Magic Strikes (3 page)

MARIGOLD CHUGGED UP THE STREETS, SLOW BUT steady, and seemingly tireless. The jagged skyline crawled past me, once-proud buildings reduced to crumbling husks. It was as if magic had set a match to Atlanta but extinguished the flames before the scorched city had a chance to burn to the ground.

Here and there random pinpoint dots of electric lights punctured the darkness. A scent of charcoal smoke spiced with the aroma of seared meat drifted from the Alexander on Ponce apartments. Someone was cooking a midnight dinner. The streets lay deserted. Most people with a crumb of sense knew better than to stay out at night.

A high-pitched howl of a wolf rolled through the city, sending shivers down my spine. I could almost picture her standing upon a concrete rib of a fallen skyscraper, pale fur enameled silver by moonlight, her head raised to expose her shaggy throat as she sung a flawless song, tinted with melancholy longing and the promise of a bloody hunt.

A lean shadow skittered from the alley, followed by another. Emaciated, hairless, loping on all fours in a jerky, uncoordinated gait, they crossed the street before me and paused. They had been human at some point but both had been dead for more than a decade. No fat or softness remained on their bodies. No flesh—only steel-wire muscle beneath thick hide. Two vampires on the prowl. And they were out of their territory.

“ID,” I said. Most navigators knew me by sight just like they knew every member of the Order in Atlanta.

The forefront bloodsucker unhinged his jaw and the navigator’s voice issued forth, distorted slightly.

“Journeyman Rodriguez, Journeyman Salvo.”

“Your Master?”

“Rowena.”

Of all the Masters of the Dead, I detested Rowena the least. “You’re a long way from the Casino.”

“We . . .”

The second bloodsucker opened his mouth, revealing light fangs against his black maw. “He screwed up and got us lost in the Warren.”

“I followed the map.”

The second bloodsucker stabbed a clawed finger at the sky. “The map’s useless if you can’t orient for shit. The moon doesn’t rise in the north, you moron.”

Two idiots. It would be comical if I didn’t feel the blood hunger rising from the vamps. If these two knuckleheads lost control for a moment, the bloodsuckers would rip into me.

“Carry on,” I said and nudged Marigold.

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The vamps took off, the journeymen riding their minds probably bickering somewhere deep within the Casino. The
Immortuus
pathogen robbed its victims of their egos. Insentient , the vampires obeyed only their hunger for blood, butchering anything with a pulse. The emptiness of a vampiric mind made it a perfect vehicle for necromancers, Masters of the Dead. Most of the Masters served the People. Part cult, part research institute, part corporation, all vomit inducing, the People devoted themselves to the study and care of the undead. They had chapters in most major cities, just like the Order. Here, in Atlanta, they made their den in the Casino.

Among the power brokers of Atlanta, the People ranked pretty high. Only the Pack could match them in the potential for destruction. The People were led by a mysterious legendary figure, who chose to call himself Roland in this day and age. Roland possessed immense power. He was also the man I had been training all my life to kill.

I circled a big pot hole in the old pavement, turned onto Dead Cat, and saw the crime scene under a busted street lamp. Cops and witnesses were nowhere in sight. Gauzy moonlight sifted onto the bodies of seven shapeshifters. None of them was dead.

Two werewolves in animal form swept the scene for scents, carefully padding in widening circles from the narrow mouth of Dead Cat Street. Most shapeshifters in beast form ran larger than their animal counterparts, and these proved no exception: hulking, shaggy beasts taller and thicker than a male Great Dane. Past them, two of their colleagues in human form packed something suspiciously resembling a body into a body bag. Three others walked the perimeter, presumably to keep the onlookers out of the way. As if anyone was dumb enough to linger for a second look.

At my approach, everything stopped. Seven pairs of glowing eyes stared at me: four green, three yellow.

Judging by the glow, the shapeshifter crew hovered on the verge of going furry. One of their own was dead and they were out for blood.

