Ace Books by Ilona Andrews

The Kate Daniels Novels

Magic Bites

Magic Burns

Magic Strikes

Magic Bleeds

Magic Slays

Magic Rises

Magic Breaks

Magic Shifts

The World of Kate Daniels

Gunmetal Magic

The Edge Novels

On the Edge

Bayou Moon

Fate’s Edge

Steel’s Edge

Specials

Magic Mourns

Magic Dreams

Magic Gifts

Ilona Andrews

InterMix Books, New York

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

MAGIC GIFTS

An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author

“Magic Gifts” previously appeared in Gunmetal Magic, published by Ace.

Copyright © 2012 by Andrew Gordon and Ilona Gordon.

Excerpt from Magic Shifts copyright © 2015 by Andrew Gordon and Ilona Gordon.

Excerpt from On the Edge copyright © 2009 by Andrew Gordon and Ilona Gordon.

Excerpt from Gunmetal Magic copyright © 2012 by Andrew Gordon and Ilona Gordon.

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INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

For more information, visit penguin.com.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-451-48789-6

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Ace mass-market edition / July 2012

InterMix eBook edition / December 2015

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Penguin Random House is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the author’s alone.

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Contents

Ace Books by Ilona Andrews

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Epilogue

Excerpt from Magic Shifts

Excerpt from On the Edge

Excerpt from Gunmetal Magic

About the Author

CHAPTER 1

I was ten feet from the office door of Cutting Edge Investigations when I heard the phone ring inside. Unfortunately, the key to the office was in my sweatshirt pocket, which at the moment was also full of pale pink slime dripping from the tentacles resting on my shoulders. The tentacles weighed about seventy pounds and my shoulders really didn’t like it.

Behind me, Andrea, my best friend and partner in crime solving, shifted the bulbous mass of flesh that was the rest of the creature, rearranging it. “Phone.”

“I hear it.” I dug in my pocket, all but glued shut by slime. Cold wetness slipped through my fingers. Ew.

“Kate, it could be a client.”

“I’m trying to find the key.”

Clients meant money, and money was in short supply. Cutting Edge had opened its doors three months ago, and while we were getting a trickle of paying jobs, most of them were lousy. Despite a good recommendation from the Red Guard, the premier bodyguard outfit in Atlanta, clients weren’t knocking down our door to hire us.

Our world was beset by magic waves. They flooded us at random, smothering technology and leaving monsters in their wake. One moment you had rogue mages spitting fireballs and lightning, the next the magic would vanish, and the cops would gun down said mages with their now-operational firearms.

Sadly, the consequences of the magic waves didn’t always vanish with them, and Atlanta by necessity had spawned many agencies to deal with magic hazmat. All of them had been in business a lot longer than us: the cops, the Mercenary Guild, a slew of private companies, and the big gorilla, the Order of Merciful Aid. The Order and its knights made it their mission to guard humanity against all threats and they did just that—but on their terms. Both Andrea and I had worked for the Order at some point and both of us had left under less than amicable circumstances.

Our reputations weren’t stellar, so when we got a job, it was because everyone else in town had already shot it down. We were quickly turning into Atlanta’s business of last resort. Still, every successful job was a check mark by our name.

The phone rang, insistent.

Our latest job had come courtesy of the Green Acres Home Owners Association, who had shown up at our door this morning claiming that a giant levitating jellyfish was roaming their suburb and could we please come and get it, because it was eating local cats. Apparently the translucent jellyfish was floating about with half-digested cat bodies inside it, and the neighborhood children were very upset. The cops told them that it wasn’t a priority, since the jellyfish hadn’t eaten any humans yet, and the Mercenary Guild wouldn’t get rid of it for less than a grand. The HOA offered us $200. Nobody in their right mind would do the job for that price.

It took us all damned day. And now we had to properly dispose of the cursed thing, because dealing with the corpses of magical creatures was like playing Russian roulette. Sometimes nothing happened…and sometimes the corpse melted into a puddle of sentient carnivorous protoplasm. Or hatched foot-long blood-sucking leeches.

The weight of the jellyfish suddenly vanished from my shoulders. I rummaged in my pocket and my fingertips slid against the cold metal. I yanked the key out, slipped it into the lock, and swung the heavy reinforced door open. Aha! Victory.

I lunged through the door and made a break for the phone. I reached it a second too late and the answering machine came on. “Kate,” Jim’s voice said. “Pick up the phone.”

I backed away from the phone like it was on fire. I knew exactly what this call was about and I didn’t want any of it.

“Kate, I know you’re there.”

“No, I’m not,” I said.

“You will have to deal with this, sooner or later.”

I shook my head. “No, I won’t.”

“Call me.” Jim hung up.

I turned to the door and watched Andrea walk through it. Behind her, the jellyfish squeezed through the doorway on its own. I blinked. The jellyfish kept coming. It cleared the door, turned, and I saw Curran carrying it in his hands, as if the three-hundred-pound mass of flesh was no heavier than a plate of pancakes. It’s good to be the Beast Lord.

When had he arrived and what was he doing here, anyway?

“Where to?” he asked.

“Back room,” Andrea said. “Here, I’ll show you.”

I followed them and watched Curran pack the jellyfish into the biohazard container. He slid the lid in place, locked the clamps, and closed the distance between us. I held my slimy arms out to keep him from getting covered in ooze, leaned forward, and kissed the Beast Lord. He tasted like toothpaste and Curran, and the feel of his lips on mine made me forget the lousy day, the bills, the clients, and the two gallons of slime drenching my clothes. The kiss lasted only a couple of seconds, but it might as well have been an hour, because when we broke apart, it felt like I had come home, leaving all my troubles far behind.

“Hey,” he said, his gray eyes smiling at me.

“Hey.”

Behind him, Andrea rolled her eyes.

“What’s up?” I asked him.

Curran almost never came to visit my office, especially not in the evening. He hated Atlanta and its teeming masses with all the fire of a supernova. I didn’t have anything against Atlanta in theory—sure, it was half-eroded by the magic waves and it caught on fire with alarming frequency—but I had a thing about crowds. When my workday was over, I didn’t linger. I headed straight for the Keep, where the Atlanta shapeshifter Pack and His Furry Majesty resided.

“I thought we’d go to dinner,” he said. “It’s been a while since we’ve gone out.”

Technically we had never gone out to dinner, just the two of us. Oh, we had eaten together in the city but usually it was accidental and most of those times had involved other people and frequently ended in a violent incident.

“What’s the occasion?”

Curran’s blond eyebrows came together. “Does there have to be a special occasion for me to take you out to dinner?”

Yes. “No.”

He leaned in to me. “I missed you and I got tired of waiting for you to come home. Come grab a bite with me.”

Grabbing a bite sounded heavenly, except Andrea would be stuck here by herself. “I have to wait for Biohazard to pick up the jellyfish.”

“I’ve got it,” Andrea offered. “Go, there’s no reason for both of us to sit here. I have some stuff I need to take care of anyway.”

I hesitated.

“I can sign forms just as well as you,” Andrea informed me. “And my signature doesn’t look like the scratches of a drunken chicken in the dirt.”

“My signature is just fine, thank you very much.”

“Yeah, yeah. Go have some fun.”

“I need a shower,” I told Curran. “I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

It was Friday, eight o’clock on a warm spring night, my hair was brushed, my clothes were clean and slime-free, and I was going out with the Beast Lord. Curran drove. He did it very carefully, concentrating on the road. I had a feeling he’d learned to drive as an adult. I drove carefully too, mostly because I expected the car to fail on me at any second.

I glanced at Curran in the driver’s seat. Even at rest, like he was now, relaxed and driving, he emanated a kind of coiled power. He was built to kill, his body a blend of hard, powerful muscle and supple quickness, and something in the way he carried himself telegraphed a shocking potential for violence and a willingness to use it. He seemed to occupy a much larger space than his body actually did and he was impossible to ignore. The promise of violence he carried used to scare me, so I’d bait him until some of it came out, the same way people afraid of heights would rock climb to cure themselves. Now I just accepted him, the way he accepted my need to sleep with a sword under my bed.

Curran caught me looking. He flexed, letting the carved muscles bulge on his arms, and winked. “Hey, baby.”

I cracked up. “So where are we going?”

“Arirang,” Curran said. “It’s a nice Korean place, Kate. They have charcoal grills at the tables. They bring you meat and you cook it any way you want.”

It figured. Left to his own devices, Curran consumed only meat, punctuated with an occasional dessert. “That’s nice for me, but what will your vegetarian Majesty eat?”

Curran gave me a flat look. “I can always drive to a burger joint instead.”

“Oh, so you’d throw a burger down my throat and then expect making out in the backseat?”

He grinned. “We can do it in the front seat instead, if you prefer. Or on the hood of the car.”

“I’m not doing it on the hood of the car.”

“Is that a dare?”

Why me?

“Kate?”

“Keep your mind on the road, Your Furriness.”

The city rolled by, twisted by magic, battered and bruised but still standing. The night swallowed the ruins, hiding the sad husks of once mighty, tall buildings. New houses flanked the street, constructed by hand with wood, stone, and brick to withstand magic’s jaws.

I rolled down the window and let the night in. It floated into the car, bringing with it spring and a hint of wood smoke from a distant fire. Somewhere a lone dog barked out of boredom, each woof punctuated by a long pause, probably to see if the owners would let him in.

Ten minutes later we pulled into a long, empty parking lot, guarded by old office buildings that now housed Asian shops. A typical stone building with huge storefront windows sat at the very end, marked by a sign that read ARIRANG.

“This is the place?”

“Mhm,” Curran said.

“I thought you said it was a Korean restaurant.” For some reason I had expected a hanok house with a curved tiled roof and a wide front porch.

“It is.”

“It looks like a Western Sizzlin.” In fact, it probably used to be a Western Sizzlin.

“Will you just trust me? It’s a nice place…” Curran braked, and the Pack Jeep screeched to a stop.

Two skeletally thin vampires sat at the front of the restaurant, tethered to the horse rail with chains looped over their heads. Pale, hairless, dried like leathery jerky, the undead stared at us with mad glowing eyes. Death had robbed them of their cognizance and will, leaving behind mindless shells driven only by bloodlust. On their own, the bloodsuckers would slaughter anything alive and keep killing until nothing breathing remained. But their empty minds made a perfect vehicle for necromancers, who telepathically navigated them like remote-controlled cars.

Curran glared at the undead through the windshield. Ninety percent of the vampires belonged to the People, a weird hybrid of a corporation and a research institute. We both despised the People and everything they stood for.

I couldn’t resist. “I thought you said this was a nice place.”

He leaned back, gripped the steering wheel, and let out a long growling, “Argh.”

I chuckled.

“Who the hell stops at a restaurant in the middle of navigating undead?” Curran squeezed the wheel a little. It made a groaning noise.

I shrugged. “Maybe the navigators got hungry.”

He gave me an odd look. “This far away from the Casino means they’re out on patrol. What, did they suddenly get the munchies?”

“Curran, ignore the damn bloodsuckers. Let’s go and have a date anyway.”

He looked like he wanted to kill somebody.

The world blinked. Magic flooded us like an invisible tsunami. The neon sign above the restaurant winked out and a larger brilliant blue sign ignited above it, made from handblown glass and filled with charged air.

I reached over and squeezed Curran’s hand. “Come on, you, me, a platter of barely seared meat…it’ll be great. If we see the necromancers, we can make fun of the way they hold their forks.”

We got out of the car and headed inside. The bloodsuckers glanced at us in unison, their eyes like two smoldering coals buried beneath the ash of a dying fire. I felt their minds, twin hot pinpoints of pain, restrained securely by the navigators’ wills. One slipup and those coals would ignite into an all-consuming flame. Vampires never knew satiation. They never got full, they never stopped killing, and if let loose, they would drown the world in blood and die of starvation when there was nothing left to kill.

The chains wouldn’t hold them—the links were an eighth of an inch thick at best, good for restraining a large dog. A vamp would snap it and not even notice, but the general public felt better if the bloodsuckers were chained, and so the navigators obliged.

We passed the vampires and entered the restaurant.

The inside of Arirang was dim. Feylanterns glowed with soft light on the walls, as the charged air inside their colored glass tubes reacted with magic. Each feylantern had been handblown into a beautiful shape: a bright blue dragon, an emerald tortoise, a purple fish, a turquoise stocky dog with a unicorn horn…Booths lined the walls, their tables plain rectangles of wood. In the center of the floor four larger round tables sported built-in charcoal grills under metal hoods.

The restaurant was about half full. The two booths to our right were occupied, the first by a young couple, a dark-haired man and a blond woman in their twenties, and the second by two middle-aged men. The younger couple chatted quietly. Good clothes, relaxed, casual, well groomed. Ten to one these were the navigators who had parked the bloodsuckers out front. The People’s headquarters, known as the Casino, had seven Masters of the Dead and I knew them all by sight. I didn’t recognize either the man or the woman. Either these two were visiting from out of town or they were upper-level journeymen.

Both of the older guys in the next booth were armed. The closer one carried a short sword, which he had put on the seat next to him. As his friend reached for the salt shaker, his sweatshirt hugged the gun in his side holster.

Past the men in the far right corner, four women in their thirties laughed too loud—probably tipsy. On the other side a family with two teenage daughters cooked their food on the grill. The older girl looked a bit like Julie, my ward. Two businesswomen, another family with a toddler, and an older couple rounded off the patrons. No threats.

The air swirled with the delicious aroma of meat cooked over an open fire, sautéed garlic, and sweet spices. My mouth watered. I hadn’t eaten since grabbing some bread this morning from a street vendor. My stomach actually hurt.

A waiter in plain black pants and a black T-shirt led us to a table in the middle of the floor. Curran and I took chairs opposite one another, where I could see the back door and he had a nice view of the front entrance. We ordered hot tea. Thirty seconds later it arrived with a plate of pot stickers.

“Hungry?” Curran asked.

“Starving.”

“Combination platter for four,” Curran ordered.

His hungry and my hungry were two completely different things.

The waiter departed.

Curran smiled. It was a happy, genuine smile and it catapulted him from attractive into irresistible territory. He didn’t smile very often in public. That intimate smile was usually reserved for private moments when we were alone.

I pulled the band off my still-damp braid and slid my fingers through it, unraveling the hair. Curran’s gaze snagged on my hands. He focused on my fingers like a cat on a piece of foil pulled by a string. I shook my head and my hair fell over my shoulders in a long dark wave. There we go. Now we were both private in public.

Tiny gold sparks danced in Curran’s gray irises. He was thinking dirty thoughts and the wicked edge in his smile made me want to slide over next to him and touch him.

We had to wait. I was pretty sure that having hot sex on the floor of Arirang would get us banned for life. Then again, it might be worth it.

I raised my tea in a salute. “To our date.”

He raised his cup and we clinked them gently against each other.

“So how was your day?” he asked.

“First, I chased a giant jellyfish around through some suburbs. Then I argued with Biohazard about coming and picking it up, because they claimed it was a Fish and Game issue. Then I called Fish and Game and conferenced them in on the Biohazard call, and then I got to listen to the two of them argue and call each other names. They got really creative.”

“Then Jim called,” Curran said.

I grimaced. “Yes. That, too.”

“Is there a particular reason you’re avoiding our chief of security?” Curran asked.

“Do you remember how my aunt killed the head of the Mercenary Guild?”

“Not something one forgets,” he said.

“The Guild is still squabbling over who should be in charge now.”

Curran glanced at me. “That was what, five months ago?”

“My point exactly. On one side there are the older mercs, who have combat experience. The other side is the support staff. Both groups have roughly an equal share of the Guild as a result of Solomon’s will and they hate each other. It’s getting into death threat territory, so they’re having some sort of final arbitration to decide who’s in charge.”

“Except they are deadlocked,” Curran guessed.

“Yes, they are. Apparently Jim thinks I should break that tie.”

The Guild’s now-dead founder was a closet shapeshifter, and he had left twenty percent of the Guild to the Pack. So as long as the Mercenary Guild remained deadlocked, nobody was getting paid and the Pack alphas wanted that income stream to start flowing again. They put pressure on Jim, and Jim put pressure on me.

I had done enough years in the Guild to be viewed as a veteran. Jim had as well, but unlike me, he had the luxury of having kept his identity semi-private. Most mercs didn’t know he was high up in the Pack.

I had no privacy. I was the Beast Lord’s Consort. It was the price I paid for being with Curran, but I didn’t have to like it.

His Majesty drank his tea. “Not looking forward to settling the dispute?”

“I’d rather eat dirt. It’s between Mark, Solomon’s longtime assistant, and the veterans led by the Four Horsemen, and they despise each other. They aren’t interested in reaching a consensus. They just want to throw mud at each other over a conference table.”

An evil light sparked in his eyes. “You could always go for Plan B.”

“Pound everyone to a bloody pulp until they shut up and cooperate?”

“Exactly.”

It would make me feel better. “I could always do it your way instead.”

Curran raised his blond eyebrows.

“Roar until everyone pees themselves.”

A shadow of self-satisfaction flickered on his face and vanished, replaced by innocence. “That’s bullshit. I’m perfectly reasonable and I almost never roar. I don’t even remember what it feels like to knock some heads together.”

The Beast Lord of Atlanta, a gentle and enlightened monarch. “How progressive of you, Your Majesty.”

He cracked another grin.

The male necromancer in the booth next to us reached under the table and produced a rectangular rosewood box. Ten to one, there was some sort of jewelry inside.

I nodded at Curran. “Your turn. How did your day go?”

“It was busy and full of stupid shit I didn’t want to deal with.”

The blond woman opened the box. Her eyes lit up.

“The rats are having some sort of internal dispute over some apartments they bought. Took all day to untangle it.” Curran shrugged.

The woman plucked a golden necklace from the box. Shaped like an inch-and-a-half-wide segmented collar of pale gold, it gleamed in the feylantern light.

I poured us more tea. “But you prevailed.”

“Of course.” Curran drank from his cup. “You know, we could stay over in the city tonight.”

“Why?”

“Because that way we wouldn’t have to drive for an hour back to the Keep before we could fool around.”

Heh.

A scream jerked me to my feet. In the booth, the blond necromancer clawed at the necklace, gasping for breath. The man stared at her, his face a terrified mask. The woman raked her throat, gouging flesh. With a dried pop, her neck snapped, and she crashed to the floor. The man dived down, pulling at the necklace. “Amanda! Oh my God!”

Past him two pairs of red vampire eyes stared at us through the window.

Oh crap. I pulled Slayer from the sheath on my back. Sensing the undead, the pale blade of the enchanted saber glowed, sending wisps of white vapor into the air.

The dull carmine glow of vampire irises flared into vivid scarlet. Shit. The restaurant had just updated its menu with fresh human.

Flesh boiled on Curran’s arms. Bone grew, muscle twisted like slick ropes, skin sheathed his new body and sprouted fur. Enormous claws slid from Curran’s new fingers.

The vampires rose off their haunches.

Curran stood up next to me in his warrior form, nearly eight feet of steel-hard muscle.

I gripped Slayer’s hilt, feeling the familiar comforting texture. Bloodsuckers reacted to sudden movement, bright lights, loud noises, anything that telegraphed prey. Whatever I did had to be fast and flashy. The blood alone wouldn’t do it, not when every table was filled with raw meat.

The front window exploded in a cascade of gleaming shards, and the vampires sailed through, like they had wings. The left bloodsucker landed on the table, the remnant of the chain hanging from its neck. The right skidded on the slick parquet floor and bumped into another table, scattering the chairs.

I screamed and dashed to the left, pulling Slayer as I sprinted. Curran snarled and leaped, covering half the distance to the right bloodsucker in a single powerful jump.

My vamp glared at me. I looked into its eyes.

Hunger.

Like staring into an ancient abyss. Behind the eyes, its mind seethed, free of its master’s control. I wanted to reach out and crush it, like a bug between my fingernails. But doing that would give me away. I might as well give the People a sample of my blood with a pretty bow on it.

“Here!” I flicked my wrist, making the reflection of feylanterns dance along Slayer’s surface. Look. Shiny.

The bloodsucker’s gaze locked on the blade. The vamp ducked down, like a dog before the strike, front limbs wide, yellow claws digging into the table. The wood groaned. The chain slipped along the table’s edge, clinking.

No way to make a neck cut. The chain loop would block the blade.

A high-pitched female scream slashed my eardrums. The vamp hissed, jerking in the direction of the sound.

I jumped on the chair next to the table and thrust sideways and up. Slayer’s blade slid between the vamp’s ribs. The tip met a tight resistance and then sliced through it. Hit the heart. Banzai!

The bloodsucker screeched. I let go of the saber. The vamp reared, Slayer buried up to the hilt in its rib cage, staggered as if drunk, pitched over, and crashed to the floor, flopping like a fish on dry land.

To the left, Curran thrust his claws through the flesh under his vamp’s chin. The bloody tips of the talons emerged from the back of the bloodsucker’s neck. The vamp clawed at him. Curran thrust his monstrous hand deeper, gripped the vamp’s neck and tore its head off the body.

Show-off.

He tossed the head aside and glanced at me, checking if I was okay. The whole thing had only taken about five seconds, but it felt like an eternity. We were both in one piece. I exhaled.

The restaurant fell silent, except for the male necromancer sobbing on the floor and the hoarse hissing coming from the vampire, convulsing as my saber liquefied its innards, absorbing the nutrients into the blade.

In the far corner a man swiped his toddler from the high chair, grabbed his wife’s hand, and ran out. As one, the patrons jumped. Chairs fell, feet pounded, someone gasped. They rushed out of both doors. In a blink the place was empty.

I grasped Slayer and pulled. It slid from the body with ease. The edges of the wound sagged apart and dark brown blood spilled out from the cut. I swung and beheaded the vamp with a single sharp stroke. You should always finish what you started. I wiped Slayer off and put it back in its sheath.

Curran’s arms shrank, streamlining, gray fur melting into his skin. A normal shapeshifter would’ve needed a nap after changing shape twice in such a short time, but Curran didn’t exactly play by the regular shapeshifter rules. He walked over to the male necromancer, pulled him upright, and shook him once, an expression of deep contempt on his face. I could almost hear the guy’s teeth rattle in his skull.

“Look at me. Focus.”

The necromancer stared at him, shocked eyes wide, his mouth slack.

I knelt by the female navigator and touched her wrist, keeping away from her neck and the gold band on it. No pulse. The necklace clamped her throat like a golden noose, its color a dark vivid yellow, almost orange. The skin around it was bright red and quickly turning purple.

I picked up her purse, pulled out a wallet, and snapped it open. A People ID. Amanda Sunny, journeywoman, Second Tier. Twenty years old and now dead.

Curran peered into the journeyman’s face. “What happened? What did you do?”

The man sucked in a deep breath and dissolved into tears.

Curran dropped him in disgust. His eyes were pure gold—he was pissed off.

I went to the hostess desk and found the phone. Please work, sometimes even when the magic was up phones would. Dial tone. Yes!

I called the Casino.

“Kate Daniels, for Ghastek. Urgent.”

“Please wait,” female voice said. The phone went silent. I hummed to myself and looked at the ID. I didn’t know which of the Masters of the Dead Amanda answered to, but I knew Ghastek was the best of the seven currently in the city. He was also power hungry and he was making his bid for taking over the People’s Atlanta office. He was very much in the limelight at the moment and I could count on a rapid response.

A moment passed. Another.

“What is it, Kate?” Ghastek’s voice said into the phone. He must’ve been doing something, because he failed to keep exasperation from his voice. “Please make this quick, I’m in the middle of something.”

“I have one dead journeywoman, one hysterical journeyman, two dead vampires, one pissed-off Beast Lord with bloody hands, and a half a dozen terrified restaurant staff.” Quick enough for you?

Ghastek’s voice snapped into a brisk tone. “Where are you?”

“Arirang on Greenpine. Bring a decontamination unit and body bags.”

I hung up. Our waiter edged out of the doors and approached our table, looking green. The rest of the staff was probably huddled together in the back room, terrified, not knowing if the danger had passed.

“Is it over?”

Curran turned to him. “Yes, it’s over. The People are on their way to clean up the mess. You can bring everyone out, if it will make them feel better. We guarantee your safety.”

The waiter took off. Someone shouted. A moment later the front doors opened and people poured out: an older Korean man, the older woman who had greeted us, a woman who looked like she could be their daughter, and several men and women in waiter and chef garb. The younger woman carried a boy. He couldn’t have been more than five.

The owners piled up into the booths around us. The boy stared at the two vampires with dark eyes, big like two cherries.

I sat into the chair next to Curran. He reached over and pulled me close. “I’m sorry about dinner.”

“That’s okay.” I stared at the dead woman. Twenty years old. She’d barely had a chance to live. I’d seen a lot of death, but for some reason the sight of Amanda lying there on the floor, her boyfriend weeping uncontrollably by her body, chilled me to the bone. I leaned against Curran, feeling the heat of his body seep through my T-shirt. I was so cold and I really needed his warmth.

CHAPTER 2

A caravan of black SUVs rolled into the parking lot, their enchanted water engines belching noise. Magic-powered cars didn’t move very fast and sounded like a rock avalanche hitting a speeding train, but they were better than nothing.

We watched the SUVs through the broken window, as they parked at the far end, killed the noise, and vomited people, vampires, and body bags. Ghastek emerged from the lead vehicle, ridiculously out of place in a black turtleneck and tailored dark pants. He came through the door, surveyed the scene for a second, and headed to us.

