Shadow Blade (3 page)

Comstock shuddered again. “Do you still have the death trap?”

“That death trap is a hundred-grand worth of prime street muscle.” The Buell motorcycle was her baby and the money for its purchase and unique customization was well spent. Its speed and concealed weapons cache had saved her life on more than one occasion.

“I think I’ll pass on the ride,” Comstock said. “I did a little research and found a restaurant I’d like to try. It’s on Peachtree, just a short walk from the hotel. I can meet you there instead.”

“What’s it called?”

“Dogwood.
It actually has a grits bar!”

“A grits bar? Can’t we just go to a Waffle House instead? There’s almost one on every corner and they have all the grits you can stand.”

He gave her a reproachful look. “I’m a gourmand, Kira. You know I don’t eat anywhere that requires a tetanus shot or a hangover.”

If he’d ever been out at three in the morning and exhausted from policing hybrids and Shadow Adepts, he’d appreciate the always-open chain and its kick-you-in-the-ass coffee.
“All right.
Dogwood it is.”

After escorting the art dealer out, Kira returned to her worktable. The dagger lay as they’d left it, nestled in its specially fitted briefcase. She pondered taking it downstairs to her double-shielded office,
then
decided against it.

“Okay,” she muttered, “time to see what you’re made of.”

Bracing her gloved hands on the worktable, she leaned over and focused her attention on the dagger. Exhaling slowly, she muted the input of her Normal senses, allowing her extrasense to dominate her mind. As always, she felt a slight resistance as the ordinary and extra-ordinary slid against each other, battling for dominance. Then her extrasense assumed control, reaching through Logic’s Veil to touch the current of magic.

The dagger glowed in response, a sheen having little to do with the ivory and gold shaping its hilt. Oh yes, someone or something had imbued the dagger with a great deal of magic. What she didn’t know was whether it was Shadow magic or not.

She frowned, allowing the Veil to thicken again. Shadow magic was always tricky to handle, based as it was on Chaos. She hadn’t been surprised in a while. Then again, she hadn’t come across a four-thousand-year-old magical knife before, either.

Concentrating, she thinned the Veil again, her extrasense cocooning the dagger. The ancient magic didn’t react.
Encouraging.
Still, Kira took her time. The last thing she wanted was to be thrown across the room by a pissed-off blade.

She straightened, peeling off the thin surgical gloves.
“Time to tell me your secrets.”

Kira spread her hands above the dagger. It neither welcomed nor rejected her. She supposed this was a good thing. But it seemed to be waiting for her touch, somehow expecting it—and that, she supposed, was not a good thing.

“I’m not going to harm you,” she said softly. “I just want to know more about you.” It wouldn’t hurt to talk to the blade, give it plenty of time to decide whether she was friendly or not. That whole throwing-one-across-the-room thing was definitely to be avoided, even if it took some extra time.

Until Kira touched the dagger, she wouldn’t know if it would give up its secrets. She’d have to touch it to determine if the dagger’s magic stemmed from its composition, a powerful spell, or a spirit inhabiting the blade. A spirit-bound weapon wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but when it was bad, it was very bad indeed.

After taking a moment to steady herself, she slipped her fingers beneath the blade, wrapping them around the ivory and gold handle. For a moment she felt only the smooth, cool surface of the
hilt .
 . .

Then a rushing sound filled her head and the warehouse walls shimmered to translucency,
then
disappeared altogether. Turquoise spilled across the pipes and suspended lighting fixtures of her ceiling, a vivid sky brightened by the heat of the searing sun. Hot sand replaced the floor and old Persian rug under her battered worktable—except there was no table, nor were there books, chairs, artifacts . . . Rocky, sandy hills stretched away in the distance before her, but to one side were trees and green fields, the glint of what could only be water. A gleaming white pyramid cut into the sky.

Pyramid?

