by Martha Carr
She grunted when the vehicle rocked again and grabbed her right arm for a better look at her still-burning shoulder. “Some magical who looks like a cat when she drops her illusion spell. Jesus, whatever hit me doesn’t quit.”
Rhynehart narrowed his eyes at her and rubbed the side of his face. “Still think you don’t need a healer?”
“I’d let you patch me up right now if I believed for a second you knew what you were doing.” She’d said it in irritation, but the FRoE operative chuckled, her words bringing a small smile to his lips. “Yeah, you heard me.”
“Good thing I don’t know the first thing about healing anything. Human, magical, animal, vegetable.”
Cheyenne snorted. Her stomach lurched as the vehicle drove through the invisible wall into Q1, and the minute they reappeared at the north end of the reservation’s entrance quarter, she knew something big was happening. The tarp covering the back of the vehicle made it impossible to see anything, but she could hear fine. At least half a dozen large vehicles like this one were driving around. Boots hit the dirt and stomped off. Rez guards shouted at each other, and the metal doors on all the black outbuildings were opening and shutting like they’d been set on a five-second timer.
“What’s going on?”
Rhynehart pursed his lips and stared at the tarp overhead as he listened. “Sounds like a bunch of excitement.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”
With another chuckle, Rhynehart nodded. “You’ll figure it out.”
The utility vehicle rolled to a stop, jerking Cheyenne sideways, and she grimaced at the flare of agony in her shoulder. The driver hopped out and walked around to the back. He pulled the tailgate down and tossed the tarp up onto itself overhead, then he leaned toward one of the outbuildings and shouted, “Got ‘em over here.”
Booted footsteps pounded their way. Cheyenne pushed to her feet before three other magicals—an orc and two goblins—appeared at the back of the vehicle.
“Whoa,” one goblin sneered. “Took him right the hell out, didn’t ya?”
“He’s all yours,” Rhynehart said, getting to his feet. “Don’t be too careful with him, huh?”
The Rez 38 magicals sniggered. The orc cracked his knuckles and glared at the unconscious Q’orr.
Rhynehart jumped out of the utility bed and clapped the orc on the back. The other goblin offered Cheyenne a hand down from the high jump. Holding her right arm, she cocked her head at him and muttered, “I’m good, thanks.”
She hopped down, ignoring the goblin’s disappointed glance, and followed Rhynehart toward the outbuildings around the black spire. Cheyenne hadn’t noticed they’d been dropped off somewhere within all those buildings until she turned around to see more of the same stretching out in front of her. Rhynehart stopped at the closest door and held it open for her, gesturing for Cheyenne to enter.
“What’s this?”
“R-38 Correctional. I told you they all have their own prison too. And yes, we keep those in Q1 for a reason.”
“Medium-security.”
“That’s right.” The man dipped his head and turned the corner down a narrow hallway toward what was probably the front entrance to the prison on this particular Border reservation.
“Wow. So Q’orr only gets medium-security.” Cheyenne huffed out a breath and shook her head. “What does someone have to do to get shipped out to Chateau D’rahl?”
Rhynehart stopped short and turned to shoot her a suspicious frown. “Where’d you hear that name?”
Uh-oh. Cheyenne shrugged and winced when her shoulder flared in protest. “I don’t know. I think one of those magicals at the event center Thursday night might’ve mentioned it. You know, before you and your guys raided the place.”
“Yeah, ahead of schedule, thanks to you.” The operative’s frown stayed where it was as he examined her. Then he shook his head and kept walking.
What Cheyenne wanted was to ask why talking about Chateau D’rahl was such a big deal. But she knew she’d be playing right into his hand, and the stakes were way too high. I might have slipped a little too far on that one. Not my fault if I didn’t know the name of a maximum-security prison for magicals would make me sound suspicious. Can’t bring that up again. Not if I don’t want him to make the connection between me and Inmate 4872. Proud, anonymous father, Bianca Summerlin’s half-drow daughter.
Gritting her teeth, she limped after Rhynehart, clutching her injured arm and hoping they could get through the booking process in a shorter time than it had taken to capture Q’orr so she could get some relief.