Curran’s eyes darkened. “I bet you a dollar he’s running over to assure me that we’re in no danger.”

“That’s a sucker’s bet.”

The Pack and the People existed in a very fragile state of peace. None of us wanted to do anything to jeopardize that.

The People were efficient, I gave them that. One crew went for the vampires, the other headed for the woman’s body, the third for the despondent journeyman. Two women and a man in business suits made a beeline for the booth where the owners sat.

Ghastek came close enough to be heard. “I want it to be clear: this was not an attempt to kill either of you. The journeymen weren’t supposed to be here and the guilty party will be harshly reprimanded.”

Curran shrugged. “Don’t worry, Ghastek. If this was an attempt, I know you’d bring more than two vampires.”

“What happened?” Ghastek asked.

“They were having dinner,” I told him. “They seemed happy together. The boy handed her a necklace and it choked her to death.”

“Just so I understand, Lawrence himself wasn’t personally injured?”

“No,” Curran said. “He’s in shock from watching his girlfriend die in front of him.”

Ghastek looked over the scene again, looking like he wanted to be anywhere but here. “Once again, we’re dreadfully sorry for the inconvenience.”

“We’ll live,” Curran said.

One of the People stepped away from Amanda’s body. “The necklace adhered to her skin. There doesn’t appear to be any locking mechanism. It’s a solid band of gold.”

“Leave it,” Ghastek said. “We’ll remove it later.”

If I were them, I’d cut it off during tech and stick it into a hazmat container.

A middle-aged man shouldered his way inside the restaurant, followed by a young woman and a boy who looked about seven. I glanced at the woman and had to click my mouth shut. She looked to be in her late teens, right on the cusp between a girl and a woman. Her body, full in the bust and hips, slimmed to a narrow waist. Her long slender legs carried her with a natural grace. Her hair streamed from her head in a shimmering cascade so precisely matching the color of gold, I would’ve sworn it was gold if I didn’t know better. Her face, a pale oval, was angelic. She glanced at me in passing. Her irises were an intense deep blue and her eyes were decades older than her face.

She was beautiful.

She was also not human. Or she had bargained with something not human for that body.

Curran was watching her. His nostrils flared a little as he inhaled, sampling the scents and I felt a punch of jealousy right in the gut. Well, this was a new and unwelcome development.

Ghastek focused on the woman as well, with the kind of clinical interest usually afforded to an odd insect. “Here come the grieving parents. I’ve met them before.”

“Is that her sister?” I asked.

“No, that’s Mrs. Aurellia Sunny, her mother. The boy is Amanda’s brother.”

Not human.

The middle-aged man saw the female navigator, whose body the People had just loaded on the gurney. “Amanda! Jesus Christ, Amanda! Baby!”

“No!” Aurellia cried out.

He dashed to Amanda. “Oh God. Oh God.”

His wife chased after him, the boy in tow. “Don’t go near her!”

The man grasped Amanda’s hand. The golden band of the necklace popped open. An eerie soft light ignited within the necklace, setting the gold aglow.

“Oh Go—” Amanda’s father fell silent in the middle of the word, transfixed by the necklace.

His hand inched toward it.

“Stop!” Curran barked. The man froze, arrested by the unmistakable command in that voice.

I was already moving.

The golden-haired woman pushed past him, yanked the necklace from Amanda’s neck, spun, and thrust it at the boy’s throat. The gold band locked on the child’s neck, adhering to his skin. I missed it by half a second.

The boy gasped but didn’t die. His father shook his head, as if awakened from a dream.

Aurellia stared at me with her old eyes and smiled.

“Are you out of your mind?” I snarled. “That necklace just killed your daughter.”

“This isn’t your affair,” she said.

“Take it off. Now.” Before it kills again.

She sneered. “I can’t.”

She knew exactly what that necklace did. She had made a conscious choice between her husband and her son.

The boy dug his fingers into his neck, trying to pry the necklace loose. It remained stuck. The skin around the band of gold was turning pink. We had to get that thing off of him.

The man stared at her. “Aurellia? What’s going on? What’s the meaning of this?”

“Don’t worry about it,” the woman told him. “I’ll explain it later.”

“No, you’ll explain it now.” Curran moved next to me.

“I have to concur,” Ghastek said.

The woman raised her chin. “You have no authority over me.”

“Aurellia, what is going on?” her husband asked.

“On the contrary. We have all the authority we need.” Ghastek snapped his fingers. A woman in a business suit and glasses popped up by his side as if by magic.

“The necklace caused the death of a journeywoman in our employ,” the woman said. “We’ve expended a considerable amount of money in training her, not to mention the cost of the two vampires that were terminated as a result of her death. That necklace is evidence in our investigation of the incident. If you obstruct our investigation by withholding this evidence from us, we will obtain a court order requiring you to surrender the necklace to us. Should we choose to pursue this matter further, you will find yourself in a very actionable position.”

Some people had attack dogs. Ghastek had attack lawyers. If he got his hands on the boy, he’d find a way to remove the necklace. Even if he had to behead the child to get it.

I couldn’t let the People get the boy.

“That’s nice,” I said. “I have a simpler solution. Take the necklace off the child now and I won’t kill you.”

“Wait a God-damned minute.” Amanda’s father moved to stand between me and his wife. “Everyone calm down. Just calm down.”

“Give me the boy and nobody gets hurt,” I told them. “Nobody here will stop me.”

“That child is wearing our evidence,” Ghastek said.

Curran’s eyes lit up with gold. He leveled his alpha stare on the woman. She flinched.

“Give me the child,” Curran said, his voice a deep inhuman growl.

“Fine.” Aurellia shoved the boy toward us. “Take him.”

Curran swept the boy off the floor and picked him up. Ghastek’s face fell. We’d won this round.

“Give me back my son!” the man demanded.

Curran just looked at him.

“It’s in the boy’s best interests that he stay in our custody,” Ghastek said. “We have better facilities.”

“It’s not the quality of your facilities I doubt,” Curran said. “It’s your ethics and your intentions.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Ghastek narrowed his eyes.

“It means the necklace is more important to you than the boy,” I said. “You’ll slice the flesh off his neck to get it.”

“That’s a gross exaggeration.” The Master of the Dead crossed his arms. “I’ve never murdered a child.”

“Oh, it’s never murder when you do it,” I said. “It’s a regrettable accidental casualty.”

“You can’t do this!” Amanda’s father thrust himself before Curran. “You can’t take my son.”

“Yes, I can,” Curran said. “We’ll keep him safe. If your wife decides to explain what’s going on, I’ll consider returning him.”

“Go fuck yourself,” the golden-haired woman said. “Crawl back into whatever dark hole you came out of. I have no care for you or your kind.” She turned and walked out of the restaurant.

Her husband froze, caught for a moment between his son and his wife. “This isn’t over,” he said finally and chased after Aurellia.

“Give us the boy,” Ghastek said, his tone reasonable.

“I don’t think so,” Curran said. “If you want to examine him later, you’re welcome to visit the Keep.”

Around us the People tensed. In the corner two vampires leaned forward.

I unsheathed Slayer. I had a lot of practice and I did it fast. The lawyer woman jerked back. The opaque blade smoked, sensing the undead. Come on, Ghastek. Make our night.

Ghastek sighed. “Fine. I’ll make the necessary arrangements later.”

Curran headed out through the door. I waited a second and followed, walking backward for the first two steps to make sure that no undead would come leaping out of the darkness at Curran’s back.

The door of the restaurant swung shut behind us. Ghastek’s voice called out, “Alright, people, back to work. Let’s process the scene tonight.”

“What’s your name?” Curran asked.

The boy swallowed. “Roderick.”

“Don’t be afraid,” Curran told him, his voice still laced with snarls. “I’ll keep you safe. If anything threatens you, I’ll kill it.”

The boy gulped.

A giant scary man with glowing eyes and an inhuman voice just took you from your parents, but don’t be afraid, because he’ll kill anything that moves. Kick-ass calming strategy, Your Majesty.

“He might be less scared if you stopped snarling and turned off the headlights,” I murmured.

The fire in Curran’s eyes died.

“It will be okay,” I told Roderick. “We just want to take off that necklace, and then you can go back to your parents. It’ll be alright, I promise.”

If the necklace snapped his neck, there wasn’t a damn thing I or Curran or anybody else could do about it. We had to get him to the Keep’s infirmary right away. We drove there in silence.

CHAPTER 3

Doolittle bent over the boy, studying the necklace with a magnifying glass. Dark-skinned, his hair salted with gray, the Pack medic looked to be in his early fifties. Doolittle was the best medmage I had ever met. He had brought me back from the edge of death so many times, we’d stopped joking about it.

There was something so soothing about Doolittle. Whether it was his manner, his kind eyes, or the soft Southern accent, tinted with notes of coastal Georgia, I didn’t know. The moment he walked into the room, Roderick relaxed. In thirty seconds they had struck a bargain: if Roderick stayed on his best behavior, he would get ice cream.

Not that Roderick had to be bribed. It took us almost an hour to get to the Keep and the entire ride over, he did not say a single word. He didn’t move, didn’t fidget, or do any of the normal things a seven-year-old kid would do in the car. He just sat there, quiet, his brown eyes opened wide, like he was a baby owl.

Doolittle pressed his thumb and index finger just above the necklace, stretching the boy’s skin. A vein stood out, burrowing from the gold band under his skin into the muscle of his neck like a thin root.

“Does it hurt when I press here?” he asked.

“No,” Roderick said. His voice was barely above a whisper.

Doolittle probed a different spot. “And now?”

“No.”

The medmage let go and patted Roderick’s shoulder. “I do believe we’re done for tonight.”

“Ice cream now?” Roderick asked, his voice quiet.

“Ice cream now,” Doolittle confirmed. “Lena!”

A female shapeshifter stuck her red head into the room.

“This young gentleman is in need of ice cream,” Doolittle said. “He’s earned it.”

“Oh boy!” Lena made big eyes and held out her hand. “I better pay up, then. Come on.”

Roderick hopped off the chair and took her hand very carefully.

“What kind of ice cream would you like?” Lena asked, leading him through the doorway.

“Chocolate,” the boy said quietly, with a slight hesitation in his voice.

“I’ve got loads of chocolate…”

The door swung shut behind them.

Doolittle looked at the door and sighed. “The necklace is rooted in the sternomastoid. If I try to remove it surgically, he’ll bleed out. You said his mother put this atrocity on him?”

“Yes,” Curran said.

“The collar glowed when the husband came near,” I said. “He was reaching out for it and she yanked it away from him and snapped it on the boy.”

“So it was probably intended for her husband,” Doolittle said.

“That, or it’s an equal opportunity offender,” I said. “Any neck will do and the boy was the closest.”

“And it killed the girl instantly?” Doolittle asked.

“Pretty much,” Curran said.

“Strange. It doesn’t seem to be actively harming the boy at the moment beyond rooting in.”

“Does it hurt him?” I asked.

“Doesn’t appear so.” Doolittle leaned against the chair. “I poked and prodded at it a bit. It seems that the ‘roots’ shift under pressure so any attempt to cut the necklace will likely cause it to contract and strangle him. I don’t want to fool with it.”

“The woman,” Curran said, “she knew better than to touch it.”

I thought out loud. “She was unaffected by the glow, so either she’s immune or she knows how it works.”

“The boy didn’t cry when you took him from his mother?” Doolittle asked.

“No,” I said.

The medmage glanced at the door again. “The child is very passive and compliant. He doesn’t speak unless spoken to. He doesn’t take initiative. This boy is doing his best to be invisible. Sometimes this is a sign of a shy nature. Sometimes it’s a sign of emotional abuse or neglect.” Doolittle crossed his arms. “Such an accusation can’t be made lightly. This is just something to keep in mind in dealing with her. If she is emotionally distant, she may not have any attachment to him. Let me run some tests. The sooner we identify what the necklace is, the better.”

We left the infirmary and walked down the long hallway, heading toward the stairway leading up to the top of the tower, to our rooms. The Keep’s hours were skewed toward the night. For most people ten p.m. meant evening and probably bedtime—both electricity and the charged air that powered feylanterns were expensive and people tended to make the most of daylight. For shapeshifters ten p.m. was closer to four in the afternoon. The hallways were busy. Random shapeshifters ducked their heads as we passed them.

Something had occurred to me. “When the journeyman handed Amanda the necklace, did it seem paler to you?”

Curran frowned. “Yes. Almost white gold.”

“And now it’s almost orange.”

“You think it feeds on the host?”

“It would make sense. Maybe it develops hunger. The girl died instantly, because the necklace was hungry. Now it’s satiated, so it’s biding its time.”

“We’ll need to talk to the journeyman,” Curran said. “And the boy’s mother.”

“Yes, the woman. The supernaturally beautiful woman with long flowing hair…Can’t forget her.”

Curran turned his head to look at me.

“What?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

I shrugged. “I’ll speak to the journeyman tomorrow.”

“I’ll come with you.”

And why would he want to do that? I pictured trying to conduct an interview in the presence of the Beast Lord. The journeyman would take one look at him and run for the hills screaming.

“No.”

“You always say that word,” he said. “Is it supposed to mean something?”

“It means I don’t want you to come with me. The moment you muscle your way into the room, he’ll clam up out of sheer self-preservation. Let me handle this.”

We started up the stairway. Our quarters were at the very top and I really could’ve used an elevator right about now.

Curran kept his voice even. “Somehow I have managed to deal with the People just fine for almost fifteen years without your help.”

“As I recall, you almost had yourself a war. And I won’t be dealing with the People. I’ll be dealing with one specific journeyman, facing sanctions and scared out of his mind.”

“If you think you’ll be able to get anywhere near Ghastek without me, you’re crazy,” Curran said.

I stopped and looked at him. “I will take my boudas and personal guard, dress them in black, put them on horses, and ride up to the Casino. Then I will pick the scariest-looking shapeshifter in the bunch and send him in to announce that the Consort seeks an audience. Do you really think the People will keep me waiting for long?”

It’s good that we didn’t have any kindling or paper around or the sparks flying from our butting heads would set the Keep on fire. We were both tired and pissed off.

Above us Jim rounded the corner on the landing and came to a dead stop, obviously wondering if he could get away with turning on his foot and going back the way he’d come without our noticing. Curran turned to face him.

That’s right, you’re busted.

Jim sighed and headed toward us at a brisk pace.

Tall, his skin the color of rich coffee, and dressed all in black, Jim looked like he was carved from a block of solid muscle. Logic said that at some point he must’ve been a baby and then a child, but looking at him one was almost convinced that some deity had touched the ground with its scepter and proclaimed, “There shall be a badass,” and Jim had sprung into existence, fully formed, complete with clothes, and ready for action. He was the alpha of Clan Cat, the Pack’s chief of security, and Curran’s best friend.

He braked near us.

“Have you vetted the Wolves of the Isle yet?” Curran asked.

“No.”

“Who are the Wolves of the Isle?” I asked.

“It’s a small pack from the Florida Keys,” Curran said. “Eight people. They’re petitioning to join us and for some odd reason our security chief is dragging his feet on the background checks.”

Jim waved the stack of paper in his hand. “The security chief has two thefts, four murders, and an abandonment of post to deal with.”

“Murders?” I asked.

Jim nodded.

“I gave my word to the wolves,” Curran said.

“I’m not opposed to admitting them.” Jim spread his arms. “All I’m saying is let me make sure the people we have are safe before we add any more to them. By the way, Kate, did you review the Guild documents I sent you?”

Deflecting attention, are we? I gave him my tough stare. It bounced off Jim like hail from the pavement. “Somewhat. I was busy.”

“See?” Jim pointed to me. “Your mate is doing the same thing I’m doing. Prioritizing.”

I would get him for this. Oh yes.

Curran looked at Jim. “Do you need my help with the background checks?”

A muscle in Jim’s face jerked. “No, I’ve got it.”

Ha! He didn’t want Curran in his hair either. “Don’t worry, he’s coming with me to investigate things.”

“In the city?” Jim asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s a great idea. You both should go. To the city.”

Curran and I looked at each other.

“He’s trying to get rid of us,” I said.

“You think he’s planning a coup?” Curran wondered.

“I hope so.” I turned to Jim. “Is there any chance you’d overthrow the tyrannical Beast Lord and his psychotic Consort?”

“Yeah, I want a vacation,” Curran said.

Jim leaned toward us and said in a lowered voice, “You couldn’t pay me enough. This is your mess, you deal with it. I have enough on my plate.”

He walked away.

“Too bad,” Curran said.

“I don’t know, I think we could convince him to seize the reins of power.”

Curran shook his head. “Nah. He’s too smart for that.”

We finally made it up the stairs, through the long hallway, up the second flight, and into our quarters. I dropped my bag down, shrugged out of my sword and scabbard and took a deep breath. Aahh, home.

Generally, tackling someone from behind is very effective, because the person doesn’t know you’re coming. However, after being tackled a dozen times, the victim becomes accustomed to it. Which is why when Curran made a grab for me, I danced aside and tripped him. He grabbed my arm, then we did some rolling on the floor, and I ended up on top of him, our noses about an inch apart.

He grinned. “You’re jealous.”

I considered it. “No. But when you stared at that woman like she was made of diamonds, it didn’t feel very good.”

“I stared at her because she smelled strange.”

“Strange how?”

“She smelled like rock dust. Very strong dry smell.” Curran put his arms around me. “I love it when you get all fussy and possessive.”

“I never get fussy and possessive.”

He grinned, showing his teeth. His face was practically glowing. “So you’re cool if I go over and chat her up?”

“Sure. Are you cool if I go and chat up that sexy werewolf on the third floor?”

He went from casual and funny to deadly serious in half a blink. “What sexy werewolf?”

I laughed.

Curran’s eyes focused. He was concentrating on something.

“You’re taking a mental inventory of all the people working on the third floor, aren’t you?”

His expression went blank. I’d hit the nail on the head.

I slid off him and put my head on his biceps. The shaggy carpet was nice and comfortable under my back.

“Is it Jordan?”

“I just picked a random floor,” I told him. “You’re nuts, you know that?”

He put his arm around me. “Look who’s talking.”

We lay together on the carpet.

“We can’t let the necklace kill that boy,” I said.

“We’ll do everything we can.” He sighed. “I’m sorry about dinner.”

“Best date ever. Well, until people died and vampires showed up. But before that it was awesome.”

We lay there some more.

“We should go to bed.” Curran stretched next to me. “Except the carpet is nice and soft and I’m tired.”

“You want me to carry you?”

He laughed. “Think you can?”

“I don’t know. Do you want to find out?”

It turned out that carrying him to our bed wasn’t necessary. He got there on his own power and he wasn’t nearly as tired as he’d claimed to be.

Morning brought a call from Doolittle. When we arrived at the medward, Roderick was sitting on the cot, the same owlish expression on his face. The necklace had lost some of its yellow tint during the night. Now it looked slightly darker than orange rind.

I crouched by the boy. “Hi.”

Roderick looked at me with his big eyes. “Good morning.”

His voice was weak. In my mind the necklace constricted around his fragile neck. The bone crunched…

We had to get a move on. We had to get it off him.

Doolittle led us toward the door and spoke quietly. “There is a definite change in the color of the metal. He’s beginning to experience discomfort.”

“So that thing is getting hungry,” Curran said.

“Probably.” Doolittle held up a small printout. A pale blue stripe cut across the paper. The m-scan. The m-scanner recorded specific types of magic as different colors: purple for the undead, green for shapeshifter, and so on. Blue stood for plain human magic—mages, telepaths, and telekinetics all registered blue. It was the basic human default.

“Is that the necklace or Roderick?” Curran asked.

“It’s the boy. He has power and it’s obscuring whatever magic signature the necklace is giving out.” Doolittle pointed to a point on the graph. I squinted. A series of paler sparks punctured the blue.

“This is probably the necklace,” Doolittle said. “It’s not enough to go on. We need a more precise measurement.”

We needed Julie. She was a sensate—she saw the colors of magic with more precision than any m-scanner. I stuck my head out into the hallway and called, “Could someone find my kid, please, and ask her to come down here?”

Five minutes later, Julie entered the medward. When I’d first found her, she’d been half-starved, skinny, and had had anxiety attacks if the protective layer of grime was removed from her skin. Now at fourteen, she had progressed from skinny to lean. Her legs and arms showed definition if she flexed. She was meticulously clean, but recently had decided that the invention of brushes was unnecessary and a waste of time, so her blond hair looked like a cross between a rough haystack and a bird’s nest.

I explained about the necklace. Julie approached the boy. “Hey. I’m going to look at the thing on your neck, okay?”

Roderick said nothing.

Julie peered at the metal. “Odd. It’s pale.”

“Pale yellow? Pale green?” Any tint was good.

“No. It looks colorless, like hot air rising from the pavement.”

Transparent magic. Now I had seen everything.

“There are very faint runes on it,” Julie said, “hard to make out. I’m not surprised you missed them,” she added.

“Can you read them?” Curran asked.

She shook her head. “It’s not any runic alphabet I was taught.”

Doolittle handed her a piece of paper and a pencil and she wrote five symbols on it. Runes, the ancient letters of Old Norse and Germanic alphabets, had undergone several changes over the years, but the oldest runes owed their straight up-and-down appearance to the fact that historically they had to be carved on a hard surface: all straight lines, no curves, no tiny strokes. These symbols definitely fit that pattern, but they didn’t look like any runes I’d seen. I could spend a day or two digging through books, but Roderick didn’t have that long. We needed information fast.

Curran must’ve come to the same conclusion. “Do we know any rune experts?”

I tapped the paper. “I can make some calls. There is a guy—Dagfinn Heyerdahl. He used to be with the Norse Heritage Foundation.”

The Norse Heritage Foundation wasn’t so much about heritage as it was about Viking, in the most cliché sense of the word. They drank huge quantities of beer, they brawled, and they wore horned helmets despite all historical evidence to the contrary.

“Used to be?” Curran asked.

“They kicked him out for being drunk and violent.”

Curran blinked. “The Norse Heritage?”

“Mhm.”

“Don’t you have to be drunk and violent just to get in?” he asked. “Just how disorderly did he get?”

“Dagfinn is a creative soul,” I said. “His real name is Don Williams. He packs a lot of magic and if he could have gotten out of his own way, he would be running the Norse Heritage by now. He’s got a rap sheet as long as the Bible, all of it petty stupid stuff, and he’s the only merc I know who actually works for free, because he’s been fined so many times, it will take him years to get out of the Guild’s debt. About two years ago, he got piss-drunk, took off all of his clothes, and broke through the gates of a Buddhist meditation center on the South Side. A group of bhikkhunis, female monks, was deep in meditation on the grounds. He chased them around, roaring something about them hiding hot Asian ladies. I guess he mistook them for men, because of the robes and shaved heads.”

“And why didn’t anybody point out the error of his ways to this fool?” Doolittle asked.

“Perhaps because they are Buddhists,” Curran said. “Violence is generally frowned upon in their community. How did it end?”

“Dagfinn pulled a robe off one of the nuns and an elderly monk came up to him and hit him in the chest with the heel of his hand. Dagfinn did some flying and went through the monastery wall. Bricks fell on his face and gave him a quickie plastic surgery. Since the old monk had raised his hand in anger, he went into a self-imposed seclusion. He still lives near Stone Mountain in the woods. He was greatly revered and the monks got pissed off and went to see the Norse Heritage Foundation. Words were exchanged and the next morning the Foundation gave Dagfinn the boot. The neo-Vikings will know where he is. They kicked him out, but he’s still their boy.”

Curran nodded. “Okay, we’ll take the Jeep.”

“They don’t permit any technology past the fourteenth century AD in their territory. You’ll have to ride a horse.”

Curran’s face snapped into a flat Beast Lord expression. “I don’t think so.”

“You can jog if you want, but I’m getting a horse.”

A low rumble began in Curran’s throat. “I said we’ll take the Jeep.”

“And I said they will put an axe into your carburetor.”

“Do you even know what a carburetor is?” Curran asked.

I knew it was a car part. “That’s irrelevant.”

Doolittle cleared his throat. “My lord, my lady.”

We looked at him.

“Take it outside my hospital before you break anything.” It didn’t sound like a request.

A careful knock echoed through the door. A young woman stuck her head in. “Consort?”

What now? “Yes?”

“There is a vampire downstairs waiting to see you.”

CHAPTER 4

The vampire sat on his haunches in the waiting room, an emaciated monstrosity. Vampires were nocturnal predators. Daylight burned their skin like fire, but the People had recently gotten around this restriction by applying their own patented brand of sunblock to their undead. It dried thick and came in assorted colors. This particular vampire sported a coat of bright lime-green. The sunblock covered the undead completely, every wrinkle, every crevice, every inch. The effect was vomit-inducing.

The vampire turned its head as I walked in, its eyes focusing on me with the intelligence of its navigator, sitting in an armored room miles away. The nightmarish jaws opened.

“Kate,” Ghastek’s dry voice said. “Curran. Good morning.”

“What are you doing here?” Curran asked.

The vampire folded itself, perching in the chair like some mummified cat. “I have a direct interest in determining the nature of that necklace. We have suffered great losses, we must account for them. Have you found a way to remove it?”

“No,” I said.

“So the boy’s life is still in jeopardy,” Ghastek said.

Thank you, Captain Obvious.

“It’s being handled,” Curran said.

“I would like to be involved in that handling.”

