“You shouldn’t need the potions at all. If you practiced as much as you should, your spells would be stronger, and you wouldn’t need to cast the same spell over and over to do a proper amount of healing.”
“Thank you for the advice.” I pushed off the wall, ignoring the way it pressed the front of my half naked body against Flint’s chest. “Now if you don’t mind, I need some rest.”
“No.” Flint narrowed his eyes and remained where he stood, unbothered by the lack of space between us. “First you will stand here, and you will tell me what happened. Start from the meeting with Barbara at the restaurant, end with arriving back here, and do not leave anything out.” He leaned closer, giving the shirt a deliberate once over. He took a deep breath through his nose, taking in the scent of the shirt, a mixture of the forest and a hint of aftershave. Liam’s scent. “And I mean anything.”
I was tired, and I was angry, and I wanted to get away from the leannan sidhe and go to bed. But that wasn’t happening until I did what he said, and so I swallowed my temper, funneling it into a Cinderella spell. The magic mended my bra and cleaned the blood from Liam’s shirt.
It was too soon to use magic, and I was shaking violently by the time I was done, but it was better than standing half-naked in front of the sidhe. I buttoned the shirt as I told Flint everything, staring into his eyes, daring him to forbid me to close the shirt. He held my gaze, but didn’t comment on either the fact I was fastening the shirt, or the fact that my hands shook so badly I could only manage every other button, and I was pretty sure they were uneven.
Flint listened to every word, never once stepping back to give me more space, or ask if I wanted to sit. “So you think Ian Walsh is behind it,” he said when I’d finished. “You think Roger saw him killing Stasya.”
“I don’t know, that’s what I’m going to find out.”
Flint drew a finger down the collar of the flannel shirt. For once there was nothing sensual in the gesture, just curiosity. “And you’ve brought the alpha of the Rocky River Pack onto the case. Without consulting me.”
“And do you know why I had to call someone?” I ground out. “Because I was alone, half-unconscious, with a goblin sitting beside me who just this afternoon told me he wanted to pet my heart. A goblin who’s taken a shine to me thanks to you.”
“And it did not occur to you to call me.”
It wasn’t a question. I frowned, not quite able to place his tone. For the first time since he’d ambushed me on my return, Flint’s voice lacked all emotion.
“I didn’t call you because the last time I called you when I needed help, it resulted in you forbidding me from having any contact with my partner,” I said slowly. “You accused me of manipulating you.”
Flint held his hand over the burn on my shoulder, feeling the heat emanating from my skin through the shirt. “Fire elemental bad. Third degree?”
I leaned back, trying to read his facial expression and failing. “Severe second degree. He didn’t hold on long enough for third.”
Flint nodded. “So you were concerned about your safety, so much so that you had to call for help. And yet, you used your magic to heal instead of reserving it for self-defense, should Asher give in to his…urges.”
“Have you ever had second degree burns?” I asked him.
Flint moved his hand to my biceps, still focusing on the heat from the burn. “Yes. And third degree.” He dropped his hand. “Do you know why I won’t let you brew healing potions?”
I almost said sadism, but I didn’t trust the look in his eyes. “No.”
“Because you need to learn to work through the pain.” Flint’s voice dulled, almost a monotone. “You need to hurt so bad you can barely stay conscious and still keep fighting. You have to be able to cast a spell when you’re fighting the urge to vomit, when your legs won’t hold you, when you can barely raise your hand. Pain is a fact of life, and to let it weaken you will mean an early grave.”
I opened my mouth, but he held up a hand. “As to using a healing spell when you still have a threat looming in your vicinity, that is worse than foolish. You are powerful, Shade. But even powerful casters who have the control of a witch of your caliber should do not go around flinging magic at problems that can wait. Taking out Asher should have been your priority.”
“I gave the spell to Peasblossom,” I snapped. I pressed my lips together before I could add that I hadn’t been in any shape to cast a spell, healing or otherwise. The last thing I needed was for Flint to decide I needed to practice casting while in excruciating pain. My blood ran cold at the thought.
