Magic Rises (37 page)

“Speaking from personal experience?”

“Yes. When I realized I’d stopped aging, I went for it. Let me tell you, no matter how creative you get—and I got creative—the mechanics of sex are always the same. The difference is passion. Passion makes it special. Having sex with an attractive woman is fun, but add passion, make her that one woman that you love or hate, and the whole experience changes. You feel something for me, Kate. Whether you want to admit it or not, something is there. I can guarantee we would never grow tired of it.”

Wow. He’d put his best game face on and hit me with everything he had. “No.”

His eyebrows came together. “No? That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Why?”

“Because you put people in cages, Hugh. Even if I were alone and Curran weren’t in the picture, I still wouldn’t. You came here and did just as much as necessary to earn enough goodwill to build this castle twenty years ago. The people down in town live in poverty. Your werejackal castle guards are robbing strangers on the roads, and nobody comes to you and complains, because they don’t expect you to do anything about it. You want to know the difference between you and Curran? If you gave this castle to him, within a month there would be a court, due process, and a working police force accountable to its citizens. Curran sees himself as serving the people he leads; you see yourself as being served. You brought stability to this place, but it’s the stability of a scared slave who knows he will be pummeled with a stick if he holds his head up too high. You’re content with things as they are, and when someone fails you, you stick them in a cage and slowly starve them to death.”

Hugh leaned back and smiled, amusement curving his mouth. “You are his daughter,” he said.

I wasn’t sure how to take that. I leaned back and crossed my arms.

“You know what your father’s best talent is? He can look at you and determine exactly where your best place is. That’s why he wasn’t thrilled when your aunt woke up. There was no place for her in this world.”

“So he looked at you and said, ‘You will make an excellent wrecking ball.’”

Hugh nodded. “Before there can be civilization, I come and I subdue. I crush resistance, I break their will, and then your father arrives and reins me in. He brings order, justice, and fairness. He is their salvation.”

“Be careful, your charming mask is crumbling.”

“There isn’t much point in it now.”

“Oh, so sitting through your sales pitch finally earned me the right to the no-bullshit version?”

He grinned, baring his teeth. “Here it is: I can’t let you get on that boat.”

Figured.

“It will be a lot harder to pry you out of their fort. You force my hand.”

“I didn’t know you were so easy to push around.”

“Before you left, I had my people load panacea onto your ship,” he said. “Your boy got a note telling him about it and explaining that my welcome is withdrawn.”

“I thought you promised no bullshit. Where did you even get that much panacea, Hugh? The packs guard it like gold. They would never sell that much of it to you.”

“I have no need to buy it from them. My people make it.”

“Bullshit.”

“Your father was taught how to make it when he was young. It’s a complex process, with a lot of magic done in correct order, so it was his equivalent of a graduation project.” Hugh’s eyes turned steel-hard. “I control the entire supply on this part of the continent. The only way for the Pack to get their paws on an ounce of it is to sail now, without you.”

Curran wouldn’t leave me.

“If he chooses to stay, the gloves come off.” Hugh said. “I warned him. He knows if he stays, it’s war.”

“He will stay.”

“God, I hope he does. I’ve been looking forward to killing him for three years. I will enjoy the hell out of it.”

Hugh hadn’t just taken advantage of Desandra’s pregnancy. He’d engineered this whole thing. He’d pulled the strings and the shapeshifters had obeyed, because he held panacea over their heads. He’d manipulated everyone just to get me here.

“If you hurt him, I will kill you,” I said.

“You’ll try, and I will enjoy that, too. I meant what I said, Kate. You make me feel that interesting something. That’s rare for me. And I like having you around. You’re funny.”

“Funny. Does your jaw hurt when you laugh?”

“‘My hand won’t shake,’” he quoted. “‘My aim won’t falter. My face will be the last thing you’ll see before you die.’ You’re hilarious.”

Those were the words I’d said to the Pack Council when Curran was in the coma and they’d tried to separate me from him. My skin crawled. Hugh had a mole on the Pack Council.

“I think we’re done here.” I rose.