I kept my tone light. “You fellows ever thought of hiring out as a Christmas lights crew? You’d make a fortune.”

The nearest shapeshifter trotted to me. Bulky with muscle but fit, he was in his early forties. His face wore the trademark expression the Pack presented to the outsiders: polite and hard like the rock of Gibraltar. “Good evening, ma’am. This is a private investigation conducted by the Pack. I’m going to have to ask you to please move on.”

Ma’am . . .
Oy.

I reached into my shirt, pulled out the wallet of transparent plastic I carried on a cord around my neck, and passed it to him. He glanced at my ID, complete with a small square of enchanted silver, and called out, “Order.”

Across the street a man congealed from the darkness. One moment there was only a deep night shadow lying like a pool of ink against the wall of the building, and the next there he stood. Six-two, his skin the color of bitter chocolate, and built like a prize fighter. Normally he wore a black cloak, but today he limited himself to black jeans and T-shirt. As he moved toward me, muscles rolled on his chest and arms.

His face inspired second thoughts in would-be brawlers. He looked like he broke bones for a living and he loved his job.

“Hello, Jim,” I said, keeping my tone friendly. “Fancy meeting you here.”

The shapeshifter who had spoken to me took off. Jim came close and patted Marigold’s neck.

“Long night?” he asked. His voice was melodious and smooth. He never sang, but you knew he could, and if he decided to do it, women would be hurling themselves into his path.

“You might say that.”

Jim was my partner from the days when I worked exclusively for the Mercenary Guild. Some merc gigs required more than one body, and Jim and I tackled them together, mostly because we couldn’t stomach working with anybody else. Jim was also alpha of the cat clan and the Pack’s chief of security. I’d seen him fight and I would rather take on a nest of pissed-off vipers any day.

“You should go home, Kate.” A sheen of faint green rolled over his eyes and vanished, his animal side coming to the surface for a moment.

“What happened here?”

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“Pack business.”

The wolf on the left let out a short yelp. A female shapeshifter ran over to him and picked up something off the ground. I caught a glimpse of it before she stuffed the object into a bag. A human arm, severed at the elbow, still in a sleeve. We had just gone from code green seven to code green ten. Shapeshifter murder. Accidental deaths rarely resulted in detached limbs strewn across the intersection.

“Like I said, Pack business.” Jim glanced at me. “You know the law.”

The law said that the shapeshifters were an independent group, much like a Native American tribe, with the authority to govern itself. They made their own laws and they had a right to enforce them, as long as those laws didn’t affect nonshapeshifters. If the Pack didn’t want my help on this investigation, there wasn’t a lot I could do about it. “As an agent of the Order, I extend an offer of assistance to the Pack.”

“The Pack appreciates the Order’s offer of assistance. As of now, we decline. Go home, Kate,” Jim repeated. “You look worn-out.”

Translation: shoo, puny human. Big, mighty shapeshifters have no need of your silly investigative skills.

“You squared this with the cops?”

Jim nodded.

I sighed, turned Marigold around, and headed home. Someone had died. I wouldn’t be the one to find out why. It irked me on some deep professional level. If it was anybody else but Jim, I would’ve pushed harder to see the body. But when Jim said no, he meant it. My pushing wouldn’t accomplish anything except straining relations between the Pack and the Order. Jim didn’t half-ass things, so his crew would be competent and efficient.

It still bothered me.

I would call the Paranormal Activity Division in the morning and see if any reports were filed. The paranormal cops wouldn’t tell me what was in the report, but at least I’d know if Jim had filed one. Not that I didn’t trust Jim, but it never hurt to check.

AN HOUR LATER I LEFT MARIGOLD IN A SMALL stable in the parking lot and climbed the stairs to my apartment. I had inherited the place from Greg, my guardian, who had served as knight-diviner with the Order. He had died six months ago. I missed him so much it hurt.