“I’m sure you would,” Curran said. “It’s hard to believe, but I go whole days without worrying about your likes and dislikes.”

The vampire opened its mouth, imitating a sigh. It was an eerie sight: his jaws unhinged, his chest moved up and down, but no air came out.

“I believe in civil discourse, so please forgive me if I sound blunt: you took a child away from his parents against their will. In other words, you abducted him by force. Last time I checked, that constitutes kidnapping. I have a very capable staff, which, should I give the word, would present a very compelling case to the Paranormal Activity Division.”

“The PAD can bite me,” Curran said. “I also have a very capable staff. I’ll drown you in paper. How would you like to be sued?”

“On what grounds?” The vamp looked outraged.

“Reckless endangerment.” Curran leaned forward. “Your journeymen dropped two vampires in the middle of a crowded restaurant.”

“There were extenuating circumstances and you were unharmed.”

Curran’s eyes acquired a dangerous glint. “I’m sure the public will take that into account, especially after my people plaster the sordid horror story of the Arirang Massacre over every newspaper they can find.”

The vamp bared its fangs.

Curran’s upper lip trembled in the beginning of a snarl.

I stabbed a throwing knife into the table between them.

The man and the monster fell silent.

“There is a child being slowly choked to death upstairs,” I said. “If the two of you could stop baring your teeth for a second, you might even remember that.”

Silence stretched out between us.

“I simply wish to help,” Ghastek said.

Yeah, right.

Curran’s face looked set in stone. “We don’t need you.”

“Yes, you do,” Ghastek said. “You have the necklace, but I have Lawrence. He dated Amanda for over a year. I think you will be interested to know that Colin Sunny, Amanda’s father, has a sister. She is married to Orencio Forney.”

“Orencio Forney, the DA?”

“Precisely,” Ghastek said. “After yesterday’s affair, the Sunnys are staying in Forney’s house. I trust you understand the implications.”

I understood them, alright. The Sunnys had just become untouchable. If the Pack attempted to pick a fight with the DA, the tide of negative publicity would drown us, not to mention that every cop in the city would make it his personal mission to complicate shapeshifters’ lives whenever possible.

Curran’s face hardened into that blank, unreadable expression. He saw the writing on the wall as well, and he didn’t like it. “Have you asked for an interview?”

“In the politest terms possible. We were extremely persuasive, but they are unavailable for comment.”

“They aren’t asking for Roderick?” What the hell?

“No, they are not,” Ghastek said. “I found it extremely odd as well. The DA has circled the wagons. If you want any background on the boy and his mother, our Lawrence is your best bet. Give me access and I will share.”

I looked at Curran. We needed that background.

His face was unreadable.

Come on, baby.

“Fine,” he said.

A wise man once told me that a man’s house said a lot about his soul. Over the years I had come to the conclusion that that was complete bullshit. The Keep, with its foreboding, grim towers and massive fortifications, might have indicated something about Curran’s need to protect his people, but it said nothing about how much responsibility he dragged around. It said nothing about the fact that he was fair and generous. And it sure as hell gave no hint that underneath all that Beast Lord’s roaring, he was hilarious.

The Casino, on the other hand, looked like a beautiful mirage born of desert heat, sand, and magic. White and elegant, it nearly floated above the ground of the large lot decorated with fountains, statues, and colored lamps. All that beauty hid a stable of vampires. Undead, forever hungry, and gripped in the steel vise of navigators’ minds, haunted its slim minarets. A casino milking money from human greed occupied its main floor, and deep inside it, the People brewed their schemes and machinations with the ruthless precision of a high-tech corporation, interested only in results and profits.

I parked the Jeep and peered at the Casino through the windshield. I didn’t want to go in. Judging by the surly look on his face, Curran didn’t want to go in either.

We opened our doors at the same time and headed toward the Casino.

“We’re doing this for the child,” Curran said.

“Yes.” It was good to remember that. “We’re just going to go in and talk to them.”

“And not kill anybody,” Curran added.

“Or anything.”

“And not break things.”

“Because we don’t want a giant bill from the People.”

“Yes.” Curran’s face was grim. “I’m not giving them any of the Pack’s money.”

I nodded. “We’ll be good, we won’t have to pay any damages, and then we’ll come out and take a nice shower.”

“Wash the stench off. I can smell the bloodsuckers from here.”

“I can feel them from here.”

I could—the sparks of vampiric magic tugged on me from the white parapets.

“Thanks for doing this,” Curran said.

“Thank you for coming with me.”

Get in, get out, don’t cause a giant war between the Pack and the People. Piece of cake.

We passed through the tall arched entrance guarded by two men with curved yataghan swords. The guards wore black and looked suitably menacing. They very carefully didn’t look at us.

Inside, a deluge of sound assaulted us: the noises of slot machines, refitted to work during magic, metal ringing, music, beeping, mixing with shouts from the crowd surrendering their hard-earned money for the promise of easy cash. Lemon-scented perfume drifted through the cold air—the People were keeping their customers awake, because the sleeping couldn’t gamble.

Curran wrinkled his nose.

“Almost there, baby,” I told him, zeroing in on the service entrance door at the far end of the vast room.

A large overweight man spun away from the machines and ran into Curran. “Hey! Watch it!”

Curran sidestepped him and we kept walking.

“Asshole!” the man barked at our backs.

“I love this place,” Curran said.

“It’s so serene and peaceful, and filled with considerate people. I thought you’d enjoy the ambiance.”

“I adore it.”

We passed through the service entrance. One of the journeymen, a man in black trousers, a black shirt, and a dark purple vest rose from behind the desk.

“How can I help you?”

“It’s alright, Stuart.” A woman descended the stairway on the side, walking into the room. She was five two and looked like an anatomical impossibility created from adolescent boys’ dreams. Tiny waist, generous hips, and an award-winning chest, wrapped in dusky silk. Her hair fell down past her butt in red wavy locks, and when she smiled at you, you had a strong urge to do whatever she asked. Her name was Rowena and she ran the People’s PR department and piloted the undead for a living.

She was also in debt to the witches, which in a roundabout way caused her to be in debt to me. If I asked a favor, she had to grant it, a fact we both carefully hid from everyone.

“Mr. Lennart. Ms. Daniels.” Rowena fired off a beautiful smile. “Lawrence is waiting for you upstairs. Follow me, please.”

We followed, Rowena’s shiny perfect butt shifting as she walked up the stairs two feet in front of us. Curran heroically didn’t look at it.

She led us to a small room with a two-way mirror. One would’ve expected a table, severe gray walls, and chairs bolted to the floor in an interrogation room, but no, the walls were cream with a delicate pale lattice carved at the top and the furniture consisted of a modern sofa and two soft chairs companionably arranged around a coffee table.

Lawrence sat on the edge of the sofa. He looked pale and his eyes were bloodshot.

We sat in the chairs across from him.

“Do you know who we are?” Curran said quietly.

Lawrence nodded. “I’ve been briefed. I’m supposed to cooperate.”

I pulled out a notepad from my pocket. “How long did you know Amanda?”

Lawrence swallowed. “Three years. She was admitted as an apprentice right after her high school graduation.”

“How long had you dated?” I asked.

“Thirteen months next week,” he said. His voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat.

“Tell us about her family,” Curran said.

Lawrence sighed. “She didn’t like them.”

“Why not?” I prompted.

“She said her mother was very cold. Aurellia would go through the motions, make sure that Amanda and her brother were fed and appropriately dressed. She was very specific about their schedule. The Steel Calendar, Amanda called it. If they had a doctor’s appointment or a school trip, it was put on the calendar and there was no deviation allowed from it. Amanda had perfect attendance her entire four years in high school. No matter how sick she was, her mother would send her to school. Never late. But there was no love or real warmth there.”

“And her father?” Curran asked.

“Colin worships the ground Aurellia walks on.” Lawrence gave a bitter laugh. “It’s like he is blind when she’s in the room. The only time Amanda could talk to him was when her mother was otherwise occupied. She couldn’t wait to get out of that house. She told me that’s why she enlisted with the People. The apprentices qualify for room and board in the Casino.”

“Was her mother upset because Amanda did this?” I asked.

“Aurellia doesn’t get upset. She’s like a pretty robot,” Lawrence said. “Never screams. Never loses her temper. I don’t think she cared one way or another.”

“Have you ever interacted with the parents personally?” Curran asked.

“Yes. We went to a dinner once. Colin seemed normal. Aurellia didn’t speak, except when she ordered her food. I got a feeling she does only what is required of her, and talking to me or Amanda wasn’t required.”

“What about the necklace?” I asked.

Lawrence took several shallow rapid breaths.

We waited.

“It was a gift,” he finally said. “It arrived at the house one Christmas, addressed to Colin. He took it out of the box—it was in a glass case—and tried to open it, and then Aurellia took it out of his hands. They put the necklace, still in its glass box, and displayed it on the wall in their foyer really high up. Amanda was about fifteen at the time. She loved it. She said she used to stand there and look at it all the time, because it was so beautiful. She was never allowed to touch it. They had a break-in six months ago. The burglars took some jewelry, money, and somehow got the necklace down and made off with it. She was really upset about it.”

Lawrence looked at his hands. “I saw it at a pawnshop a week ago. I bought it for her. I…I killed her. She was so nice, so beautiful. She would sing little songs sometimes to herself when she was thinking about something or when she made coffee. And I killed her. She put it on and she just…she just died. I was right there and I couldn’t do anything…”

We stayed with him for another ten minutes, but Lawrence was done.

Ghastek waited for us in the hallway.

“Please tell me he’s on suicide watch,” Curran said.

“Of course,” the Master of the Dead said. “He is under the care of a therapist, he’s given access to the priest, and he is watched even when he sleeps. However, if he truly wants to kill himself, there is nothing any of us can do. It is unfortunate. He is nearing the end of his five-year journeymanship. We’ve invested a lot of money and time into his education.”

Of course. How silly of me to forget: the People didn’t have employees, they had human assets, each of which came with a price tag attached.

“I’ve examined your drawing of the writing on the necklace,” Ghastek said. “You said it appears to be a runic script of some sort but the characters are unfamiliar to me. How accurate is this drawing?”

“As accurate as humanly possible,” I told him.

He raised his eyebrows. “Are you familiar with the term ‘human error’?”

Are you familiar with the term “knuckle sandwich”? “The person who copied the runes from the necklace is an expert at what she does. Just because you don’t recognize the script doesn’t mean it’s not runic in origin. The Elder Futhark alphabet has undergone many modifications over the years.”

Ghastek took out the copy of Julie’s drawing. “I’ve studied this subject extensively and I’ve never seen a rune like this.” Ghastek pointed to a symbol that looked like an X with a double left diagonal arm.

Well, of course. He didn’t know it, therefore it couldn’t possibly be a rune. “Both Fehu and Ansuz runes have double arms. Why couldn’t this rune have one? If you tossed it into a collection of runes and told a layman to pick out one that doesn’t belong, he wouldn’t grab that one.”

Ghastek gave me a condescending look. “The term ‘layman’ refers to a nonexpert by definition. Of course a nonexpert wouldn’t be able to single out this rune, Kate. We could throw stars and spirals into the mix and he would be unlikely to pick those out either.”

You conceited ass.

Curran cleared his throat.

I realized I had taken a step toward Ghastek. No killing, no punching, no destruction of property. Right.

“We’re taking this matter to an expert,” Curran said.

“I think it’s prudent, considering the circumstances.”

Oh, well, so good of him to give us his permission.

“Where is this expert?” Ghastek asked.

“At the Norse Heritage Foundation,” I told him.

Ghastek wrinkled his face into a semblance of a disgusted sneer, as if he’d just stuck his head into a bag of rotten potatoes.

“You’re going to see the neo-Vikings?”

“Yes.”

“They’re ignorant, loud buffoons. All they do is sit in their mead hall, get drunk, and punch each other when their masculinity is threatened.”

“You don’t have to come,” I told him.

Ghastek let out a long-suffering sigh. “Very well. I’ll get my vampire.”

CHAPTER 5

I was riding a horse called The Dude. The Dude, who also answered to Fred if he was feeling charitable, was what the Pack stables had called a “Tennessee Walker Blue Roan.” The blue roan part was somewhat true—the horse under me was dark gray, with the colors nearing black toward the head and the ankles. The Tennessee Walker part…Well, some Tennessee Walker was probably in there, but most of it was definitely a coldblood horse. A massive coldblood horse, close to twenty-five-hundred pounds. I was betting on a Percheron. Sitting atop The Dude was like riding a small elephant.

The presence of a vampire presented Curran with a dilemma. He refused to ride a horse, but he refused to let me travel in the company of an undead without backup either, so a compromise had to be reached. We stopped by the Cutting Edge office to get Andrea. Unfortunately, she was out. Apparently some shapeshifters had been murdered and Jim had pulled her in to head that investigation, a fact that he, of course, had neglected to mention. We kidnapped Derek and Ascanio instead.

Derek was our third employee. Once my sidekick, then Jim’s spy, then a chief of Curran’s personal guard, he was now working for Cutting Edge to acquire experience and figure out what it was he wanted to do. When I’d first met him, he’d been barely eighteen and pretty. Now he was close to twenty. Some bastards had poured molten silver on his face. The bastards were now dead, but he’d never healed quite right.

Ascanio was our intern. He was fifteen, as beautiful as an angel, and a bouda or werehyena. Bouda children rarely survived adolescence, as many of them lost the fight for their sanity and went loup—so Ascanio was treasured, babied, and spoiled beyond all reason. Unfortunately, he’d gotten in trouble one too many times and was turned over to me to train, because it was decided I was least likely to kill him.

Derek and Ascanio rode their horses behind me, bickering quietly about something. Ahead of me, the lime-green nightmare that was Ghastek’s vampire trotted along the road in a jerky, looping gait. Most vampires eventually lost their ability to run upright, reverting to quadruped locomotion as the Immortuus pathogen reshaped its victim’s body into a new nightmare predator. I had come across very old vamps before. They didn’t even resemble their former human shapes. But the vamp Ghastek piloted was only a few months old. It loped forward, switching between scuttling along the ground one moment, and shambling two-thirds upright the next like some grotesque puppet on the strings of a drunken puppeteer.

Next to the vampire cantered a freakishly large black poodle. His name was Grendel, he was my dog, and while he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, he loved me and he was handy in a fight.

A few dozen yards behind us, an enormous lion trotted. When shapeshifters transformed, their animal forms were always larger than their natural counterparts, and Curran the Lion wasn’t just large. He looked prehistoric. Colossal, gray, with faint darker stripes staining his fur like whip marks, he moved along the road at an easy pace, seemingly tireless. Which was why I’d ended up with The Dude. I had walked into the stables and told them I’d be traveling between a vampire and a lion the size of a rhino and I needed a horse that wouldn’t freak out. True to the stable master’s recommendation, The Dude seemed unflappable. Occasionally, when Curran flanked us, he would flare his nostrils a bit while the other two horses shied and made panicked noises, but mostly The Dude just pounded his way forward in a straight line, convinced that the lion was a figment of his imagination and that the vampire ahead of him was just Grendel’s deformed mutant brother.

We were our own three-ring circus. Sadly, we had no audience: to the left of us the forest rose in a jagged line, and to the right a low hill climbed up, rocks and grass, before running into another line of trees at the apex.

“I’ve never met the neo-Vikings,” Ascanio said.

“A good portion of them are mercs,” I said over my shoulder. “They’re a rowdy lot and not really what you would call true to tradition. Some are, but most are there because they saw a movie or two in childhood and think ‘Viking’ is a noun.”

“It’s not?” Derek asked.

“No. Originally it was a verb as in ‘to go viking.’ The Norse Heritage guys wear horned helmets, drink beer out of a giant vat, and start fights. As neo-Viking communities go, they are better off financially than most, so they can afford to have some fun.”

“Where do they get their money?” Derek asked.

I nodded at the curving road. “Around that bend.”

A couple of minutes later we cleared the curve. A vast lake spread on our left. Blue-green water stretched into the distance, tinted with bluish haze. Here and there green islands ringed with sand thrust through the water. To the right, an enormous mead hall built with huge timbers rose from the crest of a low hill like the armored back of some sea serpent. As we stood there, two karves, the longboats, slid from behind the nearest island, their carved dragon heads rising high above the lake’s surface.

Ascanio raised his hand to shield his eyes.

“Lake Lanier,” I told him. “The Norse Heritage Foundation built a river fleet of Dragon Ships here. They’re not the only neo-Vikings in the region. There are several Norse groups along the Eastern seaboard and quite a few of them want to cruise up and down the coast in a proper boat. The Norse Heritage sells them boats and trains these wannabe raiders for shallow water sailing. They also give vacationers a ride for the right price. They’re kind of touchy about it, so I wouldn’t ask if they do children’s parties.”

Ascanio cracked a smile. “Or what, they’ll try to drown us in their beer vat? ‘Try’ being the operative word.”

We started toward the mead hall. Midway up the hill, the vampire paused when a man walked out in the middle of the road from behind a birch. Six and a half feet tall, he stood wrapped in chain mail. A cape of black fur billowed from his shoulders. His war helm, a near perfect replication of the Gjermundbu helmet, shielded the top of his head and half his face. The stainless steel had been polished until the sun’s rays slid off of it, as if he wore a mirror on his head. The man carried an enormous single axe on a long wooden handle. I’d tried to pick up the axe once and it weighed ten pounds at least. He was slower than molasses in January with it, but it looked impressive.

Derek focused on the big man. “Who is that?”

“That’s Gunnar. He’s the Norse Heritage’s idea of a security detail.”

“What, all by himself?”

I nodded. “He’s sufficient.”

Ghastek’s vampire stared at the giant Viking, motionless like a statue, while the Master of the Dead mulled the situation over. The bloodsucker turned, scuttled toward us, and fell back in line behind my horse. Apparently, Ghastek had decided that his vamp was too precious to risk.

We drew closer.

Gunnar took a deep breath and roared, “Vestu heill!”

Ow. My ears. “Hello, Gunnar.”

He squinted at me through his face mask and dropped his voice down. “Hey, Kate.” He sounded slightly out of breath.

“Good to see you.”

He leaned on his axe, pulled the helmet off, and wiped sweat from his forehead, revealing reddish hair braided on his temples. “You heading up to see Ragnvald?”

“Yep.”

“All of you?”

“Yep.”

“Even the lion?”

The lion opened his mouth, showing his big teeth. Yes, yes, you’re bad. We know, Your Majesty.

“Even the lion.”

“What about?” Gunnar asked.

“Dagfinn. You’ve seen him around?”

Gunnar took a moment to spit into the dirt, making a big show of it. “Nope. And all the better for it.”

Bullshit. “Too bad.”

“Yeah.” Gunnar waved me on with the helmet. “You’re good to go.”

“Thanks.”

We rode on.

“He lied,” Ascanio said.

“Yep.” Gunnar knew exactly where Dagfinn was. He took his cues from Ragnvald, and since he wasn’t talking, the jarl probably wouldn’t be talking either. This would not go well.

We rode up through the wooden gates to the mead hall. The rest of the settlement sat lower down the hill, past the mead hall: solid wooden houses scattered here and there. People walked to and fro, men in woolen tunics and cloaks, women in ankle-length gowns and hangerocks—woolen apron-dresses. They were an assorted crew: some were white, some were black, some were Hispanic. A couple to our right looked Chinese. Norse Heritage took everyone in. Viking wasn’t a nationality—it was a way of life. As long as you thought you were a Viking, you had a place at their table.

People gaped at Curran as we passed. The vampire and the rest of us got significantly less attention.

As we dismounted before the hitching rail, I saw a familiar black Shire stallion in the pasture, segregated by himself. The huge horse stood almost eighteen and a half hands tall, the white feathers at his huge feet shaking every time he moved. A pale scar snaked its way up the horse’s left shoulder. Hello, Magnus. Where is your master?

The stallion stared in my direction and bared his teeth. Now horses were giving me crap.

“Mind your manners,” I murmured.

“Best behavior,” Ascanio assured me.

Mentioning that I was talking to a horse who couldn’t hear me would’ve totally cramped my boss style, so I nodded and walked up to the mead hall.

A large, rawboned woman barred my path. A large gun hung on her right hip and a small axe hung on her left.

“Hrefna,” I acknowledged her. We had run into each other in the Guild before. She was good with both knife and sword and rarely lost her temper.

“Kate.” Her voice was quiet. “The lion has to stay outside.”

“He won’t like it.”

The lion shook his mane.

“I can’t let him inside,” Hrefna said. “You bring him in, someone’s going to make trouble just to see if they can put his head on their wall. I’ve got to do my job. It’s your call.”

I looked at Curran. The lion melted. Skin stretched, bones twisted, and human Curran straightened. He was completely nude. Gloriously nude.

Hrefna raised her eyebrows.

Curran pulled jeans and a shirt from my saddlebag.

“Well,” Hrefna said. “I always wondered why you went all shapeshifter. Explains things.”

The vampire next to me rolled his blood-red eyes.

We walked inside the mead hall. The vampire, shapeshifters, the dog, and the lion man followed me.

A huge room greeted me. Twin rows of evenly spaced out tables ran parallel along the length of the chamber. Originally the Vikings had tried to have the tables joined in two lines, but they couldn’t sweep under them, so they went to Plan B, which made their mead hall resemble a barbarian cafeteria. People mulled around the tables. Some ate, some talked, some oiled their weapons. The tables ran into a raised platform at the opposite end of the hall. On the platform a man sat in a large chair carved from driftwood and lined with furs. His shoulders stretched his blue woolen tunic. His face, framed by a glossy black mane of hair, was dark and carved with sharp precision. A narrow gold band rested on his head.

He glanced at us. Dark eyes took our measure. He noted Curran, frowned, and looked away pretending he hadn’t seen us. Curran preferred to stay anonymous. Not many people besides the city heavyweights knew what he looked like. Ragnvald was trying to decide if the polite thing to do was to acknowledge Curran or pretend he wasn’t there.

Before we left on this fun trip, we had discussed our strategy, and I volunteered to take point. If Curran came in his official capacity as the Beast Lord, there would be formal greetings and ceremony and the whole thing would take much longer than needed. Besides, I knew the neo-Vikings better than he did, so it made sense for me to take the lead. Curran decided to go as what he referred to as a “redshirt.” Apparently it was the term for some sort of disposable attendant from some old TV show.

“Is that the jarl?” Ascanio whispered behind me.

“Yes.”

“But he’s Native American.”

“Choctaw,” I told him. “The Vikings don’t care how you look. They care how well you swing your axe.”

I headed down between the tables with my little entourage at my back. This would have been so much easier if I had come by myself.

About ten feet from the platform Ragnvald decided he couldn’t ignore us any longer. “Kate! Vestu heill! Long time no see.”

Not long enough. “Hello, Ragnvald. These are my associates.” There. I didn’t mention Curran by name. That should clue him in.

Ragnvald pushed himself off the chair. Upright, he was over six feet tall. He took a step off the platform and nodded to me. “I was just thinking of you.”

“It’s probably because you saw me walk through the door and then pretended I wasn’t here for the last couple of minutes.”

Ragnvald’s face split into a grin. “I just couldn’t believe my eyes. The alpha of the shapeshifters popping in unannounced. I’m shocked.”

Oh, you sonovabitch. He was still trying to turn this into some sort of spectacle. “I’m not here in that capacity.”

Ragnvald tapped his band. “This never comes off. Best to remember it now. But come on, we’ll talk business.” He raised his voice, shaking the nearby cups. “Someone bring drinks to our guests.”

Why did everyone have to be so damn loud all the time?

Ragnvald nodded to a side table. “Please.”

He took a seat and I sat across from him. Curran joined me. The vampire tried to follow but a large woman in chain mail barred his way.

A girl half my age swept by and slammed two giant tankards filled with beer on the table. Ragnvald held his up. I smashed my tankard against his. Beer splashed. We raised the tankard and pretended to take much bigger gulps than we actually did.

Curran drank his beer. Apparently, my taking the lead meant he went mute.

The young woman sashayed over to Ascanio and Derek and led them to a neighboring table. Judging by how hard her hips were working, she was open for business.

“So, what brings you to our mead hall?”

“I’m looking for Dagfinn.”

Ragnvald grimaced. “What has he done now?”

“Just got some weird runes I need him to translate for me.”

Ragnvald spread his arms. “We haven’t seen the man. You should talk to Helga about the runes.”

I had made some calls this morning. “We did talk to Helga. Talked to Dorte and old man Rasmus, too. They can’t help us. Dagfinn is our best lead for now.”

A huge older man staggered into the hall. Thick through the shoulders and slabbed with what my adoptive father had called hard fat, he moved in that peculiar careful way drunks do when they have trouble putting one foot in front of the other and don’t want to pitch over. His leather vest sat askew on his large frame, his face was ruddy from cold or too much booze, and his long graying hair hung down in two braids, tangling with a mess of a gray beard.

It’s all fun and games until the drunk Viking Santa shows up.

“I don’t know what to tell you.” Ragnvald drank a tiny swallow of his beer. “He isn’t here. We expelled him months ago.”

“Is that so?” Curran said.

“It is,” Ragnvald insisted.

The soused Saint Nick zeroed in on the vampire sitting on the floor by the table where the shapeshifters were looking at their beer. The drunk blinked his bleary eyes and shambled toward the vamp.

“I hear the Guild is having a meeting soon,” Ragnvald said.

“That’s what I’ve been told,” I said.

The older Viking pointed at the vampire. “What is this shit?”

