Magic Strikes (26 page)

At the sound of his voice, the tigress backpedaled, stumbled over the four-armed body, and sat on it in the most undignified manner.

“You’re sitting on the evidence,” Jim said.

The tigress leapt up and spun around, nearly taking me off my feet with her butt. A snarl ripped from her mouth.

“Yes, there is a dead creature in the room. Lie down, Dali, and relax. It will come to you.”

The tigress settled on the floor, peering at the bodies with open suspicion.

“She has short-term memory loss after the shift,” Jim murmured. “It will wear off in a minute. The cross-eyed thing will go away, too. Some cats react that way to stress.”

“Does she get aggressive?” The last thing I needed was to get raked over hot coals because I used excessive force to subdue a raging cross-eyed weretigress with temporary amnesia.

Jim’s face took on an odd expression, so unusual on his hard mug that it took me a moment to diagnose it as embarrassment. “No. She gags on raw meat and blood.”

“What?”

“She won’t bite or scratch or she’ll vomit. She’s a vegetarian.”

Oh boy. “But when she’s in beast form . . .”

He shook his head. “She eats grass. Don’t ask.”

Dali rose and sniffed the four-armed body. She began at his feet, her flat feline muzzle trailing a mere quarter inch above the skin. The dark nose scanned the long toes of the left foot, tipped with sharp claws, and slid up, along the shin to the knee. Dali paused there, licked the hard pane of the kneecap, and moved up along the thigh. She stopped at the crotch, shifted to the right, and repeated the same thorough scent search with the right leg.

It took her a full five minutes to complete her survey.

“Anything?” I asked.

Dali shook her magnificent head. Damn it. We were back to dying Derek lying in a vat of liquid.

“Alright.” Jim nodded. “Change back. I thought of something else to ask.”

The tigress nodded. Her white pelt stretched, quivered, but remained on her body.

“Dali?” Jim’s voice was calm and measured.

The white fur crawled and snapped back into a tiger. Glacial-blue eyes stared at me, and in their crystal depth, I saw panic.

The tigress ran.

She dashed around the room, trampling the bodies. Her furry shoulder brushed the tall, tulip-shaped lamp. The lamp went flying and exploded against the floor in a shower of glass. Dali rampaged over the shards and collided with the LCD display on the wall. The large metal frame slid off its hook and thundered down, landing on Dali’s skull. I winced.

Dali whipped about, her eyes completely wild, and met Jim. He stepped in her way and stared.

Dali shivered. The fur rose on her haunches. She snarled.

Jim simply stood. His eyes were pure emerald.

With a heavy sigh, Dali hugged the ground and lay down.

Alpha of the cats in action.

Jim knelt by Dali. “Can you change shape?”

The tigress whined low. I took it as a no.

Small streaks of blood seeped from Dali’s huge paws, vivid against her white fur. Given her aversion to blood, she probably wouldn’t even lick her injuries. I fetched the med kit Doolittle had used to patch me up, fished out a pair of tweezers, and settled down by her feet. She offered me one enormous paw. I
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opened the bottle of antiseptic, poured some on a piece of gauze, and wiped the blood from the huge pads. Three glass shards sat embedded in the flesh, trophies of her glorious battle with the lamp.

“I want you to keep trying to revert to human shape,” Jim said. “Don’t strain yourself, but keep a steady pressure.”

I hooked the first shard with the tweezers and plucked it from her paw. Blood gushed. Dali jerked, pulling me with her. Fire laced my side. I winced. There went Doolittle’s patching.

“Hold still, please.”

Dali whined and let me have her paw. The cut didn’t seal. I swiped at it with gauze. Still open. Shit. She and Derek now exhibited the same symptoms: an inability to shift and retarded regeneration. I deposited the bloody piece of frosted-white glass onto the lid of the first aid kit.

“Let’s talk scents.” Jim’s voice was smooth, soothing. “Did you smell anything odd off the bodies?”

Dali rocked her head side to side.