Disorientation swept over Kira as she felt herself being lifted,
carried .
 . . No, not her. It was not Kira being held and lifted, it was the dagger, but she
was
the dagger and it was being taken on a gilded tray along a promenade of sweeping stone columns. Stately movement, tinkling instruments, the murmur of voices.
A processional of some sort, moving from bright heat to a cooler interior.
They moved along a grand corridor, every surface brilliantly decorated with colorful images of Egyptian gods, hieroglyphs, flora and fauna.

Finally they stopped. Silence filled the grand audience hall and yet she could feel a thrum of excitement, of anticipation, coming from the dagger. At last the reason for its existence had come. Someone worthy had come.

Moving again, the tray was offered up. A pair of golden brown hands cradled her.
Disappointment.
Not the one.

She balanced on a pair of hands, heard a voice—deep, masculine, melodious—saying words she did not understand but sounded formal to her ears. As she was lowered, Kira saw the uraeus first—a rearing golden cobra with its hood flared—then the
nemes,
the striped head cloth even those who knew nothing about ancient Egypt associated with pharaohs. Beneath the royal regalia, kohl-lined dark eyes and a broad but angular nose were set in a bronze face with full lips and a strong chin. Sun glinted off a broad gold and jeweled collar worn over a gleaming white linen tunic.

Another voice spoke; Kira sensed it asked a question. The pharaoh replied in what sounded like the negative,
then
stepped forward.

She was being offered to someone. A man, darker skinned than the pharaoh, prostrated himself on the woven mat that protected the god-king’s feet from the stone floor of what Kira thought must be a palace, no . . . a temple terrace. Light scars marred the dark satin of the man’s broad, muscular back, scars—reminders of battles fought, not lashes given. Thick ropes of black hair covered his head and trailed across the mat.

This was the one.

The pharaoh spoke again and the dark-skinned warrior rose until he sat on his haunches with his arms lifted, palms raised upward. But he did not look directly at the living god. To do so was forbidden. Who could look upon the face of a god and survive?

The dagger shifted, passing from the pharaoh to the warrior’s raised hands. The ruler spoke again, sounding pleased,
then
molded the warrior’s fingers around the blade. For a moment the god-king’s hands warmed the warrior’s, together on the ivory hilt. The kneeling man pressed the flat of the blade to his lips, then touched his forehead to the stone again, speaking ceremonial words in a rich baritone that made Kira shiver.

Everything blurred, became
dark .
 . .

Kira realized the dagger now dripped blood, as it was created to do. The acrid stench of something burning, something more than vegetation, filled her nostrils. Bodies littered the dusty ground, blood staining the dirt blackish red. She heard tears, screams, cries of pain. Above it all
rose
another sound, a darker tone, somehow more terrifying than the others.
Laughter.
The warrior laughed as he moved through the carnage; it was a cold laughter with an edge of madness to it. The blade swung in his fist, ringing like a clarion, thirsting for
blood .
 . .

More images, more death, more blood. Not only in Egypt, not only in Africa. Not only four thousand years ago. Chariots, cavalry, arrows, guns, bombs, armored vehicles,
grenades .
 . . many weapons, many places, many times.

The rushing sound returned to Kira’s brain, separating her awareness from the dagger. She opened her eyes with a gasp, finding herself sprawled on her oriental carpet, the dagger inches from her outstretched hand. She scrambled away from it, away from the emotion and sensation that threatened to drag her back through the Veil.

“Ma’at
protect
me,” she whispered, drawing a shaky hand across her lips. By the Light, the dagger really was four thousand years old, and possessed of so much magic that it was almost sentient.

That knowledge wasn’t the cause of the sudden cold in the pit of her stomach.

The dagger’s owner, the dark warrior with the baritone voice, was
still .
 . . somehow . . . alive.

And looking for his blade.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2

C
omstock was late.

Kira tapped the crystal face of her watch, considering. Bernie was known for several things: his love of all things antique, his penchant for local flavor, and his obsession with punctuality. She’d even given him enough teasers about the dagger over the phone to ensure that he’d arrive early, eager to hear more of her discoveries.