“So while you were uninjured and thinking clearly, you decided to give your familiar a spell to heal instead of a spell to attack.”
I gritted my teeth. “I gave her a spell to keep me alive if something happened.”
“And if you had given her an attack spell, perhaps she could have taken out the threat before the healing spell became necessary,” Flint answered calmly. “Using magic to heal only gives your opponent time to hurt you again. It is bailing out a sinking boat with a teaspoon.”
He brushed a strand of hair behind my ear, but the look in his eyes said he was seeing something far away. “Take out the threat first. As long as your enemy remains standing, healing is nothing but a waste of resources. Attacking the one who means you harm means not needing to heal. It means the others who would have suffered the same fate at their hands won’t need to heal either.”
“Who do you wish you’d attacked?” The question came out before I could stop it, but I didn’t take it back. There was a ghost in his words, a hint of a faraway pain.
Flint smiled, but it was only a shadow of the expression. “If I thought for a second that you cared about the answer,” he said softly. “I might just tell you.” He shook his head. “But my life is not fodder for your curiosity.” He gestured to the bedroom. “Go. Get some sleep. You have a busy day tomorrow.”
I stared at him as he walked out the door. He didn’t look back, he didn’t offer a parting shot. He just left.
I hated going to bed with more questions than answers.
Chapter 12
“I can’t believe you’re going to ask her for help.”
I rolled my eyes and crossed the busy intersection on Cleveland’s east side, heading for Wade Park. “Peasblossom, we don’t have time to argue. It’s ten thirty, and Vincent said he’d meet us at the statue at eleven.”
“You told him to meet us at the statue,” Peasblossom corrected me. “You told him to meet us there, because you want to get there early and talk to her.”
She tugged on the neck of my black short-sleeved tunic when she said “her,” and the motion dragged the soft cotton over my exposed burn.
I hissed and came to a dead stop, counting through the screams of my nerve endings.
“Sorry!” Peasblossom squeaked.
Another seven breaths and I could speak without snarling. “Peasblossom,” I said calmly. “I have only had one cup of coffee. I have a headache. And I did not sleep well.”
That was an understatement. I’d been up all night tossing and turning. Trying to escape the constant parade of nightmares featuring a red-eyed goblin licking his lips while I was roasted alive by a masked fire elemental.
“I need more information,” I continued, louder so as to drown out the echoes of the nightmare. “If Ian Walsh is involved in this mess, then I have to know exactly what I’m dealing with.”
“So I’ll ask around!” Peasblossom protested. “I have an army of spies!”
“And I do want you to ask them.” I stopped by a bench and dug through my pouch for a handful of honey packets. “In fact, I would be truly and eternally grateful if you went and asked them right now. This second. I’ll meet you at that crosswalk in half an hour.”
I didn’t care that the pixie had refused to eat breakfast, or that I was likely going to be responsible for a handful of sugared up pixies terrorizing Cleveland’s east side. Right now, all I cared ab
out was making the pixie happy so I could question my informant without her shouting protests in my ear.
Thankfully, Peasblossom wasn’t one to pass up honey, or the opportunity to use said honey to lord over a group of her peers. She hugged the honey packets to her chest and took off without another word.
The rest of my walk to the statue of Stephanie Tubbs Jones was blessedly silent, and I enjoyed the rest of my coffee as I sat down on the long bench decorated with mosaic inlays. The life-sized bronze statue of Ohio’s first black Congresswoman struck a casual pose, leaning on one arm in a way that invited passersby to sit down. And the runes I’d etched into the back of it assured that those who did sit down would be chatty.
Very chatty.
“How are you, Echo?” I asked.