I plucked another shard from her paw. “Aside from shape, do you feel any different?”

Dali whined. That was the trouble with shapeshifters in animal form: they couldn’t vocalize and most couldn’t write. Yes and no questions were our only option.

I hooked the third shard, but the tweezers slipped. The sucker was deep in there. “Dali, spread your fingers for me if you can.”

Huge claws shot out from her paw as she spread her toes.

“Thank you.” I pinched the shard and pulled it out.

The tiger flesh boiled under my fingers and I found myself holding a human hand.

“Oh my God.” Dali’s voice hit a trembling high note. “Oh my God.”

“What did you do?” Jim leaned forward, focused as if he sighted prey.

Tears swelled in Dali’s eyes. “I thought I would be stuck in animal form forever.” She looked around the room. “I wrecked the place. And your wound . . . I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I mumbled, focused on the shard. It looked yellow to me. The tulip lamp had been frosted white. “Happens all the time.”

I grabbed the first aid kit, held it under the tweezers in case I dropped the shard on the way, got up, and carried the sliver of glass to the window. The shard sparkled, casting a faint yellow shade onto the white first aid box. Hello, Mr. Clue.

Jim frowned at the shard. “Topaz?”

“I think so. What do you want to bet this is a piece of the Wolf Diamond?” It made sense. The Reapers wanted the Wolf Diamond so they could use it as a weapon against shapeshifters. Two plus two equaled a bloody chunk of silicate in my hand. “Do you think it prevents transformation?”

Jim swiped it from the tweezers and sliced the flesh of his palm with a quick flick of his nails. He slid the shard into the cut.

Green rolled over his eyes. His lips trembled. A shiver ran through his body, raising the hair on the back of his arms. His gaze had gone jaguar-wild, but his shape remained human.

Without a word, he extracted the shard and dropped it into the lid as if it were red-hot.

This was it. This was the weapon the rakshasas needed to destroy the Pack. The gem couldn’t be stolen; it had to be won or it would bring a curse upon its thief. They entered the Midnight Games so they could get the gem, and once they got it, they would carve it into a thousand pieces and use the shards to prevent shapeshifters from assuming their animal or warrior form. Without shapeshifting and regeneration, the Pack would become filling for the rakshasa meat grinder.

“I must’ve stepped onto the shard when I touched the body,” Dali murmured.

“You mean, when you stomped all over it.” Jim shook once, as if flinging water from himself. “The kid has one inside him somewhere. But the m-scanner isn’t picking it up.”

Dali touched the shard with her fingertip. “It’s so small. The scanner might not be sensitive enough to detect it with low magic.”

“I don’t want to slice him to ribbons looking for it. He might not make it. There has to be another way,”

Jim said.

The plan shaped up in my head. “I’m going to Macon.”

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Jim blinked and a light sparked in his eyes. “Julie, your ward. She is in school near Macon. And she’s a hell of a sensate.”

Julie, the kid whom I met during the flare, had a one-in-a-million talent. She was a sensate and she could read the colors of magic better than any m-scanner. She was studying in the best boarding school I could get her into, only two hours away by ley line.

I nodded. “If anybody can find the shard in Derek’s body, she will.”

I TAPPED MY FINGERS ON THE COUNTER, THE phone to my ear, and checked the gauze I pressed against my ribs. Still bleeding.

The line clicked and a soothing female voice greeted me. “Ms. Daniels?”

“Hello.”

“My name is Citlalli. I’m Julie’s counselor.”

“I remember. We’ve met.” Memory thrust an image before me, a small dark woman with Madonna eyes.

A very strong empath. Like surfers, the empaths rode the waves of people’s emotions, feeling the grief or joy of others as if it were their own. They made excellent psychiatrists and sometimes their patients drove them insane.

I frowned. Something was up. I didn’t ask to speak to the counselor.

“Ms. Daniels . . .”

“Kate.”

“Are you precognizant, Kate?”

“Not that I know of. Why do you ask?”