Nobody answered.

Santa upped his voice a notch. “What is this shit?”

“Settle down, Dad,” a younger man said from the corner.

Santa pivoted to the speaker. “Don’t tell me to settle down, you stupid son of a whore.”

“You don’t talk about Mom that way.”

“I’ll talk about her…I’ll…what is this shit?”

“I also hear that the Pack has been called in to mediate.” Ragnvald looked at me for a long moment so I’d register that it was important.

“Aha.”

“We have fifteen full-time members in the Guild,” Ragnvald said.

I nodded. “I know. You put in what, eight years?”

“Seven and some change.”

Santa rocked back, took a deep breath, and spat on the vamp.

Awesome. “Are you going to do anything about that?”

Ragnvald glanced over his shoulder. “That’s Johan. He’s just having a bit of fun. About the mediation, Kate.”

“What about it?”

The vamp unhinged his maw. “Only a fool fights with drunks and idiots,” Ghastek’s voice said.

“Are you calling me an idiot?” Johan squinted at the vamp.

People at the other tables stopped eating and trickled over to watch closer. They smelled a fight coming and didn’t want to miss the show. This wasn’t going well.

The vampire shrugged, mimicking Ghastek’s gesture. “If a certain drunk spits on my vampire again, he will regret it.”

Johan leaned back, a puzzled expression on his face. Apparently, Ghastek had managed to stump him.

“Which way are you leaning?” Ragnvald said.

Nice try. “Where is Dagfinn, Ragnvald?”

“I’ve told you twice now, he isn’t here.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. His house is here, his mother still lives here, and his stallion is out in the pasture.”

“He gave him to his mother,” Ragnvald said.

“He gave Magnus to his mother?”

“Yes.”

“That horse is a bloody beast. Nobody can ride him except Dagfinn. The only reason Magnus hasn’t bitten Dagfinn’s hand off by now is because every time he tries, Dagfinn bites him back. And you’re telling me Dagfinn gave him to his mother? What is she going to do with him?”

Ragnvald spread his arms. “I don’t know, use him for home protection or something. I’m not a psychic. I don’t know what goes through that man’s head.”

“You mean me?” Johan roared. “You mean I’ll regret it?”

Oh no. He finally got it.

“Do you see any other fat old drunks making a spectacle of themselves?” Ascanio asked.

Johan swung over to Derek. “You! Slap a muzzle on your girlfriend.”

Derek smiled. It was a slow, controlled baring of teeth. I fought a shudder. The couple of guys to the left of us grabbed their chairs.

“Derek, we’re guests,” I called out.

Curran chuckled quietly to himself. Apparently he found me amusing.

“They need a lesson in hospitality,” Ghastek said.

“I’ll show you hospitality.” Johan sucked in some air.

“Don’t do it,” Ghastek warned.

Johan hacked. The gob of spit landed on the vamp’s forehead.

“Suck on that!” Johan pivoted to Derek. “You’re next!”

Ascanio shot from his seat in a blur and punched Johan off his feet. Vikings swarmed. Someone screamed. A chair flew above us and crashed into the wall. Grendel bounced in place, barking his head off.

Ragnvald heaved an exasperated sigh. “Which way are you leaning, Kate? Veterans or Mark?”

“Are you going to tell me where Dagfinn is?”

“No.”

Bastard. “Then I guess I don’t know which way I’m leaning.”

Ragnvald looked at Curran. “Seriously?”

Curran shrugged his broad shoulders. “It’s her show.”

A tankard hurtled through the room and crashed against Ragnvald’s back. He surged to his feet roaring. “Alright, you fuckers, who threw that?”

The second tankard took him straight in the forehead. He staggered and lunged into the full-out brawl raging in the middle of the mead hall. Fists flew, people growled, and above it all, Ghastek’s vamp crawled up the wall to the ceiling, its left paw gripping pissed-off Johan by his ankle.

I sighed, jumped on the table, and kicked some Viking in the face.

My butt hurt, because a Viking woman had kicked me from behind while I was busy, and the motion of my horse wasn’t doing me any favors. The red spot on my shoulder promised to bloom into a baseball-sized bruise, but other than that I’d gotten away scot-free. Derek sported a cut across his chest and Ascanio, whose shirt had somehow gotten mysteriously ripped to shreds in the heat of the battle, was black-and-blue from the neck down. It wouldn’t last more than a couple of hours and by the evening the lot of them would look like new, while I would still be nursing a sore shoulder. Shapeshifters.

The wind brought a whiff of hops from Ghastek’s vamp loping next to me. The Vikings had tried to drown it in the barrel of beer and most of its green sunblock had come off, so Ghastek had ended up rolling him in some mud to keep the skin damage to a minimum. The mud had dried to a nasty crust and the vamp looked like something that would come out of Grendel’s tail end.

Grendel had spent most of the fight barking and biting random people and was now smeared with someone’s vomit.

Curran had escaped unscathed, mostly because when people tried to assault him, he punched them once and then they didn’t get up. He walked now next to my horse in his human form, a big smile on his face.

“What?” I asked him.

“Good thing you took the lead on that one,” he said. “It could’ve gone badly and degenerated into a huge brawl.”

“Screw you.”

“Oh, I hope you do, baby.”

In your dreams.

“And that’s why I don’t like visiting the neo-Vikings,” Ghastek said, his voice dry. “They’re an uncivilized, idiotic lot and nothing good ever comes from it.”

“They started it,” Ascanio said.

“Of course they started it,” I growled. “They’re Vikings. That’s what they do.”

Ghastek cleared his throat. “I can’t help but point out that now Dagfinn knows we’re looking for him. He may go into hiding.”

“Dagfinn doesn’t do hiding. If he isn’t involved in this mess, he’ll show up on my doorstep demanding to know what’s going on. If he is involved, he’ll show up on my doorstep, waving his axe and trying to crush skulls. Works either way.”

“So we wait?”

It made me grit my teeth. I’d hoped we’d get a hold of Dagfinn today. Roderick was running out of time, but there wasn’t anything else we could do. “We go home and wait.”

CHAPTER 6

We parted ways with Ghastek and the four of us—Curran, Derek, Ascanio, and I—made our way back to the Keep. Jim waited for us on the stone steps as we rode into the courtyard.

“What happened to you?”

“We went to see the Vikings,” I told him.

“This is nothing,” Curran said. “You should’ve seen what happened to the vampire.”

Jim smiled.

I dismounted and gave The Dude’s reigns to a shapeshifter kid from the stables.

“Some people are here to see you,” Jim told me.

“What people?”

“From the Guild.”

Argh. “Fine. How’s the boy?”

“Doolittle says he’s the same. Your guests are in the second-floor conference room, third door on the left.”

I marched to the second floor. Grendel decided to accompany me. Five people waited in the small reception hallway by the third conference room, guarded by a female shapeshifter. One of them was Mark, the late Solomon Red’s self-appointed successor, and the other four were Bob Carver, Ivera Nielsen, Ken, and Juke, collectively known as the Four Horsemen. Most mercs were loners. Sometimes, when the job demanded it, they paired up the way Jim and I did, but groups of more than two were rare. The Four Horsemen were the exception to the rule. They made a cohesive, strong team. They took rough jobs and finished them efficiently and mostly aboveboard, and they were respected by the rest of the mercs.

The two parties stopped glowering at each other long enough to contemplate my dog.

“What the hell is that?” Bob asked.

“It’s my attack poodle. Did you agree to come here at the same time?”

“Hell no,” Juke said, shaking her head with spiked black hair. “We were here first. He just showed up.”

“I made an appointment,” Mark said. “Once again, you’re bringing your bully tactics to the table.”

“You’re an asshole,” Ken told him.

“And you’re a thug.”

Why me?

This was the first time I’d heard about an appointment. I made a mental note to ask Jim about that and pulled a quarter from my pocket. “Heads.” I pointed to the Four Horsemen. “Mark, you’re tails.”

I flipped the coin into the air and slapped it onto the back of my wrist.

“Tails.” I nodded at Mark. “Let’s go.”

We stepped into the conference room, I shut the door, and we sat at a large table of knotted wood.

“What can I do for you?”

Mark leaned forward. He wore a crisp business suit and a conservative burgundy tie. His dark brown hair was cut in that executive/politician style: not too long, not too short, conservative, neat. His nails were clean and manicured, his chin showed no stubble, and he smelled of masculine cologne. Not overpowering, but definitely detectable.

“I’d like to talk to you about the Guild arbitration,” he said.

And here I thought he’d made the trip to chat about the weather. “I’m listening.”

Mark looked at the dog. Grendel gave him an evil eye.

“I’ll cut to the chase: I’d like to take over the Guild.”

Ambitious, aren’t we? “I kind of gathered that.”

“I’m not popular. I don’t wear leather and I don’t carry guns.” He braided the fingers of his hands into a single fist and rested it on the table. “But I make the Guild run. I make sure the customers are happy, the profits are made, and everyone gets paid on time. Without me the whole thing would collapse.”

I had no doubt it would. “I’m waiting for my part in this.”

“Your vote will be the tiebreaker,” he said. “I’d like us to come to some sort of arrangement.”

He’d just dug a lovely hole for himself. I waited to see if he would jump into it.

“Of course, I understand that sufficient compensation is in order and our arrangement would have to be equitable and mutually beneficial.”

And he had. I sighed. “Mark, the problem isn’t that you can’t run the Guild. The problem is that you think ‘white collar’ is a noble title.”

He blinked, obviously taken aback.

“In your world, everyone has a price,” I said. “You don’t know what mine is, but you think you can afford it. It doesn’t work like that. You could’ve gone many ways with this. You could’ve argued that with the leadership of the Guild in limbo, nobody is getting paid. You could’ve pointed out that the longer this goes on, the more talent the Guild will lose, as experienced mercs move on to new jobs to feed their families. Offering to bribe me was the worst argument you could’ve made. My opinion isn’t for sale.”

“I meant no offense,” he said.

“But you did offend, and you’ve demonstrated that you have no idea how to relate to me. A lot of guys are like me, Mark. Yes, you make the Guild run, but you lack the elemental understanding of what makes mercs tick, probably because you never were one. If I wanted to endorse you, which I don’t, I’d have to defend my position before the Guild, which I find difficult under the circumstances.”

He chewed on that for a long minute. “Fair enough. So you’ll vote for the Horsemen then?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Thank you for seeing me.” Mark got up and left.

The door had barely had a chance to swing open before Bob shouldered his way in and dropped into one of the chairs around the table. Ivera followed, uneasy, watching me.

Bob was the leader of the Horsemen. If our world had spawned any veteran gladiators, he would be one of them. He was on the other side of forty and built with that mature strength and endurance that would make him a tough opponent even for people half his age. He might not be as fast as he used to be, but he had plenty of experience and he used it. Ivera was a tall, large Hispanic woman. She was nasty in a fight and a firebug—fire mage—on top of it.

The other two members of the Horsemen remained outside. Ken, a Hungarian mage, measured out words like they were gold and Juke, well, Juke was barely twenty and made up for her lack of experience in natural viciousness and a hot temper. She was fast and she liked to talk trash. I understood the urge. I liked to talk trash too, but twenty-year-old me would’ve chewed Juke up and spat her out.

I looked at the two veterans. “What can I do for you?”

Bob leaned forward. The chair creaked and I almost winced. He was a big guy and the chair was none too sturdy.

“I’ll come right to the point,” he said. “Solomon was one of us. A merc. A working stiff.”

“Actually, Solomon only worked as a merc for the first three years after forming the Guild, and given that he’s been underground for a few months, we can drop ‘working’ from his description.”

Bob plowed ahead. “All the same, he knew what it’s like to be out in the field. He knew how to take care of the guys. The man had a heart, unlike that prick. He’ll bleed us dry if we let him.”

“By ‘that prick’ you mean Mark?”

“Who else?”

I nodded. “Just checking.”

Bob knocked on my desk with his scarred knuckles, making a point. “That pencil neck wants to run the Guild. Between the four of us, we’ll do better. Someone’s got to look out for the guys.”

I spread my arms. “More power to you. What do you want from me?”

Bob scooted forward. The chair groaned. “Solomon, you, and Mark are the only people with any sort of official designation other than Guild member, except for the clerk and the payroll ladies. You were the first of us to make it into the Order and you did good work as a liaison. People remember that. And now you’re the Beast Lord’s…” He groped for a word.

“Mate,” Ivera told him.

“Yes, that. You have street cred. The mercs will never follow Mark. You know it, I know it, Ivera knows it.”

I glanced at Ivera. “What do you think?”

“What he said,” she said grimly.

I leaned back. They wouldn’t like it, but it had to be said. “Three mercs go on a gig. One bails midway through the fight, the second dies, the third loses a hand. Are they eligible for Guild disability pay?”

Bob thought about it. “The guy that ran off gets nothing, that’s abandonment in progress. The dead guy’s next of kin gets thirty percent. The guy without a hand gets disability.”

I sighed. “The first question to ask is how long any of them have been in the Guild. You have to hit the five-year mark to qualify for disability and do seven years to qualify for the death benefit. Until then, you die, your family gets a flat ten grand from your standard life insurance. The next question is, when did the first guy take off? If he did it once the fight started and the danger was evident, the Guild is entitled to garnish his wages, because his abandonment in progress becomes abandonment in imminent danger. How much do we garnish, Bob?”

Muscles played on his jaw. “I don’t know.”

“Then we move on to disability. How much do we pay? What’s a hand worth? Does it matter if he was right- or left-handed?”

“I don’t know,” Bob said again. His eyes told me he didn’t like where I was headed.

“Neither do I. But you know who does? Mark. I can call Mark right now and he’ll rattle it off the top of his head. Let’s talk contracts. Who provides the ammo for the Guild supply room? How much of a discount do we get from them? The Guild has a deal with Avalon Construction to clear the magic hazmat at their prospective construction sites. It’s a sweet contract, so you know there were perks. Bribes. Gifts. How much and to whom?”

Bob growled a bit. “All this stuff can be learned.”

I nodded. “Sure. But how long will it take you? The Guild has been without a leader for what, six months now, and you still haven’t learned any of it. Would it even matter by the time you finished learning?”

Bob crossed his arms. “You could do it.”

“No, I can’t. First, it’s not my job. I’ve got my hands full with the shapeshifters and my own business. Second, what little I know I’ve learned only because it came up during my tenure as a liaison. It would take me ages to find it in the Guild’s Manual. For better or worse, Solomon made Mark the sole brain behind this operation and Mark has years of experience. You don’t have the knack for wheeling and dealing, Bob. You’re a good solid tactician. You know what the gig needs and you’re good at picking the right people and getting it done. The mercs look up to you. But bargaining isn’t your thing.”

Bob’s eyebrows crept closer together. “You’ll be backing Mark then?”

“I will tell you what I told him. I don’t know yet.”

Bob nodded and handed me a piece of paper. I scanned it. A formal summons with my name on it. The top left corner boasted “code X” in bold. Priority ten. Either I made this meeting, or the Guild would suspend me.

“Not that it would matter,” Bob said. “But we did all manage to agree that you need to pick somebody by Monday.”

Ivera got up and put her hand on Bob’s shoulder. “We should go.”

He started to say something and changed his mind. I watched him get to his feet. He nodded to me. “Later.”

I dragged myself upstairs to the infirmary. Roderick was playing checkers with a shapeshifter boy. The collar on his neck had gone from orange to canary yellow.

I climbed the million stairs to our quarters, asked the guards to order some food from the kitchen, and took a shower. When I came out, Curran was sprawled on our giant couch, his eyes closed.

I flopped next to him. “Help.”

The blond eyebrows rose a quarter inch. “Mhm?”

“The mercs aren’t going to reach a consensus.” I lay next to him on my side, propping my head up with my hand. “No matter who I pick tomorrow, they won’t like it. Mark can run the Guild, but the mercs despise him. The mercs can do the jobs, but the admin stuff leaves them clueless.”

“Make them work together,” Curran said.

“Not going to happen. They hate each other.”

“If fourteen alphas can meet in the same room every week without killing each other, so can Mark and the mercs. The Guild has been without leadership for months. The people are tired and they want a strong leader. Not a tyrant, but a leader who inspires confidence. You need to walk in there and roar until they cringe. Demonstrate that you are strong enough to take away their freedom to choose, make sure it sinks in, and then give some of the choice back to them on your terms.”

Hmm.

“Tie it back to Solomon Red, too,” Curran said. “It’s basic psychology: under Solomon things ran, when he died, they broke. The more time passes, the more rosy the times of Solomon look to the average merc. So if you attack them from the ‘Let’s go back to the good old days’ angle, they will fold. Make them think that following you is what they want to do.”

“You scare me sometimes,” I told him.

He yawned. “I’m totally harmless.”

Someone knocked on the door. A bit soon for the food.

“Yes?” Curran called.

Mercedes, one of the guards, entered. “There is a man outside, my lord. He is big, he’s wearing a cape, and he’s got a giant axe. We’re also pretty sure he’s drunk.”

Dagfinn.

“What does he want?” Curran asked.

“He says he wants to fight the Beast Lord.”

CHAPTER 7

Curran and I stood in the arched entrance to the Keep’s courtyard. Dagfinn waited in the clearing outside. He was six feet eight inches tall, and he weighed a shade above three hundred pounds. None of it was fat. Dagfinn looked hard. His broad shoulders strained his tunic, his biceps had trouble fitting into the sleeves, and his legs in worn-out jeans carried enough muscle to make you wince at the thought of him kicking you. His curly hair fell over his shoulders in a dense reddish wave. He’d trimmed his beard, but his red eyebrows overshadowed his eyes.

He stood brandishing a battle axe etched with runes that matched the tattoos on his arms. The blade of the axe flared at the toe and heel, its razor-sharp edge spanning a full twelve inches. Combined with the four-foot haft for extra power, the axe sheared flesh and bone like an oversized meat cleaver.

“Look, I fought this guy before. Maybe you should talk him away from the cliff. He’s drunk and isn’t in his right mind.”

“He challenged me,” Curran said. “There will be no talking.”

“Suit yourself,” I told him. Mr. Make Fun of My Leadership wanted to have it his way. Well, he’d get it.

Around us the shapeshifters were piling out onto the battlements. Every balcony and parapet facing in Dagfinn’s direction was occupied. Great. An audience was just what we needed.

“Anything I should know?” Curran asked me.

“The axe is magic. Don’t touch it. Dagfinn is pretty magic, too. If you kill him, I’ll be really mad at you. We need him to read the damn runes.”

Curran stretched his shoulders and walked out into the clearing.

“I heard you were looking for me,” Dagfinn growled. His voice matched him, deep and torn about the edges.

“She has some runes she wants you to look at.”

Dagfinn leaned to the side to look at me. “Kate? What the hell are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m with him now.”

Dagfinn looked at Curran. “You and her are…?”

“She’s my mate,” Curran said.

Dagfinn swung his axe onto his shoulder. The runes sparked with pale green. “Well, how about that? You know what, I don’t care, I’ll still beat your ass, but I like her so I won’t kill you.”

Curran’s eyes turned gold. “Thanks.”

Dagfinn waved his arm at him. “Well, go on. Do your transforming thing.”

“No need.”

“Oh, there is a need,” Dagfinn assured him.

“Are you going to talk all day? I’m a busy man,” Curran told him.

“Fine. Let’s get to it.” Frost condensed on Dagfinn’s hair. His skin turned dark. He grew, gaining half a foot of height, his shoulders spreading wider.

“Have fun, baby,” I called.

Pale tendrils of cold spilled from Dagfinn’s body. The icy mist danced along his skin, clutched at the runes tattooed on his arms, and drained down in a brilliant cascade onto his axe. The weapon burst with bright green.

I braced myself against the stone wall. Dagfinn swung his axe.

Curran jumped aside. A flash exploded to the left of him, blinding white and searing. Thunder slapped my ears. An air fist slammed into me. Curran flew a bit and rolled up to his feet.

A three-foot hole smoked in the grass where Curran had stood. Dagfinn roared like an enraged tornado. A blast of frigid air whipped from him, striking at Curran. The Beast Lord dodged again.

Dagfinn remained firmly planted. The last two times we’d fought, he’d moved at me and I’d taken him down. There were dozens of ways to use an opponent’s movement against him: trip him, knock him off balance, gain control of a shoulder or a leg, and so on. Dagfinn must’ve decided not to give Curran that chance.

Dagfinn spun the axe. A barrage of frost missiles shot out. Curran leaped back and forth, circling Dagfinn. On the battlements the shapeshifters roared and howled.

“How are we doing, baby?” I called out. Serves you right, Your Furriness. Next time, listen to me.

“Trying not to show off,” Curran yelled.

Dagfinn brought the axe down. A sonic boom smashed into me. Curran flew backward.

“Bring it!” Dagfinn roared.

The shapeshifters booed.

Curran bounced back up and dashed forward.

Dagfinn spun, but the Beast Lord was too fast. He dodged left, right, and collided with Dagfinn. The huge Viking staggered back from the impact, whipped around, picking up momentum, and charged, roaring, gripping the axe with both hands, and bringing it up for an overhead blow.

Move, honey. Move.

Curran lunged forward.

What the hell was he doing?

Dagfinn chopped down with all his strength.

Curran caught the axe with his right hand.

Dagfinn stopped.

Holy shit.

The Viking strained, right leg forward, left leg back. Muscles rippled on his arms. Frost ate at Curran’s hand, but the axe didn’t move.

“Done?” Curran asked.

Dagfinn snarled.

Curran raised his left hand. His fingers curled into a fist.

“Not in the head!” I yelled. “We need his brain intact.”

Curran yanked the axe forward. Dagfinn jerked back, trying to regain his balance, and Curran swept his left leg from under him. Dagfinn crashed down like an oak chopped at the root.

Curran tore the axe out of his hands and tossed it aside. Dagfinn swung at him with his right fist. Curran leaned out of the way and sank a vicious punch straight down into Dagfinn’s gut.

Ow. I hurt just from looking. The shapeshifters watching on the wall made sucking noises.

Dagfinn curled into a ball, trying to gulp in a lungful of air, which was suddenly missing.

Curran pulled Dagfinn up, swung him over his shoulder, and carried the Viking toward me.

Oh, you crazy sonovabitch.

Curran dumped purple-faced Dagfinn by my feet. “Here is your expert, baby.”

The shapeshifters on the wall whistled and howled. Why me?

“Thanks, show-off,” I told him. “Let me see the hand.”

“It’s fine.”

“The hand, Curran.”

He held it out. Blisters covered his right palm. Frostbite, probably second-degree. It had to hurt like hell. Lyc-V would fix it in a day or so, but meanwhile he’d have to grit his teeth.

“I said don’t touch the axe.”

He leaned over and kissed me. The shapeshifters on the walls cheered.

Dagfinn finally managed to remember how to breathe and swore.

I leaned over him. “He won. You’re going to read my runes now.”

“Fine,” Dagfinn growled. “Give me a minute. I think something’s broken.”

According to Doolittle, nothing was actually broken. Dagfinn treated the diagnosis with open suspicion, but given the circumstances, he decided to deal with it. Curran, on the other hand, got a plastic bag with some sort of healing solution tied around his hand. He liked it about as much as I expected.

“This is ridiculous.”

“With the bag, the hand will be usable in two hours,” Doolittle informed him. “Without the bag, it may be usable by tomorrow. It’s your choice, my lord.”

Curran growled a little, but kept the bag on.

I put Julie’s drawing in front of Dagfinn.

He squinted at it. “Whoa. Was this on a weapon?”

“No, it’s on a gold necklace that’s killing a child. Looks like Elder Futhark, but not exactly. Is this a spell?” I asked.

“This isn’t Elder Futhark.”

“What is it?”

“It’s dvergr.”

I sat down into the nearest chair. “Are you sure?”

Dagfinn pulled back the sleeve of his tunic, displaying his tattoos. “Look here.”

The last two characters on his shoulder matched the last two characters on Julie’s paper. Dagfinn drew his fingers along the tattoo. “This says, ‘Wielder of Axe Aslaug, born from the blood of Earth shaped by the hands of Ivar.’” He tapped the paper. “This says, ‘Apprentice of Ivar.’ Yeah, I’m sure.”

“What is dvergr?” Curran asked me.

“Dwarf,” I told him. “Old Norse dwarf: magic, powerful, skilled with metalwork. Makers of weapons for the gods. They’re often portrayed as embodiments of greed—they lust after power, women, and most of all gold.”

“Hey now!” Dagfinn raised his hand. “Most experts believe this to be a later development. The dwarf myths probably take their root in nature spirits…”

“Dwarves like in Tolkien?” Curran asked.

I wish. I dragged my hand over my face. “One time, four dwarf brothers, the sons of Ivaldi, created some magical gifts for the gods. Two other dwarf brothers, Brokk and Eiti, became jealous of all the praise and bet Loki, the trickster, that they could make better gifts. He wagered his head. The dwarves won and then wanted to murder Loki. The gods wouldn’t let them do it, so Brokk sewed Loki’s lips shut with wire. These are not the jolly, drink-beer-and-go-on-an-adventure type of dwarves.”

“The one I met was a good guy,” Dagfinn said.

“You think the Ivar whose apprentice wore this necklace is the same Ivar who made your axe?” Curran asked.

Dagfinn nodded. “I was about fourteen or fifteen. I was wild back then, not like now.”

Curran and I looked at each other.