My front door was a sight like no other. I got in, locked the door, pulled off my noxious shoes, and dropped them in the corner. I would deal with them later. I unbuckled the leather harness that held Slayer, my saber, on my back, pulled the saber out, and put it by my bed. The apple pie beckoned. I dragged myself into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stared at an empty pie plate.

Had I eaten the pie? I didn’t remember finishing it. And if I had, I should’ve taken the empty plate out of the fridge.

The front door had shown no signs of forced entry. I did a quick inventory of the apartment. Nothing missing. Nothing out of place. Greg’s library with his artifacts and books looked completely undisturbed.

I must’ve finished the pie. Considering the insanity of the last forty-eight hours, I had probably just forgotten. Well, that sucked. I took the pie plate, washed it while murmuring curses under my breath, and put it in its place under the stove. I couldn’t have pie, but nobody could deny me my shower. I stripped off my clothes, shedding them on the way to the bathroom, crawled into the shower, and drowned the world in hot spray and rosemary soap.

I had just toweled off my hair when the phone rang.

I kicked the door open and stared at the phone, ringing its head off on the small night table by my bed.

Nothing good ever happened to me because of phone calls. There was always somebody dead, dying, or making somebody else dead on the other line.

Ring-ring.

Ring-ring-ring.

Ring?

I sighed and picked it up. “Kate Daniels.”

“Hello, Kate,” said a familiar velvet voice. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

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Saiman. Just about the last person I wanted to talk to.

Saiman had an encyclopedic knowledge of magic. He was also a shapeshifter—of sorts. I had done a job for him, back when I worked for the Mercenary Guild full-time, and he found me amusing. Because I entertained him, he offered me his services as a magic expert at a criminal discount. Unfortunately, the last time we had met was in the middle of the flare, atop a high-rise, where Saiman was dancing naked in the snow. With the largest erection I had ever seen on a human being. He didn’t want to let me off that roof either. I had to jump to get away from him.

I kept my voice civil. Kate Daniels, master of diplomacy. “I don’t want to speak to you. In fact, I don’t wish to continue our association at all.”

“That’s very unfortunate. However, I have something that might belong to you and I would like to return this item to your custody.”

What in the world? “Mail it to me.”

“I would but he would prove difficult to fit into an envelope.”

He?
He
wasn’t good.

“He refuses to speak, but perhaps I can describe him to you: about eighteen, dark, short hair, menacing scowl, large brown eyes. Quite attractive in a puppy way. Judging by the way the
tapedum lucidum
behind his retinas catches the light, he’s a shapeshifter. I’m guessing a wolf. You brought him with you during our last unfortunate encounter. I’m truly sorry about it, by the way.”

Derek. My one-time teenage werewolf sidekick. What the hell was he doing at Saiman’s apartment?

“Hold the phone to him, please.” I kept my voice even. “Derek, answer me so I know he isn’t bluffing.

Are you hurt?”

“No.” Derek’s voice was laced with a growl. “I can handle this. Don’t come here. It isn’t safe.”

“It’s remarkable that he has so much concern for your welfare, provided that he’s the one sitting in a cage,” Saiman murmured. “You keep the most interesting friends, Kate.”

“Saiman?”

“Yes?”

“If you hurt him, I’ll have twenty shapeshifters in your apartment foaming at the mouth at your scent.”

“Don’t worry. I have no desire to bring the Pack’s wrath on my head. Your friend is unharmed and contained. I will, however, turn him over to proper authorities unless you come and pick him up by sunrise.”

“I’ll be there.”

Saiman’s voice held a slight mocking edge. “I’m looking forward to it.”

I MADE IT BY 3:00 A.M.

Saiman occupied a suite on the fifteenth floor of the only high-rise still standing in Buckhead. Magic hated tall buildings—magic hated anything large and technologically complex, period—and gnawed them down to nubs of concrete and steelwork only four to five stories high. They jutted sadly here and there along Midtown, like decrepit obelisks of some long-forgotten civilization.