Shadow Blade (4 page)

Damn. Shadow magic leading from Bernie’s hotel wasn’t a good sign. The void in the alleyway was worse. Either something was hiding or something wanted something else to stay hidden for a while.

The complexity of the magical construct was unusual. It hinted at an Adept level, if not an Avatar. That knowledge mixed with the memory of her experience with the old blade, causing her stomach to churn with sudden worry.

There was only one reason for a Shadow Adept to be at Bernie’s hotel: the ancient dagger. It emitted enough magical energy that anyone with a dash of extrasense could feel it and perhaps track it. She’d put enough protections around the dagger to ensure no one could sense it in her office and she’d showered with a salt scrub to rinse any magical residue off her body. No one could track it through her. But traces of energy would have lingered in Bernie’s hotel room. If he’d handled the dagger—as he no doubt had—at least a small amount of magic would have clung to him. The more he’d touched it, the longer vestiges of the dagger’s aura would remain.

Bernie was pure human, a Normal. He couldn’t even sense Shadow
magic,
much less defend himself against it. He certainly wasn’t a match for a four-thousand-year-old warrior who laughed while he killed.

With precise movements, Kira pulled off her gloves and tucked them into an inner pocket of her vest. Tension filled her as she flexed her fingers. Outside her home base, she only de-gloved to catalog artifacts or to take down Shadow creatures. Cataloging or killing, her hands knew their job well.

She reached into the false pocket on the right side of her cargo pants, drawing her Light-forged blade. Holding it flat against her thigh, Kira moved silently down the street, angling toward the mouth of the alley. The dead spot worried her, made her think it was a trap of some sort. Not that it mattered. As a Shadowchaser, she had to investigate any paranormal activity she encountered for the presence of Shadow magic. And, as Bernie’s friend, she had to keep going anyway, even if it was an ambush.

Her left hand twitched with the urge to draw her gun, but she wouldn’t pull it unless absolutely necessary. If she faced something more than human and capable of forging Chaos magic, the gun and its magically enhanced silver bullets would only slow it down. Besides, the gun had no silencer. The sound of gunshots would attract unwanted attention, and she didn’t want any innocents getting in the line of fire.

Her Normal senses reasserted themselves. The alleyway lay shrouded in shadow and darkness, standard for this time of night. Ten feet in, however, the darkness was deeper, more complete: the curtain of Shadow magic as it manifested in the mundane world.

She wrenched her emotions and got her vision under control, shoving her awareness through the Veil again. Her blade reacted to the presence of Chaos magic, emitting a soft blue glow. Had it flared, she would have drawn her gun and assault spells, damn the attention.

Some of the tension left her shoulders when she sensed that whoever had erected the blank spot was already gone—meaning they weren’t trying to conceal themselves, but something else.
An attack spell?

A whispered word sent power surging through her blade. Balancing on the balls of her feet, Kira yanked the dagger up in a deadly arc, piercing the darkness, which parted like tissue paper, revealing the contents of the alley.

It took a moment for her brain to comprehend what her eyes saw. Kira had seen death in many forms. She’d seen ritual animal sacrifices and animals disembowel their prey as they tore into still-living flesh.
This .
 . . this was worse, much worse. Evisceration of a human victim was horrifying, even for a Shadowchaser.

Her knees unhinged, dropping her to the pavement. She had to take a deep, ragged breath to keep her stomach from heaving in protest, to stop her mouth from screaming.

Bernie.

At least his eyes were closed, his expression peaceful despite the fact his throat—and more—had been ripped out. Who or what had done this to him?

She’d have to touch him to find out.

Her hand trembled as she unfisted it. Kira didn’t want to touch him, not like this. Bernie had been like a father to her. So many times over the years she’d yearned to touch him, dreamed of putting her head on his shoulder, receiving a pat on the back or a hug after she’d confessed everything to him. That dream was now gone, and it seemed almost profane that her last chance to touch him, to feel his skin against hers, would be to find out who’d murdered him.

She’d forgotten about the blood pooled and drying about the body.
So much blood, soaking into the scattered debris and cracked asphalt.
As soon as she realized she could touch the blood instead of his cold pale skin, her left hand touched the pavement. Red-hued energy flared, racing up her body to her brain. Power steamrolled through her natural shields as the magic inherent in blood tripped her extrasense, flooding her with information. Images, thoughts, and emotions assaulted her, flying across her mind like arrows released by the hands of multiple expert archers.

Stepping onto the sidewalk.
Excited.
Kira has news. She’d never failed him, no matter how difficult or dangerous the artifact. He worries about her, though, worries about the cost each Shadow confrontation exacts from her. Perhaps it was time to tell her of
his own
involvement with the Gilead Commission. She’d be angry of course, but he has no doubt that she’d forgive him eventually.

A man walking his dog approaches. Who walks a dog, especially one so malformed and grotesque, in the business district at night?

The dog bumps into him, knocking him into the alley. It pins him to the ground. Not a dog. Not a dog, but something, oh God, something between a Doberman and a Komodo dragon. It strains against the iron chain leash, eyes glowing yellow. Dripping saliva sizzles as it drops onto his jacket and he realizes what it is.

Seeker demon.

A voice, soft and casual, asks for the blade. He can’t see the second being’s face, but knows to be afraid. Anyone who can control a seeker demon could easily rape his mind, control his body. Death is preferable. Using his tongue, keeping his mind blank, he loosens the cap on a back molar. Swift-acting poison, given to all handlers in case of capture, concealed in a capsule.