“So my uncle Didrik, he was a Viking, took me to the mountains to this valley. We met a smith there and my uncle talked to him and then left me there for the summer. It didn’t go well at first, but Ivar and me got along finally. I liked it there. When Didrik came to get me, Ivar made me this axe and put the runes on me. Right arm”—he slapped his right biceps— “controls the axe. Left arm is my oath. I can’t ever kill a defenseless person or force myself on anyone, or the axe will turn on me.”

“I heard you broke into the monastery looking for Asian ladies,” Curran said.

“Asian ale,” Dagfinn said. “I wasn’t looking to rape anybody. I was looking for the beer. None of them would talk to me, so I kept trying to grab them to make them hold still so I could ask where the beer was. I had a bit to drink that evening.”

The light dawned on me. “Dagfinn, they are Buddhists. They don’t brew beer. You needed the Augustine Brothers two miles to the south. You went to the wrong monastery, you dimwit.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Dagfinn growled. “Anyway, can I see this collar?”

We took him in to see the boy. Roderick shrank a little. “Don’t be scared,” Dagfinn said. He examined the collar for a little while and we returned to the other room. Dagfinn sat down in his chair, while Curran leaned against the wall, watching him and emanating menace.

“Could be Ivar’s work,” Dagfinn said. “I just don’t understand why. The dwarf I knew wouldn’t hurt a child.”

“What about his apprentice,” I asked. “What do you know about him?”

“Never met him, but it looks like this collar must have belonged to him or at least his apprentice. Maybe Ivar will know more, if we can locate him.”

“Can you find the valley again?” I asked.

He shook his head. “There is a trick to it somehow. I’d meant to ask Didrik about it, but he died. I’ve tried to find him on my own. I’ve been all over the Smoky Mountains and nothing.”

He was holding something back, I could feel it. “What are you not telling me, Dagfinn?”

He hesitated.

“It’s going to kill the kid,” Curran said.

“He might know,” Dagfinn said.

“He who?”

“You know. He.”

My heart took a dive. This was getting better and better.

“He who?” Curran demanded.

I stepped closer to him and lowered my voice. “The Vikings know of a creature. He’s been trapped on their land for a very long time. They don’t like to say his name, because he might hear and kill them at night.”

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking about it,” Dagfinn said.

I spread my arms. “I’m out of ideas.”

“Kate, please tell me you haven’t been to see him before, right? Right?” Dagfinn asked.

“No. This will be my first time.”

“Why?” Curran asked.

“He catches your scent when you go to see him,” Dagfinn said. “It takes him a while, but once he learns the scent, he never forgets it. People who go to see him twice don’t come back. Their bones stay on that hill.”

“We’re going to need backup,” I said, thinking aloud.

“Don’t look at me,” Dagfinn said. “I like you and all, but I’ve been once. I ran like a little girl and barely got out. I can’t go again.”

“Backup won’t be an issue,” Curran said.

I shook my head. “We can’t bring anyone we can’t afford to lose.”

“She’s right,” Dagfinn said. “I hired a crew. Six people. I was the only one who got out and only because he ate them first. My advice, hire someone you don’t know and tell them up front it’s a fight to the death. They’re just flesh speed bumps for him.” He looked at me. “You need to talk to the Cherokees.”

“Yes, I know.” Thinking of going to see Håkon sent ice down my spine.

“Well, I’m out.” Dagfinn rose. “Thank you for the fight, I had fun, we should do it again sometime. It was nice knowing you.”

Curran pushed from the wall. “I’ll walk you out.”

“I can find my way,” Dagfinn said.

“I’m sure you can. I’ll save you the trouble.” Gold rolled over Curran’s eyes.

Dagfinn sighed and they left.

I went up onto the roof. We had set up a small dining area there, two chairs and a table. Lately, every time we sat down to eat in our kitchen, someone would knock on the door with some bullshit emergency, so when we didn’t feel like being interrupted, Curran and I would go up to the roof and eat in peace. His Furry Majesty was threatening to drag a grill up there and “cook meat” for me. Knowing him, “grill” meant a giant pit and “meat” stood for half a deer.

I sat on the low stone wall bordering the top of the roof. It was late afternoon, and the sun was slowly rolling to the west. The stone wall was nice and hot under my butt. Summer was coming.

I sat, enveloped in warm air. It felt nice, but not hot enough to chase away the ice built up on my spine. I didn’t want to visit Håkon. Several people I knew had gone to see him. Only two had come back, and Dagfinn was one of them.

The world blinked. The magic vanished, snuffed out like a candle by a draft. A mixed blessing: as long as the magic was down, the necklace wouldn’t constrict Roderick’s neck any further, but we couldn’t see Håkon without it.

Voron, my adoptive father, had always warned me that friends would make me soft. When you cared about people, you forged a bond, and that bond made you predictable. Friends weren’t for me. Greg, my now-dead guardian, took that a step further and added lovers to that ban. When you loved someone, your enemies would use it against you.

Neither of them had predicted that being in love and being loved in return made you value your life much higher. I liked my life. I had a lot to lose now.

Curran emerged from the door, pulled the bag off his hand, and tossed it into the garbage can we kept up here for the times we ate outside. He walked in complete silence, like a tiger stalking through the forest, quiet and confident. I liked to watch him, provided he didn’t know about it. His ego was threatening the ozone layer as it was.

Curran sat next to me and put his left arm around my shoulders and kissed me. There was a slightly possessive edge to the kiss.

“Through the Guild and no.”

“Hmm?” he asked.

“You were about to ask how I know Dagfinn and if we were ever more than friends. We never were friends, actually. I got suckered by the Guild into bringing him in twice. He was wanted for unpaid fines and destruction of property.”

Curran grimaced. “No, it never crossed my mind that you’d be with Dagfinn. He’s an undisciplined idiot. Give me some credit. I know you better than that.”

I shrugged and leaned closer against him. “This is fucked up.”

“Yes, it is. Can you think of any other way to find Ivar?”

“No. Maybe Doolittle can try removing the collar during tech?”

Curran shook his head. “I asked. He says it will kill the boy. He says we have thirty-six to forty-eight hours, depending on how long the magic lasts. There is a good chance the next magic wave will be the boy’s last.”

Two days before Roderick with his owlish eyes died, choked to death.

“Do you remember a few years ago a detachment of PAD disappeared? Eleven cops, armed to the teeth? It was in the papers?”

“Yes.”

“That was Håkon.”

“Is that his name?”

I nodded. “I didn’t say it in front of Dagfinn so he wouldn’t freak out. Whoever we take will die. If we don’t take anybody, the boy will die.”

“We explain it and ask for volunteers.” Curran drew me closer. “Those are the choices we make.”

“I’m tired of those lousy choices.” If you put all the people I’d killed together, their blood would make a lake. I was wading through it and I had no desire to make it any deeper.

We sat next to each other, touching.

If Curran asked for volunteers, the Pack would cough some up. I would have to look at their faces, I would witness their deaths, and then I would have to tell their families about it, assuming I survived. Assuming Curran survived.

The thought pissed me off. We’d do it. There was a child on the other end of that equation, so yes, we would grit our teeth and do it. But it made me so mad. I could’ve strangled Aurellia if I got my hands on her. She knew what the collar did, and she had deliberately chosen between her husband and her son.

“Can Håkon be killed?” Curran asked.

“No. The Cherokees have tried for years. All they can do is contain him on that hill. If he’s destroyed, he just reassembles himself.” I growled. “I don’t want to do this.”

“I know,” he said.

“Do you think less of me?”

“No.” Curran stroked my back. “Like I said, these are the choices we make, and sometimes every choice is bad, and then you sit by yourself and remember all the horrible shit you had to do and have done, and you deal with it. It will eat you alive if you let it.”

I straightened and touched his cheek. “Well, you don’t have to sit by yourself anymore. We’ll sit together.”

He caught my hand and kissed it. His eyes turned dark. His fingers curved into a fist. He looked predatory. “I wish I could rewind back to that second and crush her skull before she put the necklace on the kid.”

“I know. I wish there was a way to get to her.”

He looked at me. “I thought about it. If we approached Forney’s house at night…”

“Curran, we can’t break into the house of the DA. The fallout for the Pack would be enormous.”

“I know, I know.” Muscles played along his jaw. He hated to have his hands tied and so did I. “But if we use someone outside of Atlanta for the DA job…”

“It’s a bad idea. Even I know it’s a bad idea.”

He looked at me. He was still thinking about it.

“No,” I told him.

Curran swore.

Screwing with the DA would get us a witch hunt in a hurry. He knew it and I knew it. No, there had to be another way. Some way where the boy survived and our people didn’t die.

I sighed. “I envy navigators sometimes. All they do is sit in the Casino and drink coffee, while the bloodsuckers run into dang—”

I stopped in midword.

Curran’s eyes lit up.

“You think he’ll go for it?”

“Oh yes. Yes, he will go for it.” He jumped off the wall. “Come with me.”

“Shouldn’t we have some sort of a plan? Ghastek isn’t an idiot. We can’t just call down to the Casino and tell him, ‘Hi, we’re going on a suicide mission, wanna bring some vampires to be our bullet meat?’” Bloodsuckers were expensive. The very idea of taking four or five of them into danger with minuscule chances of survival would give Ghastek an aneurysm.

“I have a plan.” Curran grinned at me.

“Please enlighten me, Your Majesty.”

“I’m going to make Jim figure it out,” Curran said.

“That’s it? That’s your plan?”

“Yes. I’m brilliant. Come on.”

I hopped off the wall and we went down the stairs.

If anybody could figure out how to rope Ghastek into this scheme, Jim would be the man. Served him right for all those times he’d pushed me into the line of fire.

Payback is a bitch.

We trapped Jim in one of the conference rooms and explained our brilliant plan.

“This is payback, isn’t it?” Jim glared at me.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I told him. “As the Consort of the Pack, I’m far above petty revenge.”

Jim tapped the clipboard with several pieces of paper on it against his forearm. “I’ll do it if you go to the Guild tomorrow.”

“You’ll do it, because I asked you to,” Curran said.

Jim turned to me. “Will you do the Guild thing?”

I had a dying kid on my hands and all he cared about was Guild idiocy. “Maybe. I don’t know yet. I’m kind of busy at the moment.”

Green flashed in Jim’s eyes. He yanked a piece of paper from the clipboard and thrust it at me. It looked like a long list.

“What is this?”

“This is the list of all the phone calls I’ve gotten about this shit in the last week and a half. The mercs have gotten every damn member to call me here.” He shook the list in Curran’s direction. “You want to know why your background checks aren’t done? This is why! I could get it done if your mate would stop dicking around and just deal with it.”

Oh, it’s like this, then. “Then I have a great idea. Since they’re all calling you, why don’t you stop dicking around and deal with the Guild. You have the same time in as I do.”

“I have a job!”

“So do I! Why is your time more important than mine?”

The clipboard snapped in Jim’s fingers. He dropped it on the ground and raised his hands. “You know what, I’m done. I quit.”

“Oh my God, seriously?”

Jim wiped his hands against each other and showed them to me.

“Is that you washing your hands off?”

“Yes.”

“Really? So what, you’re going to retire and open that flower shop you always wanted?”

Jim’s eyes went completely green.

“Enough,” Curran said. An unmistakable command saturated his voice. Jim clicked his mouth shut.

I crossed my arms. “I’m sorry, is this the part where I fall to my knees and shiver in fear, Your Furriness? Silly me, I didn’t get the memo.”

Curran ignored the barb. “What’s your problem with the Guild?”

“The only way to resolve it involves me being entangled in running it and I don’t want to do it.” I waved my arms. “I have the Consort crap and I have the Cutting Edge crap and whatever other bullshit the two of you throw my way. I don’t want to go to the Guild every month and deal with their crap on top of everything else.”

Curran leaned toward me. “I have to dress up and meet with those corpse fuckers once every three months and be civil while we’re eating at the same table. You can deal with the Guild.”

“You, dress up? Wow, I had no idea that putting on your formal sweatpants was such a huge burden.”

“Kate,” Curran snarled. “They’re not sweatpants, they are slacks and they have a belt. I have to wear shoes with fucking laces in them.”

“I don’t want to do it! I hate the ceremony crap.” I so didn’t need the Guild politics in my life. It was complicated enough, damn it. “I don’t have time for it.”

“Everybody hates the political stuff,” Curran growled. “You’ll do it.”

“Give me one reason why.”

“Because you know those people and some of them are your friends. The Guild is sinking and they’re losing their jobs.”

I opened my mouth and clamped it shut.

“Also, because I’m asking you to do it,” Curran said. “Will you please resolve this, baby?”

I would punch him. I would punch him straight in the face, hard. “Fine. I’ll need a lot of backup for the Guild.”

Curran looked at Jim. “Make sure she has everything she needs.”

“Okay,” Jim said. He picked up the pieces of his clipboard, pulled a piece of paper out, and handed it to me with the pen. “Write it down.”

I did and gave it back to him.

Jim read it. “I’ll take care of it, Consort.”

“Thank you, Alpha.”

If it had been raining, our voices would’ve frozen it into hail.

“Is there anything else?” Jim asked Curran.

“No.”

Jim nodded and left.

“I hate you,” I told Curran.

He chuckled. “You’d hate me more if Jim quit. We’d have to find a replacement. I don’t trust that many people. Just think how much more shit you’d have to put up with.”

“Don’t,” I warned him.

“Mhm, Kate, the chief of security. Sexy. Who better to guard my body than the woman who owns it?”

“Curran, I will punch you.”

“Rough play.” Curran pretended to shiver in excitement.

I raised my fist and tapped his biceps lightly.

“You knew it was inevitable,” he said.

I knew. The moment Jim sent me the file I had known exactly how it would end. But I’d put up a valiant fight. “Yes, but I don’t have to like it. Can we eat now? I’m starving.”

“Oh so am I forgiven?” he asked.

“Sure. The next time you decide to flex your claws and come up with a plan to invade the home of a high-ranking civil servant, I’ll bark, ‘Enough!’ and expect to be obeyed, how about that?”

“You told me no,” he said.

“And?”

“And I didn’t like it.”

“You can’t assault the DA’s house, you crazy bastard!”

“And you can’t check out of the Guild’s mess. We both have to do things we don’t want to do. I consider us even.”

I rolled my eyes and we went upstairs to our cold food.

“I know what that ass is getting from me next Christmas,” I said.

“What?”

“Clipboards. Lots and lots of clipboards.”

CHAPTER 8

Before the Shift and the return of magic, a person’s power could be readily judged by the kind of car they drove, by the clothes they wore, and the company they kept. In post-Shift Atlanta, visual clues still proved true in some cases, but not nearly often enough. A bum in tattered jeans and ragged cloak could walk out into a crowded street, raise his arms, and the sky would tear open and weep a rain of lightning and hail the size of coconuts, leveling everything in a three-mile radius.

That’s why post-Shift Atlanta’s movers and shakers preferred both a show of power and dressing to impress. Still, if you did dress like a badass, you had better be able to back it up.

When I woke up in the morning, a pair of gray jeans, a gray T-shirt, and a gray leather jacket waited for me, folded on top of a gray cloak edged with fur. Just as I requested. Gray was the Pack color. I was going to put on a show for the Guild and this was my costume for it. I put the clothes on, added my boots, my saber in the back leather sheath, my throwing knives, and my wrist guards filled with silver needles. I braided my hair away from my face and examined myself in the mirror. I was broadcasting dangerous loud and clear.

Normally I stayed away from clothes like that. The less attention I drew when I worked, the better. Most mercs knew I was good at my job, but I wasn’t very impressive. I didn’t put on a show. Some of them had problems with me, most didn’t. Today was different. Today I needed to be less Kate Daniels and more Pack Consort. I needed to knock them off balance, so they wouldn’t question why I showed up there and told them what to do.

I marched into the bathroom, where Curran was brushing his teeth. His blond eyebrows crept up. “That’s your Council meeting outfit from now on.”

I laughed. “Cloak or no cloak?”

“Definitely cloak,” he said.

I tried the cloak on in front of the mirror.

Curran came up behind me and nuzzled my neck.

“Is that your gun or are you just happy to see me?”

“Mhm, a challenge.” He nipped the skin on the back of my neck, sending electric aftershocks down through me. Some men got excited by white lace and a translucent negligee. My love muffin got excited by a woman dressed to murder. There was probably something deeply twisted about that. Lucky for me, negligees were never my thing.

He kissed me again. “You’re finally getting the hang of this whole badass thing.”

“I was always badass.”

“No, you thought you were badass and talked a lot of crap.” He wrapped his arms around me.

Aha. “Let me go.”

“You have time.” He kissed my neck again. Every nerve in my body came to attention.

“No, I don’t. I have people waiting.” I pulled free from him and kissed him back. He pulled me close, locking me within his arms. Mhm, Curran. I really didn’t want to leave.

“Come on.”

“No. Have to go.”

“It won’t take long.”

“Who would that be fun for, exactly? Your seducing techniques need work.” I untangled myself and escaped, before he thought of something else to say to change my mind.

It took me ten minutes to stop by the medical ward.

Roderick’s collar has faded to lemon yellow. The skin around it had turned bright red, inflamed. It hurt just to look at it. I crouched by him. “How are you doing?”

“I’m okay, thank you.”

“Does it hurt to eat?”

“A little,” he said.

“I’m going to see someone today to figure out how to take that thing off.”

He just looked at me with his big eyes. Deep down, he must’ve been scared. His sister had died. His parents were gone. But he held it all inside and he wasn’t about to let me in.

Before I left, Doolittle drew me aside. His face was bleak. “You must hurry.”

“I’ll do my best,” I told him.

When I walked into the morning light, ten Pack vehicles waited for me. The crews of the vehicles stood in front of them wearing identical gray. Jim stood to the side, surveying the troops. I approached him.

“Satisfied, Consort?”

“How long are you going to be pissed off?” I asked him. We both kept our voices low.

He stared straight ahead.

“Jim, we had a verbal disagreement. I was an ass, but you withheld information. The way you’re acting, you’d think I got some guys to jump you and work you over until you woke up with bites on your legs and bruises all over your body.”

“It’s different now, because we’re both Pack. I’ve told you I was sorry about that. Are you going to keep dragging it out every time?”

“It was a shitty thing to do.”

He locked his teeth, making his jaw muscles bulge.

I sighed and started toward the cars. “Suit yourself.”

“I always do,” he called out.

I turned around and flipped him off.

He glared at me.

I kept walking.

“Kate!” he called out.

I turned.

“Eduardo is your second. You need to talk to him. He wants you to practice something.”

I nodded.

“Kate!”

I turned around.

Jim approached me. “Do you need me to watch your back for this Guild thing?”

“I got it. Thanks,” I said.

“Anytime.”

I went in search of Eduardo. Jim was an ornery bastard, but he did have my back. At least he wasn’t mad anymore. I would probably have to make a peace offering all the same. The werejaguars were difficult creatures.

I’d have to get Dali to help me pick a gift. That way there would be no misunderstandings.

The Mercenary Guild made its headquarters in a converted Sheraton Hotel on the edge of Buckhead. In another life the hotel, built as a hollow tower, had a solid glass front, complete with a rotating glass door. Now massive steel gates marked the entrance. As our procession rolled up to the hotel, I could see a few mercs milling about and smoking. Most of the Guild personnel were probably inside already. Perfect.

Next to me, Eduardo leaned forward in the Jeep’s driver seat. A werebuffalo from Clan Heavy, he was over six feet tall and layered with thick muscle. His hair fell down his back in a black mane. His square chin and deep-set eyes said that he would rather die than back down. That impression was one hundred percent correct. I had a problem with a part of his plan and argued with him about it until I turned blue in the face, but he wouldn’t budge, which was probably why Jim had assigned him to be my second for this venture.

“Wait until we line up before you go in, Consort,” he murmured.

“Kate.” We’d been on a first-name basis for a while now.

“Not today, Consort.”

The ten Jeeps turned in unison, parking next to each other in front of the building. The mercs at the entrance forgot to suck at their cigarettes and stared.

The car doors opened. The shapeshifters stepped out, forming two lines with a military precision, their faces solemn. I glanced at Eduardo.

“Not yet,” he said.

The shapeshifters marched into the Sheraton, looking like they would chew through anybody dumb enough to stand in their way.

“I’m going to get out and go ahead. Derek will open your door. When you exit, keep walking, like you own the place,” Eduardo said. “We’ve got your back.”

“Watch it, bison,” Jezebel growled from the backseat. She was one of the two bouda advisors Aunt B, the alpha of the werehyenas, had attached to me. “You talk to her like she’s a child.”

I held up my hand. “It’s okay. I got it.”

“No worries,” Eduardo said. “You’ll do fine.”

There were few things I hated more than being the center of attention. Especially if the crowd was large.

Eduardo stepped outside. The passenger door behind me opened and Jezebel and Derek got out. Jezebel was six feet tall, moved like a predator, and had enough hard muscle on her to make me think twice about trying to take her on. Derek was leaner and younger, but his face and bearing made an instant impression.

Derek opened the door. “My lady.”

The arrogant, self-assured face of my aunt flashed before me. I would be Erra for today.

Eduardo stomped toward the Sheraton like a mountain with a “make my day” face.

I stepped out and marched on the Guild, imagining there was an army at my back.

Eduardo cleared the iron gates, sucked in a lungful of air, and roared. “Make way for the Consort!”

Oh boy.

Eduardo stood to the side. I strode through the gates and the lobby. Eduardo fell in behind me.

Before the Shift, the hotel was a many-star establishment, complete with an on-the-premises restaurant, a coffee shop, and a happy hour area raised on a three-foot platform. Mercs filled the main floor now. The twin lines of shapeshifters had sliced through the crowd, forming an empty corridor leading toward the platform. They stood like statues, hands behind their backs, feet together. A lone table waited for me. Mark sat on the left, his face pale. On the right Bob Carver and Ivera gawked at me with owl eyes.

I walked to the platform with my head held high, my cloak flaring. The entirety of the Guild focused on me. Super.

At the platform Eduardo sped up, drawing even with me. He took a knee, locked his left fist on his right wrist, and offered me the makeshift step.

Do not fall, do not fall, do not fall…

Without breaking my stride, I stepped onto his arms and then onto the platform.

We’d practiced it at least two dozen times before we had left for the Guild.

The three shapeshifters—Derek, Eduardo, and Jezebel—turned, their backs to the platform, and glowered at the crowd. Derek carried a large wooden box. The two lines of shapeshifters stepped to the left as one, snapping into a wider stance.

Someone gasped.

Showtime.

“I speak for the Pack,” I said, putting all my power into my voice. “We hold twenty percent of the Guild. The admin group holds forty. The veterans hold another forty.”

You could hear a pin drop.

“You’ve had months to choose a leader. You have failed and asked the Pack to break this deadlock. This is my proposal to the Guild. Listen well, because there won’t be another.”

They were listening. Thank you, Universe, for small favors.

“Solomon Red envisioned this Guild as a place for independent men and women to earn their living in the way they see fit. We must continue the course he plotted for us.”

It was bullshit. Solomon Red didn’t have that grand of a vision, but Curran had suggested it, so I plowed on ahead.

“Point One. The Guild will appoint a chief administrative officer to oversee day-to-day operations and the financial security of the Guild. I nominate Mark for this post. Point Two. The Guild will appoint a chief personnel officer to protect the interests of its members, oversee the zoning of scores, and the assignment of gigs. I nominate Bob Carver for this post. Point Three, the Guild will create the post of Pack liaison officer, who will represent the Pack’s interests in the Guild as its third largest shareholder. I will be taking over this post. Together the chief administrative officer, chief personnel officer, and Pack liaison officer will form the Guild Committee, which will meet on the fifteenth of every month. All matters of policy concerning the Guild will be resolved by vote of the committee members.”

I looked down. The shapeshifter at the end of the left line stepped forward and unfolded a small table. The shapeshifter from the end of the right line placed a tall stack of index cards and three pens on the table. Derek stepped forward and put his wooden box in the center of the table.

“The Guild will now vote,” I announced. “Each of you will write your merc ID on the card, add one word: YES or NO, and drop it into this box. I give you this last chance to save the Guild and your jobs. Don’t blow it.”

Two hours later, two hundred and forty-six mercs voted yes, thirty-two voted no, and sixty-one dropped blank cards with their IDs into the box, abstaining. I made a show of congratulating Bob and Mark and got the hell out of there.

CHAPTER 9

I went to see Immokalee, a Cherokee medicine woman, after leaving the Guild. She spent half an hour making supplies for me and another half an hour trying to convince me that going to see the draugr was a Bad Idea. I knew it was a Bad Idea. I just didn’t see any way around it.

I got to the Cutting Edge office just after noon. The Dude and a cart containing one very sedated deer waited for me in the parking lot. A female shapeshifter I didn’t know sat on the cart with a sour expression on her face. It took me only a moment to figure out why. Next to the cart, hiding in the shade, crouched a vampire. It was thin, wiry, and covered in purple sunblock from head to toe, as if some giant bubble of grape bubblegum had exploded over it.

Jim had done it. I felt like jumping up and down. Instead I gave the vamp my flat stare.

“There are more inside,” the female shapeshifter informed me.

I stepped into the office. Curran sat at my desk, drinking a Corona from my fridge. In front of him, four vampires sat in a neat row in the middle of the floor. Two matched the purple delight outside, one was Grinch green, and the last one blazed with orange.

“I get the sunblock,” I said. “But why do you have to paint them like Skittles?”

