The Talon & the Blade

by Jasmine Silvera

  He thought he’d known a love of the land in the wild roaming of his youth. But nothing prepared him for the intimacy of knowing a land when his life depended on it. For the settlers in Lark’s Haven, the forest was home and larder. They coaxed, cajoled, and occasionally scraped a life from the hillsides by the narrowest of margins.

  With little support from the outside, the settlement had to be as self-reliant as possible. Work always needed doing, followed by a meal for everyone who did his share. He lived among a group of bachelors, including Iain and a young Cheraw man his own age who gave his name only as Matthew, though Gregor heard others call him by a Native name.

  Gregor took a bit of teasing when his first assigned chores put him among the children—feeding and watering the animals, milking the cows, collecting eggs. Respect came when he set himself to learning them with single-minded focus. A strong set of hands was welcome at every task, and every chore became an opportunity to regain his strength. Before long, he was hauling full milk pails with one or more of the littlest ones hanging off his neck and back like possum kits. He volunteered to clear trees and dig latrines. He learned the simple tools of the carpenter and assisted repairing buildings. One spring morning he peeled off his shirt for his morning ablutions to discover the wound that had almost taken his life nothing more than a pale pink line on his chest over muscle he hadn’t possessed the previous fall.

  At the stirrings of spring after a long winter, Lark came to the bachelor hut at dinnertime.

  “You boys want to have a shoot-off tomorrow?” she asked. “Deacon sent up powder and I’ve got some young ones I’d like to see sharpening their aim, and it’d be good to have some fun while we do it.”

  The others nodded.

  Gregor remained still, listening to the sound of his own heart thundering in his chest. His fingers itched. For months he’d watched hunters come and go, Lark among them, bearing the rifle the others had called after the German for falcon. Spring made him long to walk among them, but fear of her dismissal made him bite his tongue.

  “Herr Schwarzberg,” she asked, pinning him in her clear gaze. “Some of the folks would like to see your rifle in action.”

  In one look she laid his heart bare. He swallowed his mouthful and tried to sound calm. “Imagine they already have on your hunting parties.”

  She inclined her head in assent. “But not with the jäger who knows her best.”

  In the morning he came down to the field with the rest. The youngsters were already practicing, picking off targets of rags stuffed with straw and leaves and old utensils and rusted pots. He’d not gone to the cabin first. Gregor wasn’t surprised to see several women learning among the youngsters. On the long list of things Lark did not suffer, defenseless people ranked high.

  Lark came down at the end of the morning, bearing two rifles. One, a simple but well-maintained hunting rifle in the French style. The second, his. She hefted it. “Was vergessen?”

  “Ich hab nicht.” He shook his head. It was no longer his.

  Her brows lowered, but she switched to English and turned her attention to the others. “All right, you littles. Come back here and let the old folk show you a few tricks.”

  They moved the targets, set the line, and rifles were compared and ranked. A few eyes glanced covetously at the foreign long gun, but no one touched it until Gregor offered it to Matthew, who often led hunting parties. He grunted, pleased. His touch was like a lover—he stroked the barrel, sighted, tested the weight against his shoulder. He nodded and tried to hand it back. Gregor shrugged, dismissing the gesture.

  “First round. Forty yards,” Lark called, striding up to the start.

  Everyone took a turn with the jäger rifle as the distances and the complexity of the targets increased. At one hundred yards only Gregor, Lark, and Iain and remained.

  At last he and Lark stood at the line. She deferred, choosing her own rifle. She made the shot. He followed. The penultimate round was the longest. Lark braced the barrel and steadied her aim. Silence descended. The shot clipped the target, wide.

  Gregor took his place as their hoots of celebration rose. Lark shushed them. The sun warm between his shoulders and on his hair felt like a caress. A slight breeze tickled his bare neck. For a moment he gloried in the feeling of being free as he had never been in his whole life. He squeezed the trigger.