“I always get what I want, Kate,” he said. “That’s how I’m wired.”

I walked down the path and kept walking. Derek saw me, rose, and followed.

“The ship might not be there,” I told him quietly.

“I heard,” he said. “They will be there. Don’t worry.”

We kept going.

“Are you really Roland’s daughter?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I don’t care,” he said. “Some people might, but they don’t matter.”

I didn’t say anything, but the night grew a little brighter.

CHAPTER 18

The castle hummed with activity. Servants strung garlands of feylantern lights in the hallways. People moved back and forth. The air smelled of roasting meat and spices.

I walked through it, strangely disconnected, the quiet sounds of my footsteps lost in the celebratory chaos.

Derek raised his head, listening. “It’s the hunt dinner. They finally got all the game sorted and cooked. We are supposed to celebrate the winners at midnight.”

Great. Everyone stuffed back into the single dining hall. That would go well.

I made it up the stairs. My heart beat a little faster. I picked up speed. He wouldn’t leave without me. Not even with the panacea on the line.

I walked into our room.

Empty. A stack of my books had disappeared. Curran’s clothes, thrown on the chair, had vanished. The bed was made.

No way.

The sound of running water came from the bathroom and Curran emerged, wiping his hands with a towel. He wore trademark Pack sweats. Gray and thin, they fell apart when a shapeshifter shifted form.

Behind me Derek stepped into the hallway and shut the door.

“You’re here,” I said.

“Where else would I be?”

“Hugh owns the panacea.”
He’s also a complete fucking bastard.

“He sent a note.” Curran crossed the floor and hugged me to him. My bones groaned.

I put my face into the bend of his neck. The world suddenly calmed. The fractured pieces snapped into place.

“Did you think I’d leave?” Curran whispered into my ear.

“No.” I hugged him back. “What happened to all our stuff?”

“Anything nonessential is packed and loaded. I kept your belt with all your stuff out. Got any messages for me?”

“If we go to that dinner, we’ll have a fight. Also, he hopes you will be a challenge.”

Curran smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile.

We looked at each other. We both knew Hugh would make his move tonight, and after that, everything would be over. We could try to fight our way to the ship now, except we had promised to guard Desandra. Abandoning her wasn’t an option. We had given our word.

“Are you hungry, baby?” Curran asked.

“Starving.”

“I think we should go to dinner.”

“Great idea.”

“What are you going to wear?”

“My badass face.”

“Good choice,” he said.

“Let me just get my knives and powdered silver.”

* * *

We walked into the great hall to find a new seating arrangement indicated by small name cards: The Italians were sitting at the head table on the right side of Hugh, all the way around the right side of the horseshoe table. The rest of us were seated on the left of Hugh: I was first, then Curran, then Desandra, then the rest of our party. Without saying a word, Curran and I switched seats. If Hugh wanted me to sit next to him, I would sit as far away as possible.

I surveyed the hall. Everyone on our side of the table was dressed to impress: loose sweatpants and T-shirts. Andrea saw me looking and grinned. Raphael winked at me. Mahon was right. I was Pack. At least everyone in gray sweatpants thought so. If I had to fight, I wouldn’t fight alone.

The walls of the great hall had gained new decorations: swords and axes hung in hooks within reach. The door to the side exit on the left was shut. That left us with the right exit and the front entrance.

Jarek Kral stared at the hall from a side table to the right, a sour grimace distorting his features into an ugly mask. On the other side, to the left, Vitaliy and Ivanna sat, stone-faced. I scanned the rest of the faces and my gaze slammed right into Lorelei. She stared at me with obvious hatred. I winked at her. She glared back, outraged.

Someone moved into position behind me. I turned. Barabas grinned at me.

“Where is Christopher?” I asked.

He pointed at the side table. Christopher sat next to Keira, his eyes clear as a summer sky without a single thought clouding the blue. He saw me and rose. His lips moved.
Mistress.

The belt around Christopher’s waist looked familiar, especially the pouches hanging from it. I was pretty sure they were filled with my herbs. “Is he wearing my spare belt?”