They emerged from the hall into the apparent front of the reservation prison, or at least where Rhynehart would be taking care of the booking process for the unconscious Q’orr. Cheyenne didn’t see the wrinkled orange-brown magical anywhere. No doubt the rez guards were dragging him wherever he needed to be.
Rhynehart gestured toward the uncomfortable plastic chair against the wall. “You can have a seat if you want. This might take a while.”
“Right.” Cheyenne nodded and settled into the farthest seat from the front door, which happened to be the closest chair to the end of the first counter, where Rhynehart was headed.
“Hey, French.”
“Rhynehart,” a human greeted him from behind the counter. “Finally found someone with enough balls to go after the bastard, huh?”
The FRoE operative shot Cheyenne a knowing glance. “Something like that. Here to process the report or whatever. Make sure Q’orr gets everything that’s coming to him. And before you pull up all the extra crap I need to fill out, can you make a call to Sha’gron?”
“You get hit by something?”
“Nope. For my friend here.” Rhynehart jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Cheyenne, who raised her eyebrows when the guy behind the counter leaned over to take a better look at her.
“Yeah, no problem.”
“Thanks.” The FRoE operative leaned his forearms on the counter and drummed his fingers there as French dialed a number and asked for Sha’gron.
Cheyenne reclined in the plastic chair and closed her eyes.
I’m so ready for this day to be over.
Conversations around the processing room filtered toward her, but most of them were drowned out by the pain. Then, her attention locked on the closest conversation.
“The orderly said she’s cleaning up from some other unscheduled surgery, I think. Should be here in about ten minutes.”
“Thanks, French. Hey.” Rhynehart lowered his voice and leaned farther over the counter. “Can you look something up for me while we’re waiting? For fun.”
“You got some messed-up version of fun, man.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I’ve been doing this too long.”
French snorted. “Sure. What do you wanna know?”
“Do we have any Nightstalkers entered in the database?”
“That doesn’t narrow things down at all.”
“Right. Try in or around the Richmond area. Localized there, most likely.”
Cheyenne almost lurched out of her chair but managed to hold everything together long enough to calm herself. Nightstalker. That has to be what Mattie Bergmann is. I knew he was looking at me weird when I mentioned my other trainer. Now he’s trying to find me without actually finding me.
She kept her eyes closed and listened to French’s fingers flying across the keyboard. “I’m not pulling anything up, man. Sorry.”
“Huh. Yeah, no worries.” Rhynehart rapped his knuckles on the countertop and leaned back. “Figured it was a longshot.”
“Yeah, those cats on two legs are hard to pin down.”
Cheyenne heard Rhynehart turn—probably to look at her—but she kept her eyes closed and focused on deep breathing.
There’s no way I can trick him into thinking I’m asleep. But he might buy I’m tired and cranky and in too much pain to care about anything else. All sorta true.
The conversation lost her after that as Rhynehart dove into answering a bunch
of standard questions and filling out whatever kind of report both the FRoE and Rez 38 required after this Q’orr-capturing episode.
“Did you find anything of value in Q’orr’s house?” French asked. Another standard question, but this time, Rhynehart paused.
“Uh, hey, Blakely?”
“Yeah?” Cheyenne’s eyes fluttered open, stinging now because the pain in her arm was too much.
“Anything of value in that POS’s run-down hut?”
She shrugged. “If there was, it’s gone now.”
French raised his eyebrows. “Why’d she say that?”
Rhynehart cleared his throat and stepped aside, gesturing for Cheyenne to continue answering the questions meant for him.
The drow halfling met French’s gaze and shrugged.
“She took down Q’orr, and his house with him.”
“She did?” French leaned toward Rhynehart. “She brought that asshole in?”
“More like she brought him out, but yeah.”
“How the hell?”
“Halfling, man.”
“Funny. Can’t put my finger on what that other half might be.”
Rhynehart rubbed his fingers over his lips and muttered, “Drow.”
French’s eyes almost popped out of his head. He examined Cheyenne. “No shit?”