  The cheers startled him. He’d nailed the target square. He stood, surrounded, and flushed with a combination of pride and embarrassment at the flood of attention. When he looked, Lark stood on the edge of the crowd, a smile playing about her mouth. She sketched a little bow.

  Blankets had been laid out for a picnic. Matthew clapped a hand on his shoulder in congratulations, dragging him toward the baskets of food. He pronounced a word in Cheraw. Gregor stumbled over it. Matthew grinned and tried again. Gregor managed not to mangle it, again.

  The other man squeezed his shoulder. “It means Talking House. My name. And you hunt with us whenever you like.”

  “Because he never shuts up.” Iain laughed. “And when Lark trusts you enough to let you come and go, you’re with me.”

  Iain and Talking House left him behind, bickering at one another over rights to him.

  “Wait!” Gregor shouted over the calls to eat. Eyes returned to him faster than he would have expected.

  “One more round,” he said. “Another go. Perhaps it is the rifle that makes the difference.”

  Some of the others booed, but most of the men started back up the hill, nodding agreement. Lark planted her hands on her hips. Her wry and defiant glare fixed on him. “I’ll thank you not to insult my Lucille.”

  “And a fine old dame she is,” Gregor said, teasing. “But she’s past her day. Come. How can it be a fair test if we’re not evenly matched?”

  Lark stared at him. She knew how to use his rifle. The game slung over her shoulder on return from a hunt spoke to her skill. He wanted to see it. Her narrowed eyes held a mixture of amusement and suspicion. The others called for a last round. Finally she acquiesced.

  Gregor shot first. He lowered the rifle, squinting at the target. The weight of her gaze settled on him. He didn’t dare look away. She would know if he threw the shot.

  He offered the rifle and shot, looking as nonchalant as he could manage.

  She checked and loaded the weapon with an efficient ease that took his breath away. Watching her, a strange coiling heat started with desire low in his body and ended close to the scar at his ribs. She was magnificent even before she took aim.

  A clear hit. Cheers rose from the crowd. She was their champion after all. His heart tripped at the grin she gave him. Inspection revealed that her shot had gone straight and true. His had just winged the tin.

  He knew in that moment he belonged to her. She just didn’t know it yet.

  Movement on the surface of the water drew him out of memory. Gregor held still, keeping his eyes soft and unfocused.

  A sleek, tawny head appeared, tiny black eyes shining, and looked up at him. The creature rolled onto its back, and more of it emerged from the water, small paws tucked against the spiky fur of its chest.

  “Awfully late for you to be out, isn’t it,” he murmured.

  The otter cocked its head, watching. It disappeared into the waves with a sinuous flip at the sound of boot heels on pavement. Ana rested her elbows on the railing, half-empty cup in one hand, the still illuminated screen of her phone in the other.

  “How’s Raymond?” he asked, watching the last of the ripples from the disappearing otter.

  “Pissed off,” she said. The tiny furrow reappeared between her brows. “Concerned. In his way.”

  “What way is that?”

  “The way that makes me think he’s known all along what we’re chasing, if not why now.”

  He let the silence linger. He kept his face impassive, looking out over the water. Her eyes fell on him, the weight of her gaze heavy on his skin.

  He glanced at her out of the corner of
his eye. She still looked troubled, but amusement tugged at her mouth. “What?”

  “Azrael must be delighted,” she growled. “Raymond asks for help and he gets to send his first into another necromancer’s territory. You tested my men, you watch everything, now you know I don’t always trust my master. A fine report to make to yours.”

  Gregor faced her. “Wouldn’t you?”

  She glared at him, but it lacked any heat.

  Gregor sighed. “Raymond helped Azrael once.”

  “And you’re only here to return the favor.”

  “The Allegiance is in crisis.” Gregor let his shoulders rise and fall. “It would be wise to determine who our friends are, if we have them.”

  In the darkness, her eyes were inscrutable. The wind picked up the fine, shorter strands of her hair and sent them flying.

  “And you make the decision,” she said, the hint of a taunt in her voice.

  “My input holds weight,” he acknowledged without boasting. He bit his tongue on the question: why don’t you have the same, as Raymond’s first? It was the most important gift Azrael had given him.