Green light flickered to life in the statue’s eyes, and a ghostly voice came from the unmoving bronze lips. “I’m wonderful! Oh, Shade, the stories I’ve heard. You won’t believe what people tell me, and it’s all thanks to your wonderful runes. Do you know everyone has a cell phone now? And they’re always talking about the most private things, right out in public! And thanks to your magic, they all want to sit right here while they have their conversations. I hear everything, little details, big secrets. Do you know how many employees of that bank over there are having affairs? I do. It’s—”
“Echo,” I interrupted, clinging to my coffee. “Best not to talk about the runes. We don’t want anyone else getting wise, do we? Anyway, I’m so glad things are going well, and we will catch up soon, but right now I’m working a case and I could really use your help.”
“Really? I would love to help!” Her green eyes glittered. “You want me to get in someone’s head for you? Have a peek around? Oh! Or you could bring the suspects here and the lovely runes will have them spilling their guts!”
“No, no, I don’t want anyone finding out about you or the runes. We’ll keep that our secret, yes?” I didn’t add that Echo wasn’t the most subtle of presences. If she tried to get in someone’s head for information, and they found out I was behind it, I’d likely end up on the wrong end of a horrible death. Secrets were taken very seriously in the Otherworld. As far as the runes went, I didn’t think either the ifrits, the sidhe, or the sorceress would be swayed by the simple magic.
I took a long sip of coffee, centering myself for the task ahead. “What do you know about Underhill?”
“Underhill?” Echo asked. “The private military company?”
“That’s the one. I have reason to believe they kidnapped a centaur a couple weeks ago on May 17th. Have you heard anything about that?”
“No, and I would have remembered something like that.” She paused. “Though it is funny you mention a centaur.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, a centaur has been hanging out at the racino near Randall Square, and the owner of Underhill, Ian Walsh, sometimes contracts work out to a wizard who operates out of Fortuna’s Stables—that’s the name of the racino.”
“Racino?”
“It’s a racetrack and casino. Apparently, this wizard preys on the racino’s clientele.”
I lowered my coffee, resting the brushed aluminum on my lap and leaning closer to the statue. “Preys on them how?”
“He offers to help them out of their troubles in exchange for being owed a favor. He’ll loan them money, get them a job, or even use a little magic to help them smooth ruffled feathers with their spouse, or boss, or family.” Echo’s voice dropped to a lower, more dramatic tone. “And the more powerful the loser, the better he likes it. According to everything I’ve heard, he’s basically untouchable now.”
I drummed my fingers on the shiny black handle of my travel mug, listening to the click of my short nails on the plastic. “What’s his name?”
“Stavros Rosso. Well, that’s what he calls himself. No one knows his real name.”
“You said Ian contracts work out to him?”
“He does, and that’s not the weirdest part. Before he came to Cleveland and settled down in the racino, Stavros was an honest to goodness ringmaster—he has his own sideshow called the Sanctum. They still perform sometimes at the racino. And he isn’t just the ringmaster, he has an act. He’s a ventriloquist and a mimic, and of course, a magician.” Echo scoffed. “Unsporting if you ask me. Anyone with access to real magic can do anything they like with their voice. And making something disappear is child’s play. Don’t think for a second he put in any of the work to be a real magician.”
I stared at the statue. “Ian Walsh hires out work to a wizard pretending to be a magician?”
“A magician who comes with a whole sideshow of cohorts.”
“What sort of work does he do for Ian?”
“I don’t know, it’s all very hush-hush. But I’ve overheard more than one person talking about hiring Stavros for contract work. Apparently he’s quite good at enchanted contracts. I overheard a dryad telling someone he drew up a contract between a group of forest nymphs and a small herd of satyrs, a sort of cessation of hostilities.”
“He negotiates peace treaties?” I bit my lip. That could be related to government work.
“His sideshow is incredible,” Echo said excitedly. “I had a peek inside someone’s head when I first heard of the Sanctum, and you wouldn’t believe it. They have everything. Lovely assistants, a lion tamer and a great beast of a lion, a wolfman. And there’s a fire breather and sword swallower. Oh, and a giant!”
I sat forward on the bench, clutching the travel mug so it didn’t slide off my lap. “Could the fire breather have been a fire elemental? Was the giant of the stone variety?”