The orange vamp unhinged its jaws. “The bright color helps to make sure they’re completely covered,” an unfamiliar female voice explained. “It’s easy to miss a spot. When they’re young, they have a lot of wrinkles.”

Ugh. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Kate,” the green vamp spoke with Ghastek’s voice, “it has come to my attention that you are planning to see a creature in the Viking territory with the purpose of finding a means to remove the necklace from the child. An undead creature. That explicitly violates the terms of our agreement to resolve this matter jointly.”

I looked at Curran. He shrugged.

“And how did you know this?” I asked.

“I have my methods.”

How in the world had Jim pulled this off? I’d have to buy him all the clipboards in the world.

“Ghastek, this is not a pleasure trip,” Curran said.

“You can’t go,” I added.

“Why ever not?”

“Because this undead will murder your vampire hit squad and I have no desire to get that bill,” Curran said. “Do yourself a favor. Sit this one out.”

Wow. He went there.

The vamp’s red eyes bulged, struggling to mirror Ghastek’s expression.

“Kate, perhaps you need to explain to your significant other that he is in no position to give me orders. Last time I checked, his title was Beast Lord, which is a gentle euphemism for a man who strips naked at night and runs around through the woods hunting small woodland creatures. I’m a premier Master of the Dead. I will go where I please.”

Once again I rode The Dude. Curran chose to drive the cart. We traveled side by side. Ghastek took point, while three of his journeymen flanked us. The fourth, the orange vampire, trotted next to me. It was piloted by Ghastek’s top journeywoman. Her name was Tracy and as navigators went, she wasn’t too bad.

Ghastek’s vampire reached Gunnar’s fork, marked by an old birch. Predictably, Gunnar lumbered out. “Come to see Ragnvald again?”

“Going to the glade.” I nodded at the cart. The deer’s moist dark eyes stared at the Viking.

Gunnar’s spine went rigid. “To see him?”

I nodded.

“Don’t go,” he said.

“I have to.”

He shook his head and stepped aside. “It’s been nice knowing you.”

I touched the reins and our small procession rolled on.

Ghastek dropped back, drawing even with The Dude. “Why the secrecy?”

“The Vikings don’t like to say Håkon’s name. The glade isn’t that far from here and he might hear.”

“What is he?”

He and Curran had that in common. Wave a secret in front of them and they would foam at the mouth trying to learn it. “He’s a draugr.”

The vamp hopped on the cart and peered at me, its eyes only a couple of inches from my face. “A draugr? A mythical Norse undead that’s supposed to guard the treasure of its grave?”

“Get off my cart,” Curran growled.

The undead hopped down. The vampire’s grotesque face twisted into an odd expression: the corners of its cavernous mouth pinched up, while its lips gaped open, displaying its fangs. It stared at me with blood-red eyes and bopped its head forward and back a few times.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m laughing at you.”

Kicking the vampire in the face with my foot would be counterproductive at this point.

“When I was a journeyman, I spent eighteen months in Norway looking for draugr. I’ve camped in cemeteries in sub-zero temperatures, I’ve scoured fjords, I’ve dived into sea caves in freezing water. It was the worst year and a half of my life. In those eighteen months I didn’t find any credible evidence of the existence of draugr. Trust me when I say this: they don’t exist. Hence, my use of the word ‘mythical.’ As in, ‘not real.’”

I briefly contemplated punching the vampire in the nose. It wouldn’t hurt Ghastek any, but it would be immensely satisfying. “This draugr exists. Plenty of people have met him.”

“Oh, I have no doubt that they have met something, but it wasn’t a draugr. Don’t you see the signs? The mysterious glade, the path to which is guarded by a giant. The legendary undead with magical powers, who you can only meet once, and those who disobey that rule die a gruesome death.” The vampire waved his front limbs, fingers spread. “Woo-ooo. Frightening.”

“Do you have a point?”

“Those bearded, horn-helmeted bandits are conning you, Kate.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“There’s no need to feel bad about this. You’re a capable fighter, proficient with a blade, and you have intelligence and tenacity, but you don’t work with the undead. You have very little familiarity with the basic principles of necromancy, beyond its most practical applications. You lack the tools to recognize the hoax.”

The urge to grab the mind of the nearest vampire and use it to beat Ghastek’s vamp to a bloody pulp was overwhelming. Perhaps that was why Voron had insisted on steering me away from necromancy. He’d known there would be times that the temptation to show off would be too much.

“No worries. It’s a forgivable mistake,” Ghastek said. “However, it’ll cost us a day and the use of five vampires.”

“Humor me.”

“Oh, I intend to. I’ve had a stressful day and breaking this farce open will prove a wonderful way to vent the pressure.”

The vampire sauntered off.

“He doesn’t like to be wrong,” Tracy’s vamp said. I caught a hint of humor in her voice.

I couldn’t care less if he liked it. As long as his vampires stood between me and the draugr, it would buy me a couple of extra seconds to get away.

The old road led deeper and deeper into the forest. The trees grew taller and thicker, their long limbs thrusting at each other, as if trying to push their neighbors out of the way. Mist swirled between the trunks, first an ethereal haze shimmering along the ground, then a thicker blue fog that hugged the road, lying in wait. It swallowed the sounds: the hoofbeats of the horses, the creaking of the cart, and the occasional sigh from the deer in the back. All seemed muted.

Ahead a stone arch rose above the path, gray slabs of rocks tinted with moss. I halted The Dude. The cart rocked to a stop.

“There’s a path leading north just past the arch. We go on foot from here.” I hopped off the cart. “I need one of you to carry the deer.”

A purple bloodsucker crawled up on the cart. Sickle claws sliced at the rope securing the animal, and the vampire pulled the deer off and slung it over its shoulder.

“Which way will you be coming on the way back?” Curran asked.

“The glade is northeast from here.” I pointed to a tall oak to the left.

Curran pulled me close.

Ghastek’s vampire rolled his eyes.

“Remember the plan?” Curran said in my ear.

“Get in, get the information, and run like hell out of there.”

“See you in a few hours.”

I brushed his lips with mine. “See you.”

I grabbed my backpack and headed up the path.

The mist grew thicker. Moisture hung in the air, tinted with the odor of rotting vegetation and fresh soil. Somewhere in the distance a bird screamed. No movement troubled the still woods. No squirrels chattered in the canopy, no small game scurried away at our approach. Nothing stirred except for the vampires gliding alongside the path, their emaciated shapes flashing between the trees.

The path veered right and opened into a small glade. Tall pines framed it, the enormous dark trunks scratching at the sky. A carpet of dark pine needles sheathed the ground. Here and there rocks thrust from the forest floor.

“Put the deer right there.” I pointed to the center of the glade. The vampire unloaded the deer and hopped aside.

“I suppose we wait until the magic returns?” Ghastek inquired.

“You got it.” I sat on a fallen pine.

The vampire’s shoulders rose up and down. Ghastek must’ve sighed. “I suppose we might as well treat this seriously.” The vampire raised his left forelimb. A long yellow claw pointed at a tall birch on the left. “Observation Post there.” A claw moved to the right to a pine on the other side of the glade. “Another OP there. Give me a perimeter assessment.”

Two purple vampires scattered, took a running start, and scrambled up the indicated trees. The third dashed into the bushes. Only Ghastek and Tracy remained. His vampire sat on my right, her vampire sat on my left. Peachy.

A minute passed. Another.

Ghastek’s vamp lay down. “If half of the things said about draugr were true, it would revolutionize necromantic science. According to legend, they’re the spirits of warriors who rise from the grave to guard their buried possessions. They see the future, they control the elements, they shapeshift into animals. They turn into smoke and become giants.”

“Not at the same time,” I told him.

“What?”

“You said they turn into smoke and become giants. Not at the same time. They’re solid in giant form.”

“You’re still clinging to this fallacy?”

I leaned forward. “What would you have done if you had found a draugr in Norway, Ghastek?”

“I’d have tried to apprehend it, of course.”

“Suppose you live in a small village in Norway and you know a draugr is nearby. You bring him live game once in a while and you hope to God he leaves you the hell alone. Now some geeky hotshot foreigner shows up on your doorstep and explains to you how he’s going to go annoy this terrible creature for the sake of ‘necromantic science.’ You try to explain to him that it’s not a good idea, but he treats you as if you’re an idiot child.”

“I never treat people like infantile idiots,” Ghastek said.

I looked at him.

Tracy cleared her throat carefully.

“Go on,” he said.

“Would you take this foreigner to this undead monster and risk pissing it off, or would you steer him as far away from the draugr as possible and hope he’ll go away eventually?”

“That’s a sound theory, with one exception. I’m not that gullible.”

Fine. “Bet me.”

The vampire stared at me. “I’m sorry?”

“Bet me. If the draugr is a hoax, I’ll owe you a favor.”

“And if he’s real?”

“Then you will bring me a quart of vampire blood.”

“And why would you need vampire blood, Kate?”

Because I needed it to experiment with making armor out of it, that’s why. “I want to calibrate the lot of new m-scanners the Pack bought.” He didn’t need to know I was practicing to see how much of Roland’s talent had passed to me.

A hint of suspicion slid into Ghastek’s voice. “And you need a quart of blood for that?”

“Yep.”

The bloodsucker became utterly still as Ghastek mulled it over.

“If I win this silly game, you will tell me why Rowena came to see you after the Keepers affair.”

Sucker. “Deal.”

“Excellent.” He put emphasis on the “x” and the word came out slightly sibilant.

“You need a fluffy white cat. That way you can stroke it when you say things like that.”

Tracy’s vamp made a small noise that might have been a clearing of a throat or a choked-up laugh.

A purple vampire popped out of the bushes, dragging something behind it. The bloodsucker strained, tight muscle flexing across its back, and heaved what looked like a large collapsed leather tent into the open.

“We found human bones,” the vampire reported.

“In the ravine?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I knew about the spot. Immokalee had described it to me this morning, trying to scare me into not going. A few dozen yards to the north, the ground dropped sharply into a narrow fissure lined with human skeletons. Some still held their weapons. When a draugr sucked the flesh off your bones, he did it quick, like jerking a shirt off a body.

“We also found this.” The vampire indicated the tent.

Ghastek’s vampire raised the top edge, exposing a dark opening, and vanished into it. The leather shifted, mirroring the vampire’s movement inside it. The bloodsucker emerged into the clear air. “The design is ill-conceived. It is clearly too large for one person, but it has no structure or method of remaining upright as a tent, and besides, this side is completely open to the elements. Perhaps it’s some sort of communal sleeping bag?”

“It’s not a sleeping bag,” I told him.

“Would you care to enlighten me?” Ghastek said.

“Look at it from above.”

The purple vampire leaped onto the nearest tree and scurried up into the branches. A long moment passed and then it dropped on the ground next to me without a word.

“What is it?” Tracy asked.

The vampire’s face was unreadable, like a blank wall. “It’s a glove.”

The wind stirred the tree branches. The world blinked, as the tech vanished, crushed under the onslaught of a magic wave. Cold froze the glade. The other vampire burst from the bushes and came to rest by Tracy.

In the distance something wailed in an inhuman voice, its forlorn cry rising high above the treetops.

Gloom claimed the clearing. It came slowly, like molasses, from the dark spaces deep between the roots, washing over trees, leaching color from the greenery, drenching it in shadows, until the shrubs and foliage turned dark, almost gray. Behind the gloom, mist rose in thin wisps, tinted with an eerie bluish glow.

A crow cried overhead, its shrill caw impossibly distant.

“They are putting on quite a show,” Ghastek said.

“Yep.” I nodded. “Going all out. Viking special effects are out of this world.”

I pulled a canvas bundle out of my backpack and untied the cord securing it. Four sharpened sticks lay inside, each three feet long. I picked up a rock and hammered the first of the sticks into the ground at the mouth of the path. That was the way I’d run when it came time to get the hell out of there.

I moved along the edge of the clearing, sinking the sticks in at regular intervals.

“What is the purpose of this?” Ghastek asked.

“Protection.”

“Have I given you a reason to doubt my competence, Kate?”

“No.” I pulled a black box out of my backpack, took a black cloth out of it, and unfolded the cloth to extract an old pipe. The medicine woman had already packed it with tobacco.

“What is this?”

“A pipe.” I struck a match, puffed to get the pipe going, and got a mouthful of smoke for my trouble. The pungent tobacco scraped the inside of my throat. I coughed and started to circle the clearing, blowing smoke as I went.

“What sort of magic is this?” one of the journeymen asked.

“Cherokee. Very old.” If life was perfect, I’d have Immokalee herself do the ritual. It took years of training for the medicine woman to reach her power, but none of the Cherokees would go near the draugr. Unlike me, they had common sense. All the chants over the sticks and the pipe had been said already. All I had to do was follow the ritual and hope Immokalee’s magic was potent enough to work when an incompetent like me activated it.

I finished the circle, put the pipe away, and sat back on the log.

A pair of tiny eyes ignited by the roots of an oak to the left. No iris was visible—the entire eye was an almond-shaped slit of pale yellow glow.

“Left,” Tracy said. Her voice was perfectly calm.

“I see it,” Ghastek said.

Another pair sparked to the right, about a foot off the ground. Then another, and another. All around us the eyes fluoresced, clustered around tree trunks, staring from the underbrush, peering from behind rocks.

“What are they?” Tracy asked.

“Uldra,” Ghastek said. “They’re nature spirits from Lapland. They live mostly underground. I wouldn’t provoke them. Stay in the clearing.”

The eyes stared at us, unblinking.

A blast of icy cold ripped through the clearing. The uldra vanished as one. On the ground, the deer moaned, coming up out of its drugged state.

Here we go.

I reached into my backpack and pulled out a small leather satchel, a small plastic bear full of honey, and a canteen. No turning back now. I got up off the log and walked over to the center of the glade where a large stone waited. Ghastek’s and Tracy’s vampires trailed me.

I brushed the leaves from the stone. The inside of the rock had been hollowed out into a stone basin, large enough to hold about three gallons of liquid.

“When the draugr appears, don’t talk to him,” I said. “The longer we talk, the more time he has to lock onto our scent. We’ll have to fight to get clear anyway. No need to make things harder.”

No response.

“Ghastek? Do you understand me?”

“Of course,” he said.

“The Cherokee have set protective wards on the mountain. If we make it to the pillars by the road, we’re safe.”

“You said this before,” Ghastek informed me.

“I’m just reminding you.” This wouldn’t go well.

I set the canteen on the ground and loosened the drawstring cord securing the pouch. It opened into a square of leather in the palm of my hand. Inside lay six rune stones chiseled from bone, and a handful of beat-up silver coins: two etched with a sword and hammer and four with the Viking raven.

I cast the runes into the basin. They clicked, rolling from the stone sides. It took me a second to unscrew the canteen. Ale splashed on the runes, drenching the bone in liquid amber. The scent of malted barley and juniper wafted up. The bluish mist snapped at it like a striking snake.

“Patience, Håkon. Patience.”

I poured in the rest of the ale, emptied the honey into the basin, and stirred it with a branch. Magic spread from the runes into the honey and ale. I reached in and pulled the runes out, all except two: the rune of enemy binding and Þjófastafur, the rune that prevented theft.

The mist hovered by me.

I took a deep breath, grabbed the deer by the head, and heaved it onto the basin. Moist brown eyes looked at me.

“I’m so sorry.”

I pulled a throwing knife out and slit the animal’s throat in a single quick swipe. Blood gushed into the basin, hot and red. The deer thrashed, but I held its head until the blood flow stopped. The basin was a third of the way full. I stepped back and hefted the coins in my hand. They jingled together, sparking with magic.

“I call you out, Håkon. Come from your grave. Come taste the blood ale.”

Magic pulsed through the glade, ice cold and shockingly powerful. It pierced my skin, ripping its way all the way into my bones. I recoiled. Panic crested inside me like a huge black wave. Every instinct I had screamed, “Run! Run as fast as you can.”

I clenched my teeth.

The air reeked of fetid, decaying flesh. It left a sickeningly sweet patina on my tongue.

The mist congealed with an eerie moan and a creature stepped forth to the basin. A thick cloak of half-rotten fur hung off his shoulders, shielding the chain mail that covered him from elbow to the knee. The fur had thinned to long feathery strands, smeared with dirt. Long colorless hair spilled from his head in a tangled mess. His skin was blue, as if he had an intense case of argyria.

The draugr dropped by the basin, dipped his head, and lapped the blood like a dog. Death had sucked all softness from his flesh. His face was a leathery mask of wrinkles, his nose was a misshapen nub, and his lips had dried to nothing, baring a mouth full of long vampiric teeth. His eyes were awful: pale green, and completely solid, as if made of frosted glass. No iris, no pupil, nothing. Just two dead eyes behind an opaque green membrane.

I gave him a couple of seconds with the blood and squeezed the runes. They warmed my skin, forging a link to the two left in the blood ale. “That’s plenty.”

The undead raised his head. Blood dripped from his chin. A voice came, hoarse, like the creaking of trees in the wood. “Who are you, meat?”

Not good. “I’ve come to trade. Fair trade: fresh meat for an answer.”

The draugr dipped its head toward the blood. Magic pulsed from the runes. The creature let out a long sound halfway between a sigh and a growl.

Ghastek’s vampire moved to stand next to me.

The undead swiveled to the bloodsucker. “You bring me dead meat?”

“No. Dead meat guards me. Dead meat has no power over the ale. If you want to talk to dead meat, that’s between you and it.”

The draugr rose above the basin, shoulders hunched over. “Dead meat speaks?”

Ghastek shifted the vampire another step.

“I wouldn’t,” I told him.

The vamp halted. “Who are you?”

Would it kill him not to screw with my thing?

The draugr leaned on the stone. “I’m Håkon, son of Eivind. My father was a jarl and his father before him was one. The blood ale calls to me. Who are you, meat, that you interrupt my feeding?”

“I’m Ghastek Sedlak, Master of the Dead.”

The draugr’s mouth gaped wider. The creature rocked back and forth. “Dróttinn of the dead. I am dead. Do you style yourself my master too, little dead meat?”

Full stop. “Don’t answer that. Your ale is getting cold, Håkon. Have a taste.”

The runes in my hand cooled. The undead took a step toward me, then turned, as if drawn by a magnet, dropped on his knees and drank deeply, sucking up the blood in long greedy swallows.

“How did you come to be here?” Ghastek asked.

Damn it all to hell.

The draugr turned its unblinking eyes to the vampire and raised his head from the blood for a moment. “We came for gold.”

“All the way from Norseland?”

The draugr shook its head and drank.

“Kate,” Ghastek said. “Make him talk. Please.”

How do I get myself into these things? I gripped the runes. The draugr ducked down, trying to lick the blood, got within two inches of the red surface and stopped.

“From Vinland. The north skrælingar brought us gold to trade for weapons. They told us they bartered with the southern tribes for it. They said the southern skrælingar were soft. They were farmers, they said. Our seers had scryed the source of the gold, in the hills, not far from the coast. We took two ships and went looking for it.”

“Did you find the gold?” Ghastek asked.

The draugr reared back, his teeth on display. “We found woods, and giant birds, and skrælingar magic. We were retreating when a skræling arrow found me.”

“Is that why you rose? To punish the native tribe?” Ghastek asked.

He just wouldn’t stop talking.

The draugr’s clawed hands scratched the stone of the basin. Magic snapped from him, flaring like a foul banner. The hair on the back of my neck rose.

“To punish them? No. I rose to punish the ingrate dogs who threw me into a hole in the ground like a common thrall. Not one of them bothered to even place a stone to mark my grave. I killed some of them and ate their flesh, but a few still lived. I’ve searched for them, but I can’t find them.”

“You can’t find them, because they’ve been dead for a thousand years,” I told him. Damn it. Now Ghastek had me doing it.

The wrinkled mask of the draugr’s face twisted in derision. “So you say.”

Ghastek’s vamp leaned forward. “If you’re so powerful, why don’t you just leave?”

“He can’t. The Cherokee wards are locking him in. No more questions.”

“In that case—”

I brought my fist down on the vamp’s bald head. God, that felt good.

The vamp whipped around, glaring at me in outrage.

“Shut up,” I told him and turned to the draugr. “Blood ale, undead. If you want any more, you will grant me my boon.”

The draugr rose, slowly. His fur mantle closed about him. Cold spread from him. My breath turned into a wisp of vapor.

“Ask.”

“How do I find Ivar the Dwarf?”

“He lives in a hidden valley,” the draugr said. “Travel to Highlands and find Cliffside Lake. At the north edge of the lake, you will see a trail leading you to the mountain scarred by lightning. Make the offering of gold, silver, and iron, and the dwarf will permit you to enter.”

I released the runes and backed away. “The blood ale is yours.”

“It’s grown cold.”

I kept backing up.

Magic accreted around the draugr like a second cloak. “I do not want it. I want my blood hot.”

Mayday, mayday. “That’s not the deal we made.”

I passed the stick guarding the road.

“I make deals and I break them.”

The wooden stick between us shivered in the ground.

“There is no escape, meat.”

The cocoon of the draugr’s magic burst with icy fury, snapping at me with dark fingers. The stick shot from the ground and pierced the draugr’s head.

I ran.

Behind me a wail of pure fury tore through the forest and Ghastek’s voice barked, “Secure the creature!”

Magic exploded with mind-numbing intensity. My eyes watered. The breath in my lungs turned into a clump of ice. The path veered right. As I took the turn at a breakneck speed, I saw the draugr, towering over the trees, a mantle of dark magic streaming from his shoulders as he ripped a vampire in half with his colossal hands.

“I have your scent,” the giant roared. “You won’t escape!”

The translucent flood of magic crested the edge of the glade and rolled down, chasing me.

The forest turned into a blurry smudge of green. I flew, jumping over the roots. Weeds slapped me.

The harsh stench of rot filled my mouth. Around me the trees groaned, as if pulled upright by an invisible hand. My throat burned.

I could almost see the road through the shrubs.

The path turned left and I leaped straight down, praying the old injury to my left knee wouldn’t flare up. The brush snapped under my weight and I tore down the slope, squeezing every last drop of speed out of my body.

A deep roar shook the ground.

No way to dodge, no direction to take but down.

A shadow fell over me. I threw myself forward. I rolled once, twice, catching a glimpse of a colossal clawed hand raking the forest behind me, flipped to my feet, and burst onto the road.

The pillar loomed to my right. I sprinted to it.

The air whistled. Something large crashed on the road ahead of me, bounced, and sprung to its feet. Ghastek’s vampire. Deep gashes scoured its flanks, oozing thick undead blood onto the sunblock. It looked like it had gone through a shredder.

The trees creaked behind me. The draugr had made it onto the road.

I ran like I’d never run before in my life.

The vampire froze for a fraction of an instant and galloped to the pillars.

My feet barely touched the ground. In my head my bad leg snapped like a toothpick.

The draugr’s magic whipped at me, slashing at my back. I went airborne, rolled, and hit the ground hard. My head swam. I rolled to my feet.

Taller than the trees, the enormous undead towered above me, his eyes spilling icy green mist. Ragged chain mail hung from his torso. Colossal iron pauldrons guarded his shoulders. Huge chunks of his flesh were missing, and bone glared through the holes.

Holy shit.

The draugr raised a foot the size of a car. His magic swirled about him in a stormy cloud.

Curran in his warrior form shot out of the treetop, flying through the air like a gray blur.

I stood still, presenting a clear target for Håkon.

The draugr stomped forward.

Curran smashed into the back of the undead’s neck. Bone crunched. The draugr spun, and I saw Curran ripping into the space between the neck vertebrae with his claws. Undead gristle flew.

The draugr roared, trying to swat at the Beast Lord. His head began to droop.

Two ribbons of green magic snapped backward from the draugr, aiming for Curran.

Oh no, you don’t. I opened my mouth and barked a power word.

“Ossanda.” Kneel, you undead sonovabitch.

The magic burst from me. It felt like someone had sunk claws into my stomach and tore out the muscle and my innards. The world went black for a tiny moment. I’d sunk a lot of magic into it.

The horrible creak of bone snapping rolled through the air. The draugr’s bony knees hit the road. The forest quaked.

I took a running start and sprinted at him.

The dazed undead raised its huge hands, trying to grab me. I veered left, avoiding the gnarled bone fingers, and scrambled up the giant’s body, climbing the chain mail.

Above me, Curran snarled.

The draugr slapped his chest, missing me by a couple of inches.

I pulled myself onto his shoulder and ran down the iron plate to his neck. Curran was ripping into the gristle. The undead flesh tore under his claws, and snapped back, regenerating.

I pulled Slayer and chopped at the gap he’d made. My saber smoked from the contact with undead flesh. The gap widened.

Curran grasped the edge of the two vertebrae and forced them apart. I cut into the cleft, slicing through the connective tissue.

Cut. Cut. Cut.

Cartilage crunched.

Magic stung me, weaving about me in green strands.

“Wait!” Curran growled.

I stopped my sword in midstrike. Curran jumped into the gap, his clawed feet on the edge of one vertebra, his hands on the other. He strained, pushing them apart. Steel-hard muscle bulged on his frame, shaking with effort.

The draugr howled.

Curran snarled, a vicious, short sound born of strain.

With a sickening screech, the draugr’s head fell and rolled off his body. The colossal torso toppled. I jumped and landed on the road, my sword in my hand. Curran dropped down next to me.

We ran. We sprinted to the pillars.

Behind us an eerie, unnatural noise announced the draugr reassembling himself.