She lifted her hand and shot him a dismissive wave. “Yep. Thanks.”
“Huh. Oh, hey. Healer’s in.”
That got Cheyenne’s attention. She opened her eyes to look for this Sha’gron who had been called to her aid. Her gaze landed on the troll she’d seen in Q3—the woman with turquoise bindings in her long red braids laced with feathers who’d raised the copper bowl toward the drow halfling.
“This the one?”
Rhynehart nodded. “That’s her. Got some kinda black substance on her shoulder. Burned all the way through.”
“Ah.” Sha’gron held Cheyenne’s gaze as she approached and sat in the chair beside the halfling. “Let’s take a look.”
Cheyenne nodded and let the healer poke and prod her wounded shoulder. She sucked in a breath when the troll applied more pressure than seemed necessary.
“All right.” Sha’gron reached into a huge pocket sewn on the outside of her brightly-colored dress and pulled out what looked like a shriveled green onion. “Chew on that. Don’t swallow it. And look at something over there?”
“Why over there?”
The troll spread her arms and made a comically clueless face. “For some reason, it hurts more if you watch. So I suggest you don’t.”
“Great.” Cheyenne puffed out a sigh and settled her gaze on Rhynehart. She stuck the withered green onion thing in her mouth—it tasted weirdly like Big Red gum—and chewed. It made her mouth tingle, but that was it. Go figure.
The man leaned back against the counter and folded his arms with a smirk. The halfling felt a sharp pressure in the open sores on her shoulder, then Rhynehart glanced at the troll’s handiwork on the wounded halfling and grimaced.
“What? Ah!”
The healer had her entire finger wiggling around in the hole burned into Cheyenne’s flesh. “I told you to look somewhere else. I’m almost done.”
“Jesus!” Cheyenne shot Rhynehart a wide-eyed look of shock and disgust, then clenched her eyes shut and focused on not going full drow so she could throw Sha’gron across the tiny lobby of the reservation prison.
Sure enough, the healer pulled her finger out of Cheyenne’s open sores and nodded. Rhynehart waved at French, who handed over a box of Kleenex that made it from the FRoE operative to Sha’gron. The troll snatched three tissues out of the box, gazing the whole time at Cheyenne’s arm from different angles as she wiped the halfling’s blood off her hands. Then she cupped her hand under Cheyenne’s mouth. “Spit.”
Not willing to argue, the half-drow pushed the weird dried root of cinnamon-flavored whatever out of her mouth. Sha’gron stared at it in her palm, then nodded and stuck it back into the outside pocket of her dress.
“So. Don’t wash it. Don’t put anything in it. Whatever happened to get that nasty wound in your shoulder, don’t do it again.” The troll healer pushed to her feet, clapped her hands, and glanced at Rhynehart and French. “Anything else?”
“I…think that’ll do it,” Rhynehart muttered.
“Thanks, Healer.” French nodded at the troll, who examined him before shooting Cheyenne a quick wink. She turned on her heel and left.
The drow halfling raised a brow at the FRoE operative. “Don’t wash it?”
“Medicine for magicals, right?” He snickered, but his smile faded when Cheyenne didn’t think it was amusing. “Nah. She didn’t mean forever. How’s it feel?”
“Like someone went digging for gold in there with their bare hands.”
French snorted and turned his attention to the computer monitor in front of him, shaking his head.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
They left their magic-dampening vests and Rhynehart’s gloves on the red plastic chairs in the waiting room before stepping outside into the afternoon light in Rez 38’s Q1. Cheyenne’s shoulder began to feel much better, although the troll healer’s words repeated in her mind: It hurts more if you watch.
All the commotion surrounding the unconscious Q’orr finally being brought out of his black-magic house and into the Q1 detention center had mostly settled down by the time the drow halfling and the FRoE operative made their way back through the black and dark-gray outbuildings toward the entrance.
“What the heck was that guy, anyway?” Cheyenne squinted against the sunlight as she turned to Rhynehart.
“Who? Q’orr?”
“Yeah.”
“Eh, I’m not sure if it’s the official name for them, but the only word I’ve heard for his kind and their magic is Skaxen.”
