buildings—magic hated anything large and technologically complex, period—and gnawed them down to nubs of concrete and steelwork only four to five stories high. They jutted sadly here and there along Midtown, like decrepit obelisks of some long-forgotten civilization.
Formerly Lenox Pointe and now Champion Heights, Saiman’s building, which had been remodeled more times than I could count, was shielded by a complex spell, which tricked the magic into thinking the high-rise was a giant rock. During the magic waves, parts of the high-rise looked like a granite crag. During the flare, parts of it were a granite crag. But today, with the magic down, it looked like a
high-rise.
I had taken Betsi, my gasoline-guzzling Subaru, to save time. The magic had just fallen, and considering how weak this wave had been, the tech would likely stay on top for at least a few more hours. I parked Betsi’s battered, dented carcass next to slick vehicles that cost twice my year’s salary and then some, and headed up the concrete steps to the lobby armored in steel plates and bulletproof glass.
My foot caught on the edge of a step and I nearly took a dive. Great. Saiman was frighteningly intelligent and observant, always a bad combo for an adversary. I needed to be sharp. Instead I was so tired, my eyes required match-sticks to stay open. If I didn’t wake up fast, Derek could end the night wading through a sea of hurt.
When a shapeshifter hit puberty, he could go loup or go Code. Going loup meant surrendering yourself to the beast and rolling down the bumpy hill of homicide, cannibalism, and insanity, until you ran into teeth, blades, or a lot of silver bullets at the bottom. Going Code meant discipline, strict conditioning, and an iron will, and subjecting oneself to this lifestyle was the only way a shapeshifter could function in a human society. Going Code also meant joining a pack, where the hierarchy was absolute, with alphas burdened with vast power and heavy responsibility.
Atlanta’s Pack was arguably the biggest in the country. Only Alaska’s Ice Fury rivaled it for sheer numbers. Atlanta shapeshifters drew a lot of attention. The Pack was big on loyalty, accountability, chain of command, and honor. The Pack members never forgot that society at large perceived them as beasts, and they did everything in their power to project a low-key, law-abiding image. Punishment for unsanctioned criminal activity was immediate and brutal.
Getting caught breaking and entering into Saiman’s apartment would land Derek into scalding-hot water. Saiman had connections, and if he chose, he could create a lot of noise. The potential for the Pack to get a huge and very public black eye was significant. The Pack’s alphas, collectively known as the Pack Council, would be champing at the bit once they found out about the murder. Right now wasn’t a good time to piss them off any further. I needed to get Derek out of that apartment, fast, quiet, and with a minimum of fuss.
I made it to the lobby and knocked on the metal grate. Inside a guard leveled an AK-47 at me from behind his reinforced station in the center of the marble floor. I gave him my name and he buzzed me in—I was expected. How nice of Saiman.
The elevator brought me to the fifteenth floor and spat me out into a luxurious hallway lined with carpet that might have been thicker than my mattress. I crossed it to Saiman’s apartment, and the lock clicked open just as I reached out to ring the bell.
The door opened, revealing Saiman. He wore his neutral form, the one he usually put on for my benefit: a bald man of average height and slight build, wearing white sweats. His lightly tanned face was symmetrical, handsome even, strictly speaking, but devoid of any attitude. Being face-to-face with him was similar to looking into an opaque, slightly reflective surface: he enjoyed mimicking the mannerisms of his conversation partners, knowing it unnerved them.
His eyes, on the other hand, were as remarkable as his expression was bland: dark and backlit with an agile intellect. Right now the eyes sparkled with amusement. Enjoy it while it lasts, Saiman. I brought my sword.
“Kate, what a pleasure to see you.”
Can’t say likewise. “Derek?”
“Please, come in.”
I entered the apartment, a carefully designed, monochromatic environment of ultramodern lines, curves, and plush white cushions. Even the loup cage, which contained Derek at the far wall, matched the gleaming steel and glass of the coffee table and lamp fixtures.
Derek saw me. He didn’t stir, didn’t say anything, but his gaze fastened on to me and wouldn’t let go.
I walked over to the cage and looked at him. In one piece. “Are you hurt?”
“No. You shouldn’t have come. I can handle this.”
Obviously I was missing the whole picture. Any minute now he would leap up, wrench the two-inch silver alloy bars apart despite the fact that silver was toxic to shapeshifters, and heroically kick Saiman’s ass. Any minute now. Any minute.
I sighed. Fate, deliver me from the bravery of adolescent idiots.
“Kate, please sit. Would you like something to drink?” Saiman migrated to the bar.
“Water, please.”
I slid Slayer out of its sheath on my back. The saber caught the light of the electric lamps, its pale opaque blade long and slender. Saiman glanced at me from the bar. Have you met my sword, Saiman? It’s to die for.