The green vampire that had fallen on the road picked itself up and chased after us.

We were almost to the pillars.

A shadow fell over us.

Curran spun. His head melted, reshaping into a lion’s head. The Beast Lord roared.

The sound was like thunder. Deep, primeval, arresting, it froze the marrow in my bones. My instincts screamed and tried to drop me to the ground in a small quivering ball.

The draugr screeched to a halt.

We dashed forward.

The pillars flashed by our sides. I ran to a stop and turned around, my ribs hurting.

The undead giant strode toward us.

The pillars flashed with deep amber.

The draugr smashed into an invisible wall. Streaks of orange lightning clutched at his flesh. A deafening wail slapped my ears.

“I will kill you! I will gnaw the flesh off your bones! I will pick my teeth with your femurs!”

I vomited onto the ground.

Next to me Curran patted my back, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

The vampire next to me collapsed. The gashes on its body knitted together. A new pale skin slid over the cuts and began to smoke.

“You owe me vampire blood,” I told him.

“Yes, yes.” Ghastek sounded sour. “Do hand me that canvas before he burns to death.”

I jerked the canvas off the cart and held it up. “I just want to hear you say it.”

The vamp squirmed.

I shook the canvas a bit.

“Fine. The draugr do exist.”

“And I was right.”

“You were right. The canvas, Kate.”

I draped it over the vampire and looked at Curran. “Did you hear that?”

“I heard that.” Together we picked up the vampire and heaved the bloodsucker into the cart. “I still don’t believe it, but I heard it.”

Two vampires dashed past the raging draugr, one purple, one orange. The remains of Ghastek’s super-squad.

“Over here,” I waved. “Run to safety!”

“Could the two of you gloat a little more?” Ghastek said.

“Oh I could,” I said. “I definitely could.”

The vampire pulled the canvas back and peeked out, staring in the direction of the glade. “Double or nothing.”

“What?”

“Double or nothing, Kate. I can take him.”

Ghastek was a gambler. Knock me over with a feather. I sat on the cart. The draugr would rip them to pieces in ten minutes, tops.

“Knock yourself out,” Curran told him. “We’ll wait right here.”

“Don’t take too long,” I told him. “We have a child to save.”

CHAPTER 10

I knew that something was wrong by the look on the face of the werewolf who opened the door to the Pack’s safe house. The Pack owned several properties in the city, and after we were done clapping and cheering at the sight of Ghastek’s complete and utter failure, Curran and I had made a beeline for the nearest one to wash the undead nastiness off. The magic had fallen and with technology once again reasserting its grip on the world, Curran was eager to trade the cart for a Pack Jeep.

When the male werewolf opened the door, his eyes had that particular look to them that meant some catastrophe had happened.

“What is it?” Curran growled.

The werewolf licked his lips.

“Out with it,” Curran said.

“Andrea Nash has been seen in the city, interviewing business owners.”

“She is frequently in the city,” I said. “And interviewing is her job. She’s investigating some murders for the Pack.” Which I would look into as soon as we got Roderick out of that damned necklace.

The werewolf took a small step back. “She’s doing it in her beastkin shape.”

“Come again?”

“She’s walking around in her beastkin shape. And some clothes.”

All unaffiliated shapeshifters within the Pack’s borders were required to present themselves to the Pack within three days. Until now, the Pack had been able to deny all knowledge that Andrea was a shapeshifter, mostly because Curran made a very public point of ignoring it and nobody cared to bring it up.

Well, he couldn’t ignore it any longer. Andrea had pretty much made sure of that.

It made no sense. Andrea almost never used her beastkin shape. In fact, she pretended to be human most of the time. Going out in her fur and claws for her would be equivalent to me taking off my clothes and parading through the city naked.

Something had happened. Something really bad.

I looked at Curran. “I guess we’d better go back to the office.”

I walked through the office doors carrying a vampire’s head smeared in green sunblock. I had picked it up after the draugr had punted it out of the ward zone. It was beginning to smell and needed to be buried in ice ASAP.

Andrea sat at her desk. She was wearing her beastkin shape, a perfect meld of human and hyena. It was a shape that could get her killed. Andrea’s father was a hyenawere, an animal who turned into a human. That made her beastkin, and many older shapeshifters would want to murder her on sight.

“Want” being the operative word. Andrea could take care of herself. On top of that, I would help her, and Curran had made it plain that this was a prejudice he would not tolerate. He was waiting outside now in a parking lot a block away. I had asked him to give us a few minutes.

Andrea’s feet were on the table. Her T-shirt was torn, her pants were in tatters, and a mess of blood and tissue stained both. She wiggled her clawed toes at me.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Andrea raised her hand. There was a bottle in it. She was drinking.

I went into the kitchen, got a ceramic dish from under the sink, and deposited my vampire head inside the fridge. Then I came back, shrugged out of my sword sheath, and sat in the chair.

“What are you drinking?”

“Georgia Peach Iced Tea. Want some?” Andrea shook the bottle at me.

“Sure.” I sipped it. FIRE. “What the hell is in this?”

“Vodka, gin, rum, sweet and sour, and peach schnapps. Lots of peach schnapps.”

I’d never seen her drink before. “Do you actually get a buzz from this?”

“Sort of. It lasts for about thirty seconds or so and then I need another gulp.”

I tried to think. Derek was back at the Keep, but I was pretty sure Ascanio should have reported to the office this morning. “Where is the bane of my existence?”

“In the shower, freshening up.”

Damn it all to hell. “Oh God, who did Ascanio screw now?”

“No, no, he’s covered in blood.”

“Oh good.” Wait a minute. “The kid is covered in blood and we’re relieved. There is something wrong with us.”

“Tell me about it.” Andrea eyed me. “Not going to mention my beastkin appearance?”

“I like it. The torn pants and gore-stained T-shirt is a nice touch.”

She pointed her foot at me. “I was thinking of painting my claws a nice shade of pink.”

Those claws were three inches long. “That would take a lot of nail polish. What about some golden hoops in your ears instead?”

Andrea grinned, baring a row of sharp fangs. “It’s a definite possibility.”

Okay, you know what, screw this. “What happened?”

“I saw Raphael this morning. I’d called him last night, because Jim put me on some shapeshifter murders and I needed to interview him. I wanted a chance to apologize.”

Raphael, you spoiled moron, what the hell did you do?

I took her bottle and drank from it. I needed some alcohol for the next part. It tasted vile. I swallowed it down anyway. “How did it go?”

“He replaced me.”

“He what?”

“He found another girl. She is seven feet tall, with breasts the size of honeydew melons, legs that start at her neck, bleached blond hair down to her ass, and her waist is this big around.” She touched her claws together. “They are engaged to be engaged.”

Of all the stupid, idiotic things…“He brought her here?”

“She sat in that chair right there.” She pointed at a chair. “I’m thinking of burning it.”

Andrea loved Raphael the way birds loved the sky, and until a minute ago I would’ve sworn that he would have run into fire for her. “Did you punch him?”

“Nope.” Andrea shook her head. “After he told me that his new sweetheart’s best quality is that she isn’t me, it didn’t seem like it would make any difference.”

“Is she a shapeshifter?”

“A human. Not a fighter. Not that bright either.” The false cheer evaporated from her voice. “I know what you’ll say—it’s my own fault.”

I wish I knew the right words to say. “Well, you did check out of his life. You checked out of my life for a while.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Andrea looked away.

Raphael was spoiled. He was handsome, and treasured by both his mother and Clan Bouda in general, but he was never known for being mean or cruel. He was also the male alpha of Clan Bouda. He had to have known exactly what sort of risks he faced by bringing another woman and shoving her at Andrea. He had to have done it to provoke a reaction. The next time we met I’d pound his face into ground beef.

Still…I couldn’t believe that there was no method to his madness. He’d chased Andrea for months and he’d won her, then lost her. Perhaps this was some sort of stupid attempt to make her chase him.

“Are you going to fight for him?”

Andrea stared at me like I was crazy. “What?”

“Are you going to fight for him, or are you going to roll over on your back and take it?”

“Look who’s talking. How long did it take you and Curran to have a conversation after that whole dinner mess? Was it three weeks or more like a month?”

I arched my eyebrow at her. “That’s different. That was a misunderstanding.”

“Aha.”

“He brought his new main squeeze here after you called him with a peace offering. That’s a slap in the face.”

“You don’t have to tell me that. I know.” Andrea growled.

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

I wasn’t sure she felt Raphael was worth fighting for. But once, when I was in a really bad place, Andrea had told me that she felt like being with Raphael had healed her. She’d said he was picking up broken pieces of her and putting them back together. Well, all the pieces had fallen again, and Andrea was trying to reassemble herself on her own.

I’d seen Andrea fight. I’d seen her in unguarded moments, taken over by bloodlust and rage. Raphael would have to tread very carefully, because whether she decided that she wanted him or revenge, nothing would stop her.

I tried to pick my words carefully. “Nothing is free. If you want it, you have to fight for it.”

“I’m thinking about it,” she said. “How did your day go?”

“I got some head. It was vamp, but still.”

“That good, huh.”

“Yup.”

“I have a glass monster corpse for you. It’s in the freezer.”

I gave her a nice smile. “You shouldn’t have.”

“It’s a bribe for putting up with my psychotic break.”

The car motor started up. Curran had gotten tired of waiting.

“That’s my ride,” I said.

The door swung open, and Curran walked in. I held my breath. Having Andrea and him at each other’s throats would be more than I could take.

Andrea rose to her feet.

A show of respect for the Beast Lord. I decided that breathing was a good thing.

Curran nodded to Andrea. I got up too, walked over to him, and kissed him, just in case he was entertaining any violent thoughts. He winked at me.

“Hold on, let me grab the vamp head.” I went to the back and got my head.

When I came out, carrying the head in a plastic bag, Andrea and Curran were still in one piece and had been joined by a freshly washed Ascanio.

I waved at Andrea, and Curran and I went to the car. Ascanio tried to linger behind, but Curran looked at him, and the kid decided he’d better follow us.

We got into the car and pulled away.

“And how did your day go?” I asked Ascanio.

He turned to me, a dreamy look on his pretty face. “We killed things. There was blood. Fountains of blood. And then we had barbecue.”

Why me?

When we walked through the doors of the Keep, Doolittle was waiting for us. Roderick’s necklace had turned the color of white gold. He was having trouble breathing. The next magic wave could be his last.

Ten minutes later we rode out of the Keep in a Pack vehicle. Curran drove. I sat in the passenger seat, holding a bowl of jewelry and bullets for our offering. Doolittle and the boy sat in the back. Roderick whistled with every breath, and Curran drove like a maniac to the north leyline, his hands locked on the wheel, his face a grim mask. We reached the leypoint in record time and he didn’t slow down as he drove the Jeep off the ramp into the invisible magic current. The magic clutched the car and dragged it north to the mountains. Whether magic or technology was in ascendance, the leylines always flowed and I was damn grateful for their existence.

The current carried us to Franklin, spitting us out at a remote leypoint, and from there we drove up a winding road to the Highlands. It used to be a ritzy destination, beautiful lakes and waterfalls wrapped in emerald-green forests that spilled from the sheer cliffs. Million-dollar homes, leisure boats, play ranches with pampered horses…But the magic had wrecked the infrastructure and the residents quickly learned that the mountains in winter are much less fun without electricity and takeout. Now the homes lay abandoned or taken over by die-hard locals. Little villages sprang up here and there, small remote communities whose residents peered suspiciously at us as we drove by.

Cliffside Lake was beautiful, but we had no time for sightseeing. Eight hours after we had left the Keep, we stood by a mountain scoured with white lightning whip marks.

I had expected an altar, or some sort of mark to show the right spot, but there was nothing. Just a cliff.

I dumped a bowl full of jewelry and bullets onto the rocks. They scattered, clinking. “Ivar?”

Nothing happened.

Doolittle’s face fell.

“Ivar, let us in!”

The mountains were silent. Only Roderick’s hoarse breathing broke the quiet.

We should’ve gotten here sooner. Maybe the offering worked only during a magic wave, but as soon as magic hit, the necklace would snap Roderick’s neck.

“Let us in!” I yelled.

No answer.

“Let us in, you fucking sonovabitch.” I hit the mountain with the bowl. “Let us in!”

“Kate,” Curran said softly. “We’re out of time, baby.”

Doolittle sat down on a rock and smiled at Roderick, that patient calming smile. “Come sit with me.”

The boy walked over and scooted onto the rock.

I sagged against the mountain wall. It didn’t work. All this and it didn’t work.

“It’s pretty up here,” Roderick said.

It wasn’t fair. He was only a boy…I buried my face in Curran’s shoulder. He wrapped his arms around me.

“Can you hear the birds?” Doolittle asked.

“Yes,” Roderick said.

“Very peaceful,” Doolittle said.

I felt Curran tense and looked up.

A man walked up the path. Broad and muscular, built like he wrestled bears for a living, he had a wide face, lined with wrinkles and framed with a short dark beard and long brown hair. He wore a pair of soot-stained jeans and a tunic.

His gaze fell on Roderick and the necklace. Thick hairy eyebrows crept up above his pale blue eyes.

“What are you guys doing up here?” he asked.

“We’re looking for Ivar,” Curran said.

“I’ll take you.” The man looked at Roderick and held out his hand. “Come, little one.”

Roderick hopped off the rock and walked over. The dark-haired man took his hand. Together they walked up the steep mountain path. We followed.

The path turned behind the cliff, and I saw a narrow gap in the mountain, its walls completely sheer, as if someone had sliced through the rock with a colossal sword. We walked into it, stepping over gravel and rocks.

“Where are you folks from?” the man asked.

“Atlanta,” I said.

“Big city,” he said.

“Yes.” None of us mentioned the necklace choking the boy’s throat.

Ahead the sun shone through the gap. A moment and we passed through and stepped into the light. A valley lay in front of us, the ground gently sloping to the waters of a narrow lake. A watermill turned and creaked on the far shore. To the right a two-story house sat on the lawn of green grass. A few dozen yards to the side a smithy rose and behind it a garden stretched up the slope, enclosed by a chain-link fence. Further still, pale horses ran in a pasture.

The necklace clicked and fell off Roderick’s neck. The dark-haired man caught it and snapped it in half. “I’ll take that, then.”

Roderick drew a breath. Tiny red dots swelled on his neck, where the necklace had punctured skin.

“No worries,” the man said. “It will heal in the next magic wave.”

A shaggy gray dog trotted up to us, spat a tennis ball out of his mouth, and pondered Roderick with big eyes.

“That’s Ruckus,” the man said. “He’d like it if you threw the ball for him.”

Roderick picked up the tennis ball, looked at it for a moment, and then tossed it down the slope. The dog took off after it. The boy turned to us.

“Go ahead,” Doolittle told him.

Roderick dashed down the slope.

“So you’re Ivar,” I said.

“I am.”

It finally sank in. The necklace was gone. Roderick was safe. My legs gave a little bit and I leaned against the nearest tree.

Ivar studied me. “Oh now, that’s not good. Why don’t y’all come down to the house? Trisha was making iced tea before I left. It should be about done.”

As if in a dream I followed him down to the house. We sat on a covered porch, and Ivar brought a pitcher of tea and some glasses.

“Why make a necklace that would strangle a child?” Curran asked.

“It’s a long story.” Ivar sighed. “I take it you know what I am?”

“A dvergr,” I said.

“That’s right.” Ivar looked at his hands. They were large, out of proportion to his body. “I work with metal. As long as I can remember, the metal spoke to me. Some things I make are harmless. Plows, horseshoes, nails. Some are not. I have made a blade or two in my time. The thing is, once the blade is out of your hands, you can’t control what it’s used for. I try.”

“Like with Dagfinn?” I guessed.

Ivar nodded. “How is that boy doing?”

“Well,” Curran said.

“Good to hear. He had a bit of a temper, that one.” Ivar looked out at the river’s shore where Roderick and Ruckus chased each other. “Trisha is my second wife. My first one, Lisa, well, she was…The best I can figure, she was elfin. No way to know for sure, of course. She showed up on my doorstep one day and stayed. She was beautiful. We had a daughter, but the valley life wasn’t for Lisa, so one morning I woke up and she was gone. Left the baby with me. I did my best to raise her. She had hair like gold, my Aurellia. But I must have done a lousy job raising her. There was never any warmth in her, no empathy. I don’t know why. She was fully grown when a young man came down to the valley. He said he wanted to apprentice himself to me. To learn about smithing. I don’t take apprentices, but the boy had talent, so he and I made a bargain. He would stay with me for a decade.”

“Ten years is a long time,” I said.

“It’s enough to learn how not to do harm,” Doolittle said.

Ivar threw him a grateful look. “You understand. You can’t teach the craft in ten years. I’m past eighty and I still learn new things every day. But I thought a decade would be long enough to teach him what you should make and what you shouldn’t and when. Can’t just hand that kind of power to a man and let him loose in the world without guidance. So Colin and I made a bargain. He would wear the collar and stay here in the valley to learn all I could teach him. If he left the boundary of the valley before the time was up, the collar would kill him. He understood that there was no turning back. Once he put on the collar, he had to stay here for ten years.”

“Aurellia decided to leave?” Curran asked.

Ivar nodded. “She had no skills. There’s a school down in Cashiers, and I tried to take her there, but she quit. Didn’t care for it. Didn’t care for the metalwork either. Thought it coarse and common. It’s my own fault: I had explained money to her and that in the outside world you can’t just live off the land and barter the way we do here. So she decided Colin would take care of her. One day I went up in the mountains to the old Cooper mine, and when I came down, they were gone. I had warned Colin that even if he managed to take the collar off, it would try to find him again and he wouldn’t be able to resist. The way I figure, Aurellia got it off him somehow and they must’ve sold it. There was a lot of gold in that collar.”

Now things made sense. Colin made the money. She needed him alive to take care of her. Roderick was just incidental.

“Colin doesn’t do metal smithing anymore,” I told him. “He’s an accountant. I don’t think he even remembers his time here. The way he acted when he saw the collar, I don’t think he knew what it was. He and Aurellia had a daughter. The necklace killed her. That’s their son.” I pointed down toward the valley where the boy and dog played. “Aurellia put the necklace on him to keep it off Colin.”

Ivar’s face jerked. “The necklace was never meant to follow the blood. It was only meant to keep Colin here.”

Roderick came up the stairs. His face was flushed. “We don’t have to go yet, do we?”

I would not take him back to that bitch.

Ivar looked at his grandson. There was a sadness there and regret. A lot of regret. I could see the resemblance between them now: same dark hair, same serious, somber look in the eyes.

“Do you like it here?” Doolittle asked.

Roderick nodded.

The medmage looked at the dwarf. “Second chances don’t come about often.”

Ivar’s face went slack.

“He’s right,” Curran said.

Ivar took a deep breath and smiled at Roderick. “Roderick, I’m your grandfather. Would you like to stay here for a while? With me?”

Roderick looked at Doolittle.

“It’s your choice,” the medmage said. “You can come back with me, if you would like.”

Roderick mulled it over.

“I never had a grandfather before,” the boy said.

“I never had a grandson before,” Ivar answered.

“Can I go swimming?”

“Yes,” Ivar said. “Your grandmother will be back from the market soon. We’ll have us some lunch and you can go swimming. The water’s cold but you might enjoy it. Our kind does.”

Roderick smiled. It was a tiny hesitant smile. “I would like that.”

Ivar got up and offered the boy his hand. “Would you like to see my smithy?”

Roderick nodded. The two of them walked off the porch together, hand in hand.

The three of us sat on the porch, watched the river, and drank the iced tea.

“What about Aurellia?” I asked.

“She’s still married to the DA’s brother-in-law,” Curran said. “A woman told me it would be a bad idea to do anything about that.”

“I wouldn’t worry about Aurellia,” Doolittle said, watching Ivar and Roderick by the smithy. “I have a feeling she’ll get what’s coming to her.”

EPILOGUE

Atlanta Avery hospital reported an extremely troubling case: a local woman, Aurellia Sunny, has aged forty years overnight. The medmage professionals theorize that accelerated aging occurred due to a gold ring that arrived in the mail and was left on Mrs. Sunny’s front porch. The ring has since dissolved into her skin and is impossible to remove. The aging process is continuing and the family has been advised to make the proper arrangements. PAD Detective Tsoi, the lead investigator on the case, had the following advice for residents: “Don’t accept gifts from anonymous parties. If you don’t know who the package is from, don’t open it.”

The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

Read on for an exciting excerpt from the latest Kate Daniels novel

MAGIC SHIFTS

Available now from Ace Books

“Ilona Andrews’s books are guaranteed good reads.”

—Patricia Briggs, #1 New York Times bestselling author

“Magic Shifts is a perfectly balanced mixture of action, adventure, mystery, humor, and a delicious romance. Ilona Andrews only continues to excel in this wonderfully complex and magical series that revolves around a woman, her sword, and her battle to save her small piece of the world.”

—Heroes and Heartbreakers

I rode through the night-drenched streets of Atlanta on a mammoth donkey. The donkey’s name was Cuddles. She was ten feet tall, including the ears, and her black-and-white hide suggested she might have held up a Holstein cow in some dark alley and was now wearing her clothes. My own blood-spattered outfit suggested I’d had an interesting night. Most horses would’ve been nervous about letting a woman covered with that much blood on their back, but Cuddles didn’t seem to mind. Either it didn’t bother her or she was a pragmatist who knew where her carrots were coming from.

The city lay in front of me, deserted, quiet, and steeped in magic, unfurling its streets to the starlight like a moonlight flower. Magic ran deep through Atlanta tonight, like a current of some phantom river, slipping into the shadowy places and waking hungry things with needle-long teeth and glowing eyes. Anyone with a drop of common sense hid behind reinforced doors and barred windows after dark. Unfortunately for me, common sense was never among my virtues. As Cuddles quietly clopped her way down the streets, the sounds of her hoofbeats unnaturally loud, the night shadows watched us and I watched them back. Let’s play who can be a better killer. My sword and I love this game.

None of the monsters took the bait. It might have been because of me, but most likely it was because one of them was moving parallel to my route. They smelled him, and they hid and hoped he would pass them by.

It was almost midnight. I’d had a long day. My back ached, my clothes smelled of fetid blood, and a hot shower sounded heavenly. I had made two apple pies last night, and I was pretty sure that at least one piece would be left for me. I could have it tonight with my tea before I went to bed . . .

An annoying spark of magic ignited in my mind. A vampire. Oh goody.

The spark “buzzed” in my brain like an angry mosquito and moved closer. The Immortuus pathogen, the disease responsible for vampirism, killed the minds of its victims, leaving behind an empty shell driven by an all-consuming bloodlust. Left to its own devices, a vampire would hunt and slaughter, and when it ran out of things to kill, it would starve to death. This particular bloodsucker wasn’t free to rampage, because its blank mind was held in a telepathic grip by a necromancer. The necromancer, or navigator as they were called, sat in a room far away, directing the vampire with his will as if it were a remote-controlled car. The navigator heard what the vampire heard, saw what the vampire saw, and if the vampire opened its mouth, the navigator’s words would come out of it.

Meeting a bloodsucker this far south meant it belonged to the People, an odd hybrid of a corporation and a research facility, whose personnel dedicated themselves to the study of the undead and making money on the side. The People avoided me like the plague. Two months ago they had figured out that the man behind their organization, the nearly immortal wizard with godlike powers and legendary magic, happened to be my father. They had some difficulty with that development. So the vampire wasn’t for me.

Still . . . I knew most of the People’s patrol routes and this undead was definitely off-course. Where the hell was it going?

No. Not my circus, not my undead monkeys.

I felt the vampire make a ninety-degree turn, heading straight for me.

Home, shower, apple pie. Maybe if I said it like a prayer, it would work.

The distance between us shrank. Home, shower . . .

An undead leaped off the roof of the nearest two-story house and landed on the road next to me, gaunt, each shallow muscle visible under the thick hide, as if someone had crafted a human anatomy model out of steel wire and poured a paper-thin layer of rubber over it.

Damn it.

The undead unhinged its mouth and Ghastek’s dry voice came out. “You’re difficult to find, Kate.”

Well, well. The new head of the People’s Atlanta office had come to see me personally. I’d curtsy but I was too tired to get off my donkey and the sword on my back would get in the way. “I live in the suburbs and come home almost every night. My business phone number is in the book.”

The vampire tilted its head, mimicking Ghastek’s movements. “You’re still riding that monstrosity?”

“Feel free to stomp him,” I told Cuddles. “I’ll back you up.”

Cuddles ignored me and the vampire, defiantly clopping past it. The bloodsucker turned smoothly and fell into step next to me. “Where is your . . . significant other?”

“He’s around.” He was never too far. “Why, are you worried he’ll find out about this romantic rendezvous?”

The vampire froze for a second. “What?”

“You’re meeting me in secret on a lonely street in the middle of the night . . .”

Ghastek’s voice was so sharp, if it were a knife, I would’ve been sliced to ribbons. “I find your attempts at humor greatly distressing.”

Hee-hee.

“I assure you, this is strictly business.”

“Sure it is, sweet cheeks.”

The vampire’s eyes went wide. In an armored room deep in the bowels of the People’s Casino, Ghastek was probably having a heart attack from the outrage.

“What are you doing out in my neck of the woods?”

“Technically, the entire city is your neck of the woods,” Ghastek said.

“True.”