The dagger.
Kira suppressed a shudder by reaching for her water glass and taking a slow, careful sip to steady her nerves. It had taken her several minutes before she could peel her ass off the floor, pull on her gloves, and put the damned blade back in its case. She’d added a few ready-made protective charms and safeties before locking it into an iron casket and hiding it in a safe behind a trompe l’oeil facade in her lead-lined basement office.
Nothing wrong with a little paranoia.
Experience had taught her more than once that it was better to be neurotic than dead.

Just as experience had taught her that Comstock was never late for anything.
Ever.

Rising to her feet, Kira threw a couple of dollars onto the table,
then
left the restaurant. For a moment she considered going for her bike and the cache of weapons it concealed. She’d had to change its protections to park it in a public lot and she’d have to reactivate them to go hunting. Intuition told her that even those few minutes would be too much.

Tugging her vest straight, she turned north on Peachtree toward the Georgian Terrace two blocks away, struggling not to run. The temperature had fallen after the sun had set, chilling the October air. She’d dressed up for dinner, switching to a white silk blouse beneath a black leather vest, and black cargo pants with heeled leather boots instead of her usual Chaser’s gear.
Dressy enough to get into the upscale eatery without comment, comfortable enough for Shadowchasing, if necessary.

She hoped it wasn’t necessary, that all the evening would bring was a relaxing dinner with a good friend.

She eased into a ground-eating stride, mentally cataloging her weapons.
Knives in each boot, her Lightblade concealed under the pocket flap on her right thigh.
Larger blade wedged under the vest against her spine, its hilt hidden by her thick braids. Small-caliber handgun in the holster at the small of her back, one general-issue protective charm concealed in the thick silver bracelet on her right wrist, and one ready-to-use assault spell behind the watch on her left. The heavy silver collar at her throat was a weapon of last resort—it took too many seconds to convert to a slinging blade for her liking. Sometimes mere seconds decided which way her fights would go.

She’d planned to return home after dinner to change into full Shadowchasing gear—could never have too many weapons or protections—for her nightly patrol around the city in order to avoid the brunt of Bernie’s curiosity. She hoped she wouldn’t need any of her more powerful equipment. She hoped Bernie had simply gotten caught up in some research about the blade and lost track of the time.

Across the street from Bernie’s hotel, she skidded to a stop. The Georgian Terrace was Bernie’s favorite place to stay in Atlanta not only because it was a century old and had hosted presidents and the
Gone With the Wind
premiere gala, but it was also directly across the street from the Fox Theatre with its Moorish and Egyptian decor. No performance was scheduled tonight, though the marquee still lit up the night. She didn’t need the illumination to know something was wrong.

Although Normals would never notice, magic draped the hotel’s white-marble-columned entrance, soaking into the grand French Renaissance architecture like a cloying fog. Kira immediately realized it was not the come-spend-your-money-here type of magic worked by a commerce witch for a human savvy enough to know such things existed. The stench was too strong to be Light-magic, too wild to be Adept. No, it carried the all-too-familiar rankness of Chaos.

Shadow-magic.

Kira pressed herself against the edge of the building being renovated across from the hotel, melting into the shadows beneath the scaffolding. Her gaze roamed over the Georgian’s entrance and surroundings, the terrace restaurant open to

Peachtree Street

. People walked along, going about their business as usual; nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
Time to push beyond.

Mindful of alerting any Shadow Adepts to her presence, Kira allowed a tendril of her extrasense to seep out, mentally pushing past the Normal, reaching around the Veil. A tingling sensation engulfed her as her regular five senses grappled for control, then acceded to her extrasense.

Chaos magic drenched the sidewalk leading from the hotel. To Kira, it looked like a pale phosphorescent mist that stained the air. Those with any trace of magical ability or extrasensory perception would recognize the wrongness of it. A couple of days of hard rain or a cleansing ritual would be needed to clear the area, but she’d have to worry about that later.

She crossed the street, following the trail past the hotel and theater. At

Third Street

it banked right, to the east. The wild magic seemed to concentrate at the entrance to an alley a few yards away, coalescing into a thin glowing curtain of power—all invisible to the mundane eye. Behind the curtain, the alley was a void, an absence of existence, unreachable by her extrasense.