The man speaks again. The seeker demon’s claws sink into his shoulder. Comstock bites down on the capsule, flooding his mouth with the poison. Death comes as an aneurysm. His last thought: forgive me.

The Veil dropped like the snap of a flag in a strong breeze.

“Bernie.” Kira looked at the face of the man she would have called Father, struggling to overcome the grief that clawed at her heart.

He’d lied to her about who he was just as she’d lied to him. Or, rather, thought she’d lied. He’d known all along she was a Shadowchaser. He’d been part of Gilead. He’d known about her other duties, had neatly filled the void Nico’s death had left. He’d been her mentor and her friend, yes, but he’d also been her
handler .
 . . and she’d never known.

Shadowchasers usually had handlers to act as intermediaries between them and Gilead. Kira thought she’d been an exception. By their very nature, Chasers weren’t proficient in mundane details, focused as they were on battling Shadow in all its forms. They relied on their handlers to take mission orders from the Commission and to arrange the logistics of traveling from place to place easily and securely, acquiring weapons and information from Gilead’s field offices, and filing and submitting the paperwork when the job was done. Shadowchasers traditionally didn’t do well with bureaucratic busy-ness and Kira was no exception.

She’d already met and lost her first handler before going to London, fresh out of Chaser training. Nico’s death had hollowed her out and she’d vowed not to take another handler, Gilead Commission’s rules
be
damned. Bernie was so much the dashing younger Nico’s opposite that she would have had a hard time accepting him as her handler even if he’d introduced himself as such.

Kira was a burr in Gilead’s bureaucratic hide, but she’d thought she’d been managing on her own. Instead, Bernie—having worked as a curator in the
Petrie
Museum
, a professor at
University
College
, and proprietor of his own business, paperwork was second nature—had been quietly smoothing things for her. He’d probably been working behind the scenes, double-checking, filling out, correcting, saving her ass for—
How
long?

How long had he been her handler? From the moment she’d arrived in London? When she’d entered University? Had the first day they’d met—when she’d bumped into him while studying an exhibit at the Petrie—simply been a planned encounter set up by Balm so as not to arouse her suspicions? Balm obviously knew her well—Kira had never once suspected Bernie of being anything other than a cherished friend.

Kira thought he’d been her
out.
Her only escape.
She’d dreamed of returning to London with him one day, learning the business she’d stumbled into all those years ago. She’d held on to that dream with a desperate hope, nurturing it on those cold nights when she wasn’t entirely sure she’d defeated Shadow. It had been all that kept her going sometimes—and it had been a lie.

Slowly she climbed to her feet,
then
ripped the left sleeve from her blouse to wipe the blood from her trembling hands. There were times when dreams died just as hard, just as painfully, as people. She’d avenge Bernie’s death. But she didn’t think she’d ever forgive him.

Turning, she headed for the mouth of the alley and pulled her cell phone out of her pocket while she automatically scanned her surroundings.
Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing at all.
Shouldn’t someone have noticed? A good man had died and the world kept on as if nothing had happened.

She hit the fourth entry on her speed dial, connecting to a Seattle exchange as she stalked up the street, back to the restaurant. It was answered on the first ring.
“Travel Department.
How may I help you?”

“You’ve got a bird down,” she said without preamble, amazed at the steady monotone of her voice. She’d screamed the code into a phone in Venice six years ago, when she’d tried in vain to hold Nico’s chest closed.

“Triangulating position.
A team is being dispatched,” the voice said as if losing a handler was an everyday occurrence for the Commission. It probably was, but not for Bernie.

Bernie.

“Remain nearby and prepare for pickup,” the operator continued. “We’ll need to debrief you.”

“The hell I will,” Kira snarled into the phone, glad to have a target, albeit a disembodied one. “You turn my friend into a handler without my knowledge and you expect me to wait to chase his killer? Fuck that noise.”

“Solomon—”

She snapped her phone closed,
then
called her power. Her fingers flared blue, frying the phone’s circuitry. For good measure she hurled the tiny device to the ground, slammed a boot heel on it, and was rewarded with a satisfying crunch.

After making short work of modifying her right sleeve to match her left, she strode back to the restaurant, found her bike, drew on her gloves, and climbed aboard the Buell. She probably had another five minutes before a Gilead Commission Recovery Team arrived. Gilead’s technology rivaled that of any country’s spy program, especially since they’d had a few millennia to develop it. They’d track her down soon enough, but she had no intention of making it easy for them. Time was short and she had Shadows to chase.

“Is she the one?”

The wraith, as translucent and shimmery as a half-seen cobweb, hovered a few feet off the ground further down

“True,” the man said. “But I could use a challenge for a change.”

“What are you going to do?” the wraith asked.

“Follow her, study her. Find a weakness and exploit it.”

“She’s a Shadowchaser,” the wraith pointed out. “They’re not known for weakness.”

“She’s still human. All humans are weak.”

“And if she’s not?” The wraith solidified, its mercurial shape elongating before taking the appearance of an older black man.

“Doesn’t matter.
She has my blade. I will have it back.”

Chapter 3

K
ira pulled her bike to a stop in front of the one establishment in Atlanta where Gilead wouldn’t dare follow her: the DMZ. The Goth club took its name from the military term “demilitarized zone”—an area between two belligerent powers where no fighting or other military activity was permitted—and it served pretty much the same purpose. Both sides of the Eternal Struggle could enter the DMZ freely as long as no weapons were drawn or confrontations occurred. Outside a hundred yards from the entrance, however, and you
were fair game
again.