“No. Well, at least he didn’t look like a stone giant in the woman’s memory that I saw.” Her eyes brightened. “Oh! And then there’s the fight club at the racino. That is where the centaur comes into it.”
“Fight club?” I asked sharply.
“Yes. For Otherworlders only. I believe they hold it on a lower level of the parking garage at the racino. You have to take one of the elevators, either the one in the main parking garage, or the one they use for animals near the stable. The code is the day’s date, followed by the current phase of the moon, if you can imagine such nonsense. Rumor has it the wizard uses the contracts he forms with the racino’s losers to force them to participate in the fights there.”
I frowned, staring off into space. “I’m going to have to have a look at this racino, I think. And the sideshow.”
“Well, be careful. I don’t think the performers are any more human than the wizard. I’d bet my runes the fire breather is dragonkin.”
Before I could respond, Vincent’s voice broke into my thoughts.
“Shade?”
I looked up as Vincent approached, and all concerns of morally reprehensible ringmasters aside, I had to smile. There was something comforting about the wizard’s insistence on dressing like an absent-minded college professor. Always tweed jackets with elbow patches, and always with his hair sticking up in at least two places. He gestured at the statue with his staff in a manner I’m sure he thought was more subtle than it was.
“Are you talking to that statue?”
I gestured at the statue in question. “Vincent, this is Echo, my very dear friend. Echo, this is Vincent. He’s a wizard I’ve had the pleasure of working with in the past.”
Vincent stared at the bronze woman, a look of fascination widening his eyes. “Are you a golem?”
Echo scoffed. “I should say not. I’m a bard.”
“Oh. Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Echo. How are you?”
“I’m very well. I’m just bursting with helpful information.”
“Splendid, splendid.” He paused, and for the first time, I detected a hint of nervousness in the way he fiddled with his jacket and kept readjusting his grip on his staff.
“Are you all right?” I tensed and put my coffee mug on the bench beside me. “Did something happen? Did you get the DNA results?”
“Everything
’s fine, and yes, I have your results. I was just…” He shifted his weight from foot to foot, then gestured at Echo again. “While we’re making introductions, I have someone I want you to meet.”
Now it was my turn to be nervous. I scanned the park, searching the morning crowd for signs of anyone paying us undue attention. Vincent sat down next to me and pulled open the pocket of his jacket.
“Right here, Ms. Renard.”
Intrigued, I peered into his pocket. My lips curled into a smile as I found myself looking into a tiny face surrounded by downy soft hair. Shining blue eyes glittered up at me from the shadows of Vincent’s pocket, and when the creature tilted its face, I noticed two antennae sprouting from the top of its head, each one topped by a tuft of fuzz that matched its white hair.
“Hello,” I said. I didn’t say “Awww, aren’t you cute,” but my tone said it for me. “You’re a grig, aren’t you?”
“This is Bizbee,” Vincent said formally. “Bizbee Thistletassle. Yes, he is a grig. He’s also—”
The grig leapt out of Vincent’s pocket, cutting the wizard off. My eyes shot wider as he landed on my pouch, grabbed the zipper, and pulled it open. Before I could get a word out, he slipped inside and disappeared.
“Unspeakably rude,” Vincent finished angrily. He grabbed the flap of my pouch and leaned over. “I told you to wait for permission!”
“Ach, mind yer own business! This is none of your concern. My sainted aunt, this is chaos! Utter chaos! Been using the pouch for a bin, have ye, lass?”
I held completely still, hands suspended in midair, my lips parted, and my eyebrows buried somewhere in my hairline. Vincent glared into the pouch, apparently oblivious to his invasion of my personal space.
“A fine first impression you’ve made,” he snapped. “What’s Mother Renard to think of you now, hmm?”
“She’ll thank me once I’ve done my work. Which I could do much faster without some bigjob staring at me. When was the last time ye had a look up that nose of yers? It’s not a sight I need to see another moment longer, if ye want the truth.”
Mercenary Page 15