  The Aegis served under contracts for lengths of time. Hers must have been centuries. How else had Raymond kept her this long? It had to be the status of their contract. Why else would she not have left him for a necromancer who appreciated her instead of keeping her like a deadly pet on a leash to be loosed at his command? Incomprehensible.

  She broke his thoughts with a question. “What now?”

  It was his turn to be confused.

  “Why are you angry?”

  He had to look away, this time to hide his surprise. Had he been that transparent?

  “You hide it well, but it’s my gift.”

  Something genuine unfurled in her voice without the guard of deference or sarcasm. The words could have been an attack but instead formed the beginning of a bridge. A weight clenched in his chest with the impact of a steel door slamming. Not now. Not again. Never again.

  He made a show of checking his watch even though he could feel time in his bones. “Just looking forward to playing catch-up with Rathki. We should go.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Murphy’s was a biker bar, judging by the parking lot. But scanning the row of shining tanks and glistening chrome, she judged it more upscale than the average motorcycle club joint. She took a quick assessment of Gregor’s face. The detachment had returned, but now she was more certain that beneath the mask lay anger.

  Gregor was too old and too intelligent to let emotion fuel him. They were alike in that regard. Whatever had made him angry, it had nothing to do with the satyr. If anything, it was connected to the way his face shuttered when he’d admitted how much his words were weighted by his master. She hadn’t responded because she didn’t want to give him any more reason to think there was a schism between her and Raymond.

  At least that was what she told herself. It didn’t matter that after a century, she still took orders and was rarely consulted. That was ego talking. Pride had no place in her work.

  From the parking lot across the street, they watched the late crowd began to filter out. If Fred was right, the weres would wait until after closing to meet up. If Ana and Gregor were lucky, they would cooperate and share whatever they knew in order to prove loyalty to Raymond and save their own skins.

  “How do you want to handle this?”

  Ana paused. Was he asking for a plan again? She snorted. “Walk in. Ask some questions. See what happens.”

  She tapped the center console to get his attention, fixing her gaze on a familiar, lanky figure standing beside a small pile of chain attached to a post used to close off the parking lot after hours. Fred Smith.

  A muscled man in leathers emerged from the building. He barked at the club patrons lingering in the parking lot until they scattered. A few more bikes arrived in ones and twos, joining the figures emerging from the shadows and moving to the doors. The last was a van that parked near the doors and shut off, but no one emerged. At some unspoken gesture from the bouncer, Fred picked up the chain and jogged across the open driveway, locking it on the other side. The bouncer conversed with the driver of the van and then stepped back, grinning and rubbing his palms together.

  The back doors of the van opened and two men piled out, dragging a third between them. The satyr looked rougher for wear. His glasses were missing, shirt untucked, and slacks dirtied and torn. His human shielding was starting to slip; she imagined even Gregor could see his true form now.

  “Rathki.” Gregor growled as he recognized the stumbling figure. “Did he run or did they take him?”

  The bigger men dragged him, bleating, into the bar. The bouncer followed, leaving Fred outside, stamping in the cold.

  “Let’s find out.”

  She climbed out of the car and slipped Imouto and Onee-san into the dual sheath on her hip. An unusual set, both katana and wakizashi were shorter than most, better suited for her reach. She’d had other pairs made for her over the intervening years, but she trusted none more than these.

  Gregor lagged as Ana strode toward the driveway. “Front door?”

  She showed her teeth. “They’ll smell us coming soon enough, I doubt they’re smart enough to run.”

  Fred started at his post when they appeared. His eyes bulged. “Are you crazy?”

  “I’ve been accused of worse, and given what she deals with on a regular basis, I wouldn’t blame her if she were.” Gregor reached into his jacket. Ana wasn’t the only one who thought he was going for a gun.

  Fred flung up his hands, desperation drawing his soft baby face taut. Gregor sighed, slowing the motion as he withdrew his hand. He extended a slip of paper and a credit card.