I laid Slayer on the coffee table, took a spot on the couch, and studied Derek. At nineteen, the boy wonder was still slightly awkward, with long legs and a lean body that promised to fill out in a few years. His brown hair grew dark, with a rich touch of chrome, and he kept it very short. His face, grim at the moment, possessed the type of fresh, dreamy beauty that made adolescent girls—and probably some moms—melt in his presence. When we first met, he had been pretty. Now he was slowly edging on handsome and promising to develop into a champion heartbreaker. His eyes especially posed danger to anything female: huge, dark, and defined by eyelashes so long they cast shadows onto his cheeks.
It was a wonder he could go out into the daylight at all. I could never understand why the cops didn’t arrest him for causing an epidemic of swooning among females eighteen and under.
Saiman would screw anything that moved. With Derek’s looks, I’d been afraid I’d find him chained to a bed or worse.
“After our conversation, I recalled where I had seen our young friend.” Saiman brought over two crystal glasses, a pale gold wine for himself and water with ice for me. I checked the water. No white powder, no fizzing pill, no other blatantly obvious signs of being spiked. To drink or not to drink? That was the question.
I sipped it. If he’d spiked it, I could still kill him before I passed out.
Saiman sampled his wine and handed a folded newspaper to me. The newspapers had been a dying breed before the Shift, but the magic waves played havoc with the Internet, and the news sheets had returned in all their former glory. This one showed a photograph of a foreboding redbrick building behind a ruined wall. A dragon corpse, little more than a skeleton with shreds of rotting meat clinging to its bones, decomposed in the background among bodies of dead women. The headline proclaimed RED STALKER KILLER DISPATCHED BY BEAST LORD. No mention of me. Just the way I liked it.
A second picture punctuated the article below the first: Derek, carried off by Doolittle, the Pack’s physician. The Stalker had broken Derek’s legs and kept him chained to prevent the bones from healing.
“He was the boy targeted by the Stalker because of his association with you,” Saiman said. “I believe he was blood sworn to protect you.”
Saiman had excellent sources and paid well for the information, but Pack members didn’t talk to outsiders, period. How the hell did he get hold of that juicy tidbit?
“The oath is no longer in effect.” Curran, the Beast Lord of Atlanta, the Leader of the Pack, and Asshole Supreme, who quite literally held Derek’s life in his claws, had released Derek from his blood pledge once the Stalker affair was over.
“Magic has an interesting quality, Kate. Once a bond is formed, it affects both people.”
I knew Newman’s theory of reciprocal magic as well as anyone. Saiman was fishing for information. I was happy to disappoint him. “If you think that I came here out of some residual magical compulsion generated by an old blood oath, you’re wrong. He isn’t my lover, my secret relative, or a shapeshifter of great importance to the Pack. I’m here because he’s a friend. If our roles were reversed, you would be dead by now and he would be using your coffee table as a pry bar to wrench me out of that cage.”
I fixed Saiman with my best version of a hard stare. “I don’t have many friends, Saiman. If any harm befalls him, I’ll take it very personally.”
“Are you threatening me?” Saiman’s voice held only a m
ild curiosity.
“I’m simply defining the playing field. If you hurt him, I’ll hurt you back, and I won’t give a second thought to the consequences.”
Saiman nodded gravely. “Please be assured, I’ll take your emotional attachment under consideration.”
I had no doubt he would. Saiman took everything under consideration. He dealt in information, selling it to the highest bidder. He gathered his commodity bit by bit, piecing together a larger picture from fractured mosaics of individual conversations, and he forgot nothing.
Saiman set his wine down and braided the long fingers of his hands into a single fist. “However, your friend broke into my apartment and attempted to steal my property. I do feel compelled to point out that while I respect your capacity for violence, I’m confident you won’t kill me without a reason. I don’t intend to give you one, and therefore, I hold the upper hand in our negotiations.”
That was true. If this mess got out, Derek would have to deal with Curran. The Beast Lord was an arrogant, powerful sonovabitch who ruled the Pack with a steel hand and three-inch claws. Curran and I mixed about as well as glycerin and nitric acid: put us together, shake a bit, and hit the deck as we exploded. However, despite his many faults, and I would have to borrow Saiman’s fingers and toes in addition to my own to count them all, Curran didn’t play favorites . Derek would be punished, and his punishment would be severe.
I sipped my water. “Noted. Out of curiosity, what did he try to steal?”
Saiman produced two small rectangles of paper out of thin air with the buttery grace of a skilled magician. The magic was down, so it had to be sleight of hand. I filed that fact away for future reference: never play cards with Saiman.
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