“Skaxen. Never heard of them.”
“Yeah, me, neither. I guess they’re more like giant orange rats walking on two legs. Without the tails, obviously.”
Cheyenne shook her head with more than enough sarcasm. “Obviously.”
“Pretty sure all that nasty black-magic stuff took the orange right outta that asshole. Not that it makes a difference.”
“Nope.” They moved past the next two buildings, and someone shouted something behind them, followed by a round of laughter. “What about that healer?”
“Sha’gron?”
“Yeah. How long has she been here?”
“Beats me, rookie.” Rhynehart ran a hand through his dark hair and stared at the cloudless afternoon sky. “She can be kinda creepy, but I’ve never seen her fail to heal another magical. Case in point.” He nodded at Cheyenne’s shoulder. The skin had taken on a red hue, but it no longer burned, and the halfling wasn’t about to question it. I can take a better look at it later.
“There was something…I don’t know.” She folded her arms and tried to put her finger on it. “Something about how she looked at me.”
“Ha. Get used to it. With that little Q’orr-attack stunt you pulled today, you’re gonna be getting looks from a lot more than the reservation heal—”
“Hey, asshole, I didn’t come all this way for you to tell me what I can and can’t do with my own goddamn supplies!” Cheyenne and Rhynehart both turned to see a scrawny goblin shoving an orc at least twice his height and width.
“That guy picked the worst person to start pushing around.”
“Except for you, maybe,” Rhynehart muttered. Then he got a good view of the goblin’s face. “Oh, no.”
“What?”
“Keep your eyes open, halfling. If that goblin hasn’t learned how to keep his shit together, things are gonna get real ugly real fast.”
“Okay.” Cheyenne tried to keep her eye on both Rhynehart and the goblin who couldn’t find someone his own size to pick on, so he chose the biggest magical in Q1 instead.
“You shouldn’t be here, Taaz.” The orc grabbed the scrawny goblin’s wrists and pushed his hands away. “This is the
only warning you get.”
“I’m trying to make a living here, you overgrown puppet. You’re standing here with the FRoE’s hand so far up your ass, I hear their constant bull coming out of your mouth. You hand ‘em your balls too?”
“You been in the grog again, goblin?” The orc rolled his eyes. “Come on. I’ll drive you home. How ‘bout that?”
“Screw you!” Taaz the goblin lunged to shove the orc’s chest again, and the huge green-skinned magical batted the little guy aside.
Until Taaz shot a blast of green energy at the huge orc’s face.
The orc guard howled and slapped both hands to his face, and Taaz burst out laughing.
“Hey!” Rhynehart pulled his weapon from the holster at his hip and aimed at the cackling goblin. “You’re outta chances now, Taaz.”
“Oh, you too, huh?” Taaz rolled his eyes and turned away from the FRoE operative, then he spun back and hurled a flaming ball of magic.
At the same time, Rhynehart fired a projectile meant for taking out magicals, but it went high and wide as Taaz’s fireball caught Rhynehart in the shoulder. The man staggered with a grunt and slapped the arm of his black t-shirt to put out the flames. “Goddammit, Taaz!”
The goblin wound up to throw another spell, but Cheyenne rushed toward him. The heat of her boiling drow blood flared at the base of her spine and washed over her in a split second.
Taaz turned toward her and froze when he saw her finish the shift. “No frickin’ way!”
Cheyenne sent purple sparks at the goblin’s chest. He turned and bolted, and her spell crashed into the dark stone of the Q1 intake building. She chased the goblin.
“Will somebody grab the damn goblin already?” Rhynehart roared.
Cheyenne darted around the closest security vehicle, searching for the little magical, who’d run behind it. Of course, the guy was blasting spells left and right without caring who he hit or what his magic destroyed. A tire popped and hissed under a burst of green light, and the vehicle sank forward and sideways.
“Stop!” Cheyenne shouted.
Taaz whirled with wide eyes, then lifted both hands and shot a spray of pointed green barbs at her. Cheyenne dodged aside, and the reservation guards behind her ducked out of the way too.