“I’m drafting a letter to you regarding Julie, and I wondered if my concentration may have triggered your phone call.”

Oh no. “What did she do?”

“Julie has developed some issues.”

Julie was an issue riding on an issue and using a third issue for a whip. But she was mine, and despite the kind quality of Citlalli’s voice, all my needles stood up defensively . I tried to keep the hostility out of my answer. “Go on.”

“Due to the gap in her education, she has to take remedial classes.”

“We discussed that prior to her admittance.”

“Academically she’s progressing ahead of schedule. I have no doubt that she will catch up with her peers by the end of the year,” Citlalli assured me. “But she’s experiencing problems adjusting socially.”

She had practically lived on the streets for the last two years, hiding from gangs and being brainwashed by her scumbag boyfriend. What did they expect from her?

On the other end of the line, Citlalli cleared her throat softly. My irritation must’ve been intense enough for her to pick up. I took a deep breath and cleared the baggage. Emotions receded, still present but held deep below the surface. It was a meditation technique I had learned in childhood. I rarely used it because I liked to ride the edge of my emotions. Fear, anger, outrage, love, courage, I utilized them for a boost in the fight. But I knew how to suppress them, and the older I got, the easier suppression came to me.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you discomfort. You were describing Julie’s problems?”

“Thank you. Children can be cruel at Julie’s age. They struggle for personal identity. Establishing pecking order becomes very important. Julie finds herself at a disadvantage. Academically she’s behind, so she can’t use her accomplishments in that area to gain popularity. She’s not very good at sports, partially due to malnourishment and partially because she doesn’t have remarkable talents in that arena. We have some outstanding athletes and she realizes she will never be a star. She doesn’t excel at combat, and
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while those with knowledge find her magical sensitivity impressive, children appreciate flashier magics more.”

“In other words, she isn’t a jock, she isn’t a warrior, she’s taking remedial lessons, and her magic is lackluster because she can’t breathe fire or melt metals with a blink.”

“Essentially. Some of the children in the same position reach for their family history to establish their cred with other kids.”

“Julie doesn’t have any remarkable family members.” No heroes. No great mages.

“She has you.”

“Oh.”

“She’s been telling stories. Beautiful, terrifying stories of demons and goddesses and witches. I know they are true recollections because I feel her sincerity. But the kids . . .”

“They’re picking on her because they think she’s lying.”

“Yes. We’re monitoring the situation very closely. She has not suffered any abuse. However, Julie’s an emotional child . . .”

“She’s a chunk of plastic explosive with a fuse armed.”

“Aptly put. She has a knife.”

I closed my eyes and counted to three. I had taken away all her knives and searched her twice before I dropped her off.

“She refuses to part with it. We can take the knife away physically. But it would greatly reinforce the damage already done to her ego. It would be much better if she gave it up voluntarily and I’m afraid you’re the only person who could compel her to do so at this stage.”

I glanced at the clock. Eleven. Felt like 6:00 p.m. “What’s Julie’s schedule for the rest of the day?”

There was a pause. “Remedial algebra until one, second shift lunch until one thirty, instruction in the remedial arcane until three, social studies until four, and archery until five . . .”

“Does she take archery with the other children?”

“Yes. It’s an outside activity.”

If I hurried, I could get there before five. “Could you do me a favor? Please tell Julie at lunch, so the other children will hear, that her aunt is coming to pick her up during archery practice?”

“Absolutely.”

“Thank you.”

I hung up and saw Jim leaning against the doorframe. “Kid okay?”

“Yeah. I’m leaving to pick her up.”

“I’ll send someone with you.”

“I don’t need an escort.”

Jim leaned his hands on the table and stared at me. “I assume the worst. If it was me, I’d have a way to track my dead. I’d track them here and watch the house. I’d follow you when you left and hit you when you’re at your weakest—when you had the kid with you. You die. Julie dies. Derek dies. I don’t tell you how to swing your sword. That’s your thing. Security’s my thing. Take someone with you.”