“Yes,” Barabas said. “He somehow got his hands on it when we loaded supplies onto the ship. I tried taking it off him, but it really upset him and I didn’t want to injure him.”

“That’s fine. Let him have it.”

I smiled at Christopher.

He sighed happily and sat down.

Desandra strode into the hall, escorted by Aunt B and George. Doolittle followed her in an ancient wheelchair.

Desandra landed in the chair on my left. “You survived.”

“I did.”

“Nobody told me.” She sighed. “Nobody ever tells me anything.”

I shrugged, feeling Slayer’s comforting weight on my back. The tension in the air was so thick, it made me itch.

The fey torches in the great hall flickered. The conversation died.

Through the wide-open doors of the front entrance, I could see the main hallway. Along the wall feylanterns blinked in their sconces. The steady glow flickered. A moment and I felt it too, a swell of magic approaching fast. Someone was coming. Next to me, Curran tensed.

A foul magic washed over me as if someone had thrust my mind into a rotting liquefied carcass. Vampires. A lot of them.

People turned to look at the hallway. Some rose and leaned over their tables to get a better view.

Horns blared in a chorus, an ancient alarming sound taut with a warning. The banners on the walls stirred.

People marched down the hallway, coming toward us. They wore black and gray and they moved in unison, two by two. I focused on the leading pair. Hibla walked on the left. Her hair was pulled back from her face and she stared straight at me with a cold predatory glare. Gone was the woman who’d asked me for help and pleaded silently from behind the cage bars. This was a killer, disciplined, icy, and lethal. A familiar insignia marked her chest: a small five-rayed star with a half circle above it and a tall triangle on the right: the ancient hieroglyph of Sirius, the Dog Star. Voron’s voice came from my childhood memories:
If you ever see this, run
.

“We’ve been had,” I said. “These are the Iron Dogs.”

“What are they?” Aunt B asked.

“Roland’s elite unit,” Curran said.

“How bad?” Mahon asked.

“Bad,” Curran said.

Bad was an understatement. Each Dog was a highly trained ruthless killer. They used weapons, they used magic, and a lot of them weren’t human and hid more surprises than a Swiss Army knife. A single Iron Dog could slaughter a dozen normal soldiers. They served as my father’s commando force. Hugh d’Ambray was the preceptor of their order.

I stared at Hibla’s face. I’d felt bad for her. I’d tried to help her. I’d bought her clueless local bumpkin act hook, line, and sinker. How could I have been so stupid? No matter. Next time I’d know better.

The first pair of Iron Dogs stepped into the great hall and split, standing on each side of the door, locked into an at-ease pose.

Two men and two women followed, wearing impeccable business suits. As the first woman stepped through the door, her high heels clicking quietly on the stone, an emaciated arm hooked the top edge of the doorway. A vampire crawled into the great hall over the top edge of the doorway, muscles flexing like steel cables rubbing against each other under its pallid hide. Another undead followed. They scuttled up the wall like some grotesque predatory geckos, driven by the navigators’ will.

Hugh had brought his Masters of the Dead. This was just getting better and better.

The Masters of the Dead took positions behind the twin lines of the Iron Dogs. The hallway stood empty for a long breath.

You could hear a pin drop. The shapeshifters froze, silent and wary.

Hugh turned the corner. He wore leather armor. Supple, but reinforced with metal plates, it molded to him as if it had been melted, poured over his body, and allowed to harden. Loose but thick leather pants shielded his legs. Wrist guards of hardened leather and metal plates protected his wrists. A strip of leather, likely hiding a thin flexible length of metal, guarded his neck. He had come to fight shapeshifters. Raking him with claws would do no good.

He marched down the hallway, wearing black and cloaked in magic. He looked unstoppable. He would soon learn that looks could be deceiving.

“Hail to Hugh d’Ambray,” the Iron Dogs intoned in unison, their voice one loud chorus.

Hugh strode through the door and walked to our table, straight to Desandra’s chair on my left.

“You’re in the wrong seat.” He held out his hand.