  “You’ll want to make yourself scarce right now,” he said. “Do you know who I am?”

  The younger man nodded, swallowing hard.

  “Ever been to Europe?”

  Fred shook his head.

  “Try Prague.” Gregor waved the card. “The beer is cheap. The women have legs”—he gestured to his chest level—“to here. When you get to the city, call this number. Ask for Markus. He’s a good man. Tell him I said I owe him one.”

  Fred swallowed. His hand trembled as he took the offering. “Thanks, man.”

  “Just do me a favor and stay away from witches.”

  Fred looked between them, hesitating. “These guys, they’re no joke.”

  Gregor tilted his head. “Neither is she.”

  That didn’t seem to soothe Fred. For one horrified moment, she thought he would offer to back them. She couldn’t afford to have the liability on her hands.

  “Go now,” Gregor ordered.

  Fred slipped the card and the paper between his teeth. Before their eyes, he shuddered, dropping to all fours. A rangy young red wolf shook off the last of his clothing at their feet. The irony of the dog tags jingling in the ruff at his throat was not lost on her.

  “Pup indeed.” Gregor chuckled as the wolf scrambled into the darkness.

  The club’s decor—mechanic’s garage meets fifties diner—seemed to mortally offend Gregor. He tapped a battered license plate nailed to the wall, sniffing in distaste. They followed the sound of voices to the stairs in the back of the room.

  “…he gonna show or what?”

  “We only got three nights…”

  “…wasting time. Close the loop now or we’re done for—”

  “…little shit couldn’t do his fucking job, and now the bitch is still loose.”

  “Quiet. All of you. Someone’s coming.”

  In the darkness, Gregor met Ana’s eyes. His brows rose in unmistakable question, one hand sliding beneath his coat.

  The corner of her mouth tipped up in answer. She held up a hand. He nodded and released his grip.

  The descent led them into a lounge. Vinyl booths around tables lined the walls, broken by the presence of a bar with stools topped with hubcaps as seats.

  The conversation stopped as they ente
red, but no one moved. Ana counted eighteen bodies in the smoky darkness. This wasn’t a single pack, based on the clusters around the room. A few females dotted the groups, several dressed in leathers. The rest looked like cocktail servers repurposed for after-hours entertainment. Most were mortal and, beneath heavy layers of makeup, terrified.

  Rathki had been seated at the back table. He looked even worse close up. Someone had gone a few rounds on his face, and blood crusted open wounds, blackening around the edges. Bruises covered the rest. Like most grace bloods, he might be long-lived, but he lacked the accelerated healing ability of an Aegis.

  The rest of the table must have been the senior members of the packs. They were older, more scarred, than the rest.

  “Ana Gozen, I presume,” the big male said from the head of the table. He was brawny but had a clever face. “And Gregor Schwarz. The rumors are true.”

  “You must be Jax,” Ana said before addressing their captive. “Nice to see you again so soon, Rathki.”

  If it was possible, the satyr looked even more miserable now than when they had entered the room. It gave her perverse pleasure knowing whatever he had been through since they last met, he feared her more.

  Gregor started for the bar, pulled up a stool, and seated himself. “Scotch neat. A double please.”

  The bartender sneered, showing inhumanly long teeth. “Don’t carry scotch here.”

  “Whiskey will do then.”

  The bartender looked about to protest, but the big male in the center of the bosses’ table smiled. His ruddy, sunbaked skin broke at the mouth to expose an expansive set of yellow teeth, sharp as knives. “Serve the man. Drinks are on the house. It’s not often we have such illustrious company.”

  Gregor inclined his head.

  “For you?” Jax gave Ana her the kind of frank appraisal that would have made her reach for her sword a century ago.

  She refused to give him the satisfaction. “No thanks.”

  Time was littered with men like him—bruisers who came to power through a combination of brute force and sociopathic intelligence who used either when the need struck. She had been wrong about one thing. Jax and his men wouldn’t run, not out of stupidity, but because they thought they had nothing to fear. Interesting.