Desandra blinked, stood up, and put her hand into his. Hugh led her to his chair on Curran’s right and held it out for her. She sat. He turned and sat in her place, next to me.

Great.

“You didn’t bring enough,” Curran said quietly.

“It will suffice,” Hugh said. His voice boomed. “In honor of the hunt, I bring you entertainment.”

The Iron Dogs took three steps backward, turning, moving in unison until they formed a line along the wall to our right, behind Jarek’s werewolves. People entered the minstrel’s gallery, carrying small round drums, accordions, and other instruments. A line of men walked into the great hall, dressed in identical jet-black djigit coats. The musicians plucked at their instruments, adjusting and settling down.

A wild melody started, fast and limber, the rhythm of the drums like a racing heart. The men spun across the floor, dancing like a flock of graceful ravens, pivoting and leaping. The lead dancer dropped down and spun across the stage on his knees. I winced.

Hugh pretended to be absorbed in the dance.
What are you planning, you bastard?

Something tugged on my jeans. I glanced down carefully. Atsany stood by my chair.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

The small man patted my leg with his pipe, winked, and pointed to the side. I glanced up. Astamur stood by the door, leaning against the wall. He wore a long wide coat of black fleece that covered him from head to toe. A rifle rested in his hands. He looked straight at me and his eyes were grim. The nearest Iron Dog was feet away and oblivious to the man behind him. Nobody paid him any attention, as if they couldn’t see him.

I glanced down. Atsany was gone. I leaned to Curran. “Do you see him?”

“Who?”

“Astamur. By the door.”

Curran frowned. I looked back. Astamur was gone.

Okay, I did just see that. That wasn’t a hallucination.

The dancers snapped into their final poses. The music died. Hugh clapped. Reluctant applause followed from the side tables.

“Is there going to be a play next?” Curran asked. “I never took you for the dinner theater type.”

“I promise it will be a show you never forget,” Hugh said.

A man and a woman walked in. The man, lean and graceful, wore the black djigit outfit, his profile hawkish, his dark hair slicked back. The woman wore a silver-white gown that covered her head to toe. Fitted in the bust and the waist, the gown flared at the skirt. She looked like a swan. Her black hair fell in four braids, two over her chest, two down her back, all the way past her narrow waist. A small hat perched on her glossy hair, with a white veil trailing from it to hide her back.

The woman turned, standing side by side with the man. Her face was beautiful. I felt a brush of magic. It felt ancient.

“Thousands of years ago Suliko’s family entertained the ancient kings of Georgia,” Hugh said. “Today she honors us with her presence. She will dance the
kartuli
for us. Count yourself fortunate. You will not see another dance like that.”

A song started with a solo of some sort of reed pipe, so old it rolled through me, familiar and new at the same time, like an echo of some racial memory buried deep inside me, in the places mind and reason couldn’t reach. The man held his hand out. The woman placed her fingers on his. He led her forward. They bowed.

Magic shifted. The shapeshifters sat, oblivious. This wouldn’t be a normal dance.

“What are you up to?” I squeezed through my teeth.

“You’ve been sleepwalking for so long, you forgot who you are,” he said “This is your wakeup call.”

“What’s going on?” Curran asked.

“Magic,” I told him.

“Yours isn’t the only ancient family,” Hugh said.

Drums joined the reed pipes in a quick rhythm. Suliko and her partner backed up—he moving on his toes in tall leather boots, she gliding as if she had wheels—and split, moving to the far ends of the room. The woman stood, her arms raised, so graceful it was almost painful to watch. The man approached her, drawing a big circle with his feet, one arm bent at the elbow and pressed to the top of his chest, the other extended straight to the side. He stopped, dignified, waiting for the woman to accept the invitation. She did and they glided across the floor, their arms raised, in sync but never touching, a black raven and a white swan.

Magic wound about them in invisible currents. It tugged on me. It was impossible not to watch them.

The dancers split again.

The music quieted, the wild quick notes of the pipes slowing, careful rather than fast. The woman moved with breathtaking grace, gliding backward, turning . . . So beautiful. I couldn’t look away. The magic held me spellbound.