Two months ago my father had decided to dramatically claim Atlanta as his own domain. I tried to stop him in an equally dramatic fashion. He knew what he was doing, I didn’t, and I ended up accidentally claiming the city in his stead. I was still fuzzy on how exactly the claiming worked, but apparently it meant that I had assumed guardianship of the city and the safety of Atlanta was now my responsibility. In theory, the magic of the city was supposed to nourish me and make my job easier, but I had no idea how exactly that worked. So far I didn’t feel any different.

“But still, I heard you were promoted. Don’t you have flunkies to do your bidding?”

The vampire twisted his face into a hair-raising leer. Ghastek must’ve grimaced.

“I thought you would be happy,” I said. “You wanted to be the head honcho.”

“Yes, but now I have to deal with you. He spoke to me, personally.”

He said “he” with the kind of reverence that could only mean Roland, my father.

“He believes that you may hesitate to kill me because of our shared experiences,” Ghastek continued. “Which makes me uniquely qualified to lead the People in your territory.”

Showing how freaked out I was about having a territory would severely tarnish my City Guardian cred. “Aha.”

“I’m supposed to cooperate with you. So, in the spirit of cooperation, I’m informing you that our patrols have sighted a large group of ghouls moving toward the city.”

Ghouls were bad news. They followed the same general pattern of infection, incubation, and transformation as vampires and shapeshifters, but so far nobody had managed to figure out what actually turned them into ghouls. They were smart, supernaturally fast, and vicious, and they fed on human carrion. Unlike vampires, whom they somewhat resembled, ghouls retained some of their former personality and ability to reason, and they quickly figured out that the best way to get human carrion was to butcher a few people and leave the corpses to rot until they decomposed enough to be consumed. They traveled around in packs of three to five members and attacked isolated small settlements.

“How large is the group?”

“Thirty plus,” Ghastek said.

That wasn’t a group. That was a damn horde. I had never heard of a ghoul pack that large.

“Which way are they coming?”

“The old Lawrenceville Highway. You have about half an hour before they enter Northlake. Best of luck.”

The vampire took off into the night.

A few decades ago, Northlake would have been only a few minutes away. Now a labyrinth of ruins lay between me and that part of the city. Our world suffered from magic waves. They began without warning a few decades ago in a magic-induced apocalypse called the Shift. When magic flooded our world, it took no prisoners. It smothered electricity, dropped planes out of the sky, and toppled tall buildings. It eroded asphalt off the roads and birthed monsters. Then, without warning, the magic would vanish again and all of our gadgets and guns once again worked.

The city had shrunk post-Shift, after the first magic wave caused catastrophic destruction. People sought safety in numbers, and most of the suburbs along the old Lawrenceville Highway stood abandoned. There were some isolated communities in Tucker, but people settling there knew what to expect from the magic-fueled wilderness and it would be difficult for a pack of ghouls to take them down. Why bother, when less than five miles down the road Northlake marked the outer edge of the city? It was a densely populated area, filled with suburban houses and bordered by a few watchtowers along a ten-foot fence topped with razor wire. The guards could handle a few ghouls, but with thirty coming in fast, they would be overrun. The ghouls would scale the fence in seconds, slaughter the tower guards, and turn the place into a bloodbath.

There would be no assistance from the authorities. By the time I found a working phone and convinced the Paranormal Activity Division that a pack of ghouls six times the typical size was moving toward Atlanta, Northlake would be an all-you-can-devour ghoul buffet.

Above me a huge dark shape dashed along the rooftops and leaped, clearing the gap between two buildings. The starlight caught it for a heart-stopping second, illuminating the powerfully muscled torso, four massive legs, and the dark gray mane. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. It was as if the night itself had opened its jaws and spat out a prehistoric creature, something born of human fear and hungry animal growls echoing in the dark. I only saw him for a moment, but the image imprinted itself in my mind as if chiseled in stone. My body instantly recognized that he was predator and I was prey. I’d known him for three years now, and the instinctual response still hit every single time.

The beast landed, turned north, and vanished into the night, heading toward Northlake.

Instead of running away as fast as I could like any sane person would do, I nudged Cuddles, hurrying her until she broke into a gallop. One doesn’t let her fiancé fight a horde of ghouls by himself. Some things were just not done.

*   *   *

The empty expanse of the Lawrenceville Highway spread before me. The road cut through a shallow hill here, and stone walls held back the slope on both sides. I parked myself at the mouth of the hill, just before it melted into a vast, completely flat field. As good a place as any to make a stand.

I stretched my neck slowly, one side, then the other. I’d left Cuddles tethered to a tree half a mile back. Ghouls normally would have no interest in her, but she smelled like me and one of them might try to rip her neck open just out of spite.

The moon rolled out of the clouds, illuminating the fields. The night sky was impossibly high, the stars like diamonds in its icy depth. A cold breeze came, tugging at my clothes and my braid. It was the beginning of March, and the onset of spring was sudden and warm, but at night winter still bared its fangs.

The last time I was this far from the city, I had been the Consort of the Pack, the largest shapeshifter organization in the South. That was behind me now. Thirty ghouls would be rough without backup. Lucky for me, I had the best backup in the city.

When I had claimed Atlanta, the claiming had created a boundary. I felt it fifty feet in front of me, an invisible line of demarcation. I should’ve gone to inspect the boundary sooner, but I’d been busy trying to separate myself from the Pack and setting up the new house and working my ass off, because eventually our savings would run out . . . But pretending that the claiming hadn’t happened did me no favors.

Something moved in the distance. I focused on it. The movement continued, the horizon rippling slightly. A few breaths and the shiver broke into individual shapes running in an odd loping gait, leaning on their arms like gorillas but never fully shifting into a quadrupedal run.

Wow, that’s a lot of ghouls.

Showtime. I reached for the sword on my back and pulled Sarrat out of its sheath. The opaque, almost white blade caught the weak moonlight. Single-handed, with a razor-sharp edge, the blade was a cross between a straight sword and a traditional saber, with a slight curve that made it excellent for both slashing and thrusting. Sarrat was fast, light, flexible, and razor-sharp, and it was about to get a hell of a workout.

The distorted shapes kept coming. Knowing there were thirty ghouls was one thing. Seeing them gallop toward you was completely different. A spark of instinctual fear shot through me, turning the world sharper, and melted into calm awareness.

Thin tendrils of vapor rose from Sarrat’s surface in response. I turned the saber, warming up my wrist.

The ghoul horde drew closer. How the hell did I get myself into these things?

I walked toward them, sword in my hand, point down. I had few social skills, but intimidation I did well.

The ghouls saw me. The front ranks slowed, but the back rows were still running at full speed. The mass of ghouls compacted like a wave breaking against a rock and finally screeched to a halt just before the boundary. We stopped, them on one side of the invisible magic divide, me on the other.

They were lean and muscular, with disproportionately powerful arms and long, spadelike hands, each finger tipped by a short curved claw. Bony protrusions, like short knobby horns, thrust through their skin at random spots on their back and shoulders. The horns were a defensive mechanism. If someone tried to pull the ghoul out of its burrow, the horns would wedge against dirt. A werewolf armed with superhuman strength would have a difficult time plucking a ghoul out of the ground. I’d seen the horns grow as long as four inches, but most of the ones decorating this crowd barely reached half an inch. Their skin was dark gray on the chest, neck, and faces, the kind of gray that was most often found on military urban camouflage. Small splotches of muddy brown dotted their backs and their shoulders. If not for the watery yellow glow of their irises, they would’ve blended into the road completely.

None of them were lame, starved, or weak. The odds weren’t in my favor. I had to think of a strategy and fast.

The ghouls peered at me with oddly slanted eyes, the inner corners dipping much lower than the outer ones.

I waited. The moment you start speaking, you become less scary, and I had no intention of being less scary. The ghouls were sentient, which meant they could feel fear, and I needed every bit of advantage I could scrounge up.

A large ghoul shouldered its way to the front of the pack. Well-fed, with a defined powerful body, he crouched in front of me. If he stood upright, he would be close to seven feet tall. At least two hundred pounds, all of it hard muscle and sharp claws. The brown pattern on his back was almost nonexistent. Instead, long alternating stripes of paler and darker gray slid down his flanks.

The ghoul rocked forward. His face touched the boundary and he pulled back and stared at me. He wasn’t sure what he was sensing, but he knew that the boundary and I were somehow connected.

Some ghouls were scavengers. They were harmless and sometimes even gainfully employed. We lived in an unsafe world. Too often bodies couldn’t be recovered because they were under debris or the scene was too grisly for the next of kin to identify the remains. Putting the bodies into a mass grave was a recipe for disaster. Human bodies emanated magic even after death and there was no telling what the next magic wave would do to that mass grave. Most often the remains were cremated, but occasionally the authorities would bring in ghouls to clean the site. It was cheaper and faster.

I’d bet my arm these ghouls weren’t licensed scavenge workers, but I had to be absolutely sure.

The ghoul stared at me. I gave him my best psychotic smile.

The ghoul blinked his yellowish eyes, tensed like a dog about to charge, and opened his mouth, stretching his lips in a slow deliberate grin. That’s right, show me your big teeth, pretty boy.

A row of thick sharp teeth decorated the front of his jaw. Toward the back, the teeth thinned out, becoming more bladelike, with serrated edges. Got you.

The ghoul unhinged his jaw. A rough raspy voice came out. “Who are you?”

“Turn around now and you’ll live.”

He clamped his mouth shut. Apparently this wasn’t the answer he’d expected. Kate Daniels, master of surprises. Don’t worry, I’m just getting started.

“We’re a licensed cleanup crew,” the leader ghoul said.

“No.”

Half a mile behind the ghouls, a dark shape moved through the field, so silent, for a second I thought I was seeing things. My mind refused to accept that a creature that large could be so quiet. Hi, honey.

The ghouls didn’t notice him. They were conditioned to pay attention to human flesh and I was standing right in front of them, providing a nice convenient target.

The leader ghoul turned, displaying a tattoo on his left shoulder.

Columbia, SC

014

Location of license and license number. He thought I was born yesterday.

“We’re a peaceful group,” the ghoul continued.

“Sure you are. You’re just running into the city to borrow a cup of sugar and invite people to your church.”

“You’re interfering with official municipal business. This is discrimination.”

The dark shadow emerged onto the road and started toward us. I’d need to buy him some time to get within striking range.

I looked at the ghoul. “Do you know what is so special about ghouls? You have an unrivaled adaptability. Your bodies change to match their environment faster than ninety-nine percent of anything we’ve seen in nature.”

My favorite monster crept closer on huge paws.

I raised my saber and rested the opaque blade on my shoulder. Faint tendrils of vapor escaped from Sarrat’s surface. The sword sensed trouble and was eager for it.

“Let me tell you what I see. Your color has changed from brown to gray, because you no longer have to blend in with the dirt. Your stripes tell me you spend a lot of time moving through the forest. Your horns are short, because you no longer hide in your burrows.”

The ghouls shifted closer. Their eyes glowed brighter. They didn’t like where this was going.

“Your claws aren’t long and straight to help you dig. They are curved and sharp to rend flesh.”

The ghouls bared their teeth at me. They were a hair away from violence. I had to keep talking.

“Your pretty teeth have changed, too. They’re no longer narrow and serrated. They are thick, strong, and sharp. The kind of teeth you get when you need to hold struggling prey in your mouth. And your fancy tattoo is two years out of date. All ghouls’ licenses in Columbia now have the year tattooed under the license number.”

The ghouls had gone completely silent, their eyes like dozens of tiny shiny moons all focused on me. Just a few more seconds . . .

“Kill her,” another ghoul chimed in. “We have to hurry.”

“Kill her. He’s waiting,” a third voice chimed in.

“Kill her. Kill her.”

They seemed awfully desperate. Something weird was going on.

“Who is waiting?” I asked.

“Shut up!” the leading ghoul snarled.

I leaned forward and gave the leader ghoul my hard stare. “You look plump. You’ve been raiding the countryside and growing fat from gorging yourself on the people you’ve murdered. I gave you a chance to leave. Now it’s too late. Pay attention to this moment. Look at the stars. Breathe in the cold air. This is your last night. These are the last breaths you take. I will kill every one of you.”

The leader ghoul snarled, dropping all pretense. “You and what army?”

I began pulling magic to me. This would hurt. This always hurt. “That’s the great thing about werelions. You don’t need an army. You just need one.”

The ghoul twisted his face. “You’re not a werelion, meat.”

“I’m not.” I nodded behind them. “He is.”

The leader ghoul spun around.

Two gold eyes stared at him from the darkness. The enormous lionlike beast opened his mouth and roared. Until I met him, I had never heard an actual lion roar. It sounded like thunder. Deafening, ravenous heart-dropping thunder that severed some vital link between logic and control of your body deep inside your brain. It was a blast of sound so powerful, I had seen hundreds of shapeshifters cringe when they heard it. A wolf howl heard in the middle of the night raised the hair on the back of your neck, but a lion’s roar punched through all of your training and reason straight to the secret place hidden deep inside that screamed at you to freeze.

The ghouls stopped, motionless.

I opened my mouth and spat a power word. “Osanda.” Kneel.

Power words came from a long-forgotten age, so ancient that they commanded raw magic. Few people knew about them and even fewer could use them, because to learn a power word, you had to own it. You made it yours or it killed you. I knew a handful of power words, far more than anyone else I’d met, but using even one came with a heavy price tag. For my father, the power words were a language, one he spoke fluidly and without repercussions. They didn’t hurt him, but I always paid a price.

The magic ripped out of me. I braced for the familiar twist of agony. The backlash bit at me, tearing through my insides, but this time something must’ve blunted its teeth, because it didn’t hurt nearly as much as I remembered.

The magic smashed into the petrified ghouls. Their knees and elbows crunched in unison and they crashed to the asphalt. It would buy me at least ten seconds. If the magic wave had been stronger, I would’ve broken their bones.

I swung my sword. Sarrat met a ghoul’s bony neck and sliced through cartilage and thick hide like butter. Before its dead body fell to the ground, I thrust my blade into the chest of the second ghoul and felt Sarrat’s tip pierce the tight ball of its heart.

The lion’s body boiled, snapping upright. Bones thrust upward; powerful muscle spiraled up the new skeleton. A blink and a new monster lunged forward, a nightmarish mix of man and lion, seven and a half feet tall, with steel-hard muscle sheathed in gray fur and curved, terrible claws. A ghoul leaped at him. He grabbed the creature by its throat and shook it, as if he were snapping a wet towel. A sickening snap echoed through the night and the ghoul went limp.

I carved the third ghoul into two separate pieces and sliced the fourth one’s throat.

The ghouls woke up. They swarmed us. The leonine beast swung his claws and disemboweled a ghoul with a precise swipe. Intestines rained onto the road. The bitter stench of ghoul blood mixed with the unmistakable sour reek of a gut wound singed my nostrils.

Claws ripped through my clothes, drawing agonizing scalding-hot lines across my back. You want to play? Fine. I needed a workout anyway.

My saber became a razor-sharp wall. It cut, sliced, and pierced, ripping flesh and hissing as the ghoul blood that washed it boiled from its magic. I moved fast, sidestepping claws and blocking teeth. Another fiery gash stung my back. A ghoul clamped onto my boot and I ripped my leg free and stomped his skull into the pavement. A welcome heat spread through me, turning my muscles flexible and pliant. The world turned crystal clear. Time stretched, helping me. The ghouls lunged, but I was faster. They raked at me with their claws, but my blade found them first. I savored it all, every second of the fight, every drop of blood flying past me, every moment of resistance when Sarrat caught my target on its edge.

This was what I was raised and trained for. For better or worse, I was a killer. This was my calling, and I made no excuses for it.

A ghoul loomed before me. I sliced it down in a classic overhand stroke. It fell. Nobody took its place. I pivoted on my toes, looking for a fight. To the left the werelion tossed a broken body to the ground and turned to me. A single ghoul hugged the ground, caught between us.

“Alive,” the werelion snarled.

Way ahead of you. Let’s find out who the mysterious “he” is. I started toward the ghoul, sword in hand.

It shivered, looked right, then left, looked at the werelion, then at me. That’s right. You’re trapped and not going anywhere. If it ran, we would chase it down.

The ghoul reared, jerked its clawed hands to its throat, and sliced it open. Blood gushed. The ghoul gurgled and collapsed on the ground. The light went out of its eyes.

Well, that was a hell of a thing.

The lion monster opened his mouth and a human voice came out, his diction perfect. “Hey, baby.”

“Hey, honey.” I pulled a piece of cloth out of my pocket and carefully wiped down Sarrat’s blade.

Curran stepped over to me and put his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. I leaned against him, feeling the hard muscle of his torso against my side. We surveyed the road strewn with broken bodies.

The adrenaline faded slowly. The colors turned less vivid. One by one the cuts and gashes made themselves known: my back burned, my left hip hurt too, and my left shoulder ached. I’d probably wake up with a spectacular bruise tomorrow.

We’d survived another one. We’d get to go home and keep on living.

“What the hell was all this about?” Curran asked me.

“I have no idea. They don’t typically gather into large packs. The biggest marauder pack ever sighted had seven ghouls, and that was considered a fluke. They are solitary and territorial. They only band together for protection, but clearly someone was waiting for them. Do you think Ghastek is connected to this?”

Curran grimaced. “It’s not like him. Ghastek only moves when he has something to gain. Having us kill ghouls doesn’t help him in any way. He knows what we can do. He had to realize we’d go through them.”

Curran was right. Ghastek had to know we’d dispatch the ghouls. He wouldn’t have used us to do his dirty work either. For all of his faults, Ghastek was a premier navigator, a Master of the Dead, and he loved his job. If he wanted the ghouls dead, he would’ve sliced this group to pieces with a couple of vampires or he would’ve used this opportunity as a training exercise for his journeymen.

“This isn’t making any sense to me,” I said, pulling traces of my blood toward me. It slid and rolled in tiny drops, forming a small puddle on the pavement. I pushed it to the side, solidified it, and stomped on it. It shattered under my foot into inert powder. Blood retained its magic even when separated from the body. For as long as I could remember, I had to guard my blood because if it were examined, it would point to my father like an arrow. There was a time where I had to set any trace of my blood on fire, but now it obeyed me. I couldn’t decide if it made me a better fighter or just a worse abomination. “They seemed desperate. Driven, almost, as if they had some sort of goal to get to.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Curran told me. “It’s almost midnight. I say we go home, get cleaned up, and climb into bed.”

“Sound like a plan.”

“Hey, is there any of that apple pie left?” Curran asked.

“I think so.”

“Oh good. Let’s go home, baby.”

Our home. It still hit me like a punch, even after months of us being together—he was right there, waiting for me. If something attacked me, he’d kill it. If I needed help, he would help me. He loved me and I loved him back. I was no longer alone.

We were walking to my donkey when he said, “Sweet cheeks?”

“I couldn’t help it. Ghastek’s got a stick up his ass the size of a railroad track. Did you see the look on the vampire’s face? He looked constipated.”

Curran laughed. We found Cuddles and went home.

Keep reading for an excerpt from the first in the romantic urban fantasy series of the Edge

ON THE EDGE

Available now from Ace Books

“A fascinating world combined with pulse-pounding action and white-hot romance makes On the Edge a winner!

—Jeaniene Frost, New York Times bestselling author

“A great, fun romance, an offbeat mix of old-fashioned rural magics, contemporary life (complete with Wal-Mart and comic book shops), and magic sword-wielding warriors.”

—Locus

ONE

“ROSIE!” Grandpa’s bellow shook the foundation of the house.

“Why me?” Rose wiped the dish-soap suds from her hands with a kitchen towel, swiped the crossbow from the hook, and stomped onto the porch.

“Roooosie!”

She kicked the screen door open. He towered in the yard, a huge, shaggy bear of a man, deranged eyes opened wide, tangled beard caked with blood and quivering grayish shreds. She leveled the crossbow at him. Drunk as hell again.

“What is it?”

“I want to go to the pub. I want a pint.” His voice slipped into a whine. “Gimme some money!”

“No.”

He hissed at her, swaying unsteadily on his feet. “Rosie! This is your last chance to give me a dollar!”

She sighed and shot him. The bolt bit between the eyes, and Grandpa toppled onto his back like a log. His legs drummed the ground.

Rose rested the butt of her crossbow on her hip. “All right, come out.”

The two boys slipped from behind the huge oak spreading its branches over the yard. Both were filthy with reddish mud, sap, and the other unidentifiable substances an eight-and a ten-year-old could find in the Wood. A jagged scratch decorated Georgie’s neck, and brown pine straw stuck out of his blond hair. Red welts marked the skin between Jack’s knuckles. He saw her looking at his hands. His eyes got big, amber irises flaring yellow, and he hid his fists behind his back.

“How many times do I have to say it: don’t touch the ward stones. Look at Grandpa Cletus! He’s been eating dog brains again, and now he’s drunk. It will take me half an hour to hose him off.”

“We miss him,” Georgie said.

She sighed. “I miss him, too. But he’s no good to anybody drunk. Come on, you two, let’s take him back to his shed. Help me get the legs.”

Together they dragged Grandpa’s inert form back to the shed at the edge of the clearing and dumped him on his sawdust. Rose uncoiled the metal chain from the corner, pulled it across the shed, locked the collar on Grandpa’s neck, and peeled back his left eyelid to check the pupil. No red yet. Good shot—he would be out for hours.

Rose put her foot on his chest, grasped the bolt, and pulled it out with a sharp tug. She still remembered Grandpa Cletus as he was, a tall, dapper man, uncanny with his rapier, his voice flavored with a light Scottish brogue. Even as old as he was, he would still win against Dad one out of three times in a sword fight. Now he was this . . . this thing. She sighed. It hurt to look at him, but there was nothing to be done about it. As long as Georgie lived, so did Grandpa Cletus.

The boys brought the hose. She turned it on, set the sprayer on jet, and leveled the stream at Grandpa until all the blood and dog meat were gone. She had never quite figured out how “going down to the pub” equaled chasing stray dogs and eating their brains, but when Grandpa got out of his ward circle, no mutt was safe. By the time she was done washing him, the hole in his forehead had closed. When Georgie raised things from the dead, he didn’t just give them life. He made them almost indestructible.

Rose stepped out of the shed, locked the door behind her, and dragged the hose back to the porch. Her skin prickled as she crossed the invisible boundary: the kids must’ve put the ward stones back. She squinted at the grass. There they were, a line of small, seemingly ordinary rocks, spaced three, four feet from each other. Each rock held a small magic charge. Together they created an enchanted barrier, strong enough to keep Grandpa in the shed if he broke the chain again.

Rose waved the boys to the side and raised the hose. “Your turn.”

They flinched at the cold water. She washed them off methodically, from top to bottom. As the mud melted from Jack’s feet, she saw a two-inch rip in his Skechers. Rose dropped the hose.

“Jack!”

He cringed.

“Those are forty-five-dollar shoes!”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Tomorrow is the first school day! What were you doing?”

“He was climbing up the pines to get at the leech birds,” Georgie said.

She glared. “Georgie! Thirty-minute time-out tonight for snitching.”

Georgie bit his lip.

Rose stared at Jack. “Is that true? You were chasing the leech birds?”

“I can’t help it. Their tails are so flittery . . .”

She wanted to smack him. It was true, he couldn’t help it—it wasn’t his fault he was born as a cat—but those were brand-new shoes she had bought him for school. Shoes for which she had painstakingly tweaked their budget, scrimping every penny, so he wouldn’t have to wear Georgie’s old beat-up sneakers, so he could look just as nice as all the other second graders. It just hurt.

Jack’s face pinched into a rigid white mask—he was about to cry.

A small spark of power tugged on her. “Georgie, stop trying to resurrect the shoes. They were never alive in the first place.”

The spark died.

An odd desperation claimed her, her pain shifting into a sort of numbness. Pressure built in her chest. She was so sick of it, sick of counting every dollar, sick of rationing everything, sick to death of it all. She had to go and get Jack a new pair of shoes. Not for Jack’s sake, but for the sake of her own sanity. Rose had no clue how she would make up the money, but she knew she had to buy him a new pair of shoes right now, or she would explode.

“Jack, do you remember what will happen if a leech bird bites you?”

“I’ll turn into one?”

“Yes. You have to stop chasing the birds.”

He hung his head. “Am I punished?”

“Yes. I’m too mad to punish you right now. We’ll talk about it when we get home. Go brush your teeth, comb your hair, put on dry clothes, and get the guns. We’re going to Wal-Mart.”

THE old Ford truck bounced on the bumps in the dirt road. The rifles clanged on the floor. Georgie put his feet down to steady them without being asked.

Rose sighed. Here, in the Edge, she could protect them well enough. But they were about to pass from the Edge into another world, and their magic would die in the crossing. The two hunting rifles on the floor would be their only defense. Rose felt a pang of guilt. If it wasn’t for her, they wouldn’t need the rifles. God, she didn’t want to be jumped again. Not with her brothers in the car.

They lived between worlds: on one side lay the Weird and the other the Broken. Two dimensions, existing side by side, like mirror images of each other. In the place where the dimensions “touched,” they intersected slightly, forming a narrow ribbon of land that belonged to both of them—the Edge. In the Weird, magic pooled deeply; in the Edge it was a shallow trickle. But in the Broken, no magic shielded them at all.

Rose eyed the Wood hugging the road, its massive trees crowding the narrow ribbon of packed dirt. She drove this way every day to her job in the Broken, but today the shadows between the gnarled trunks filled her with anxiety.

“Let’s play the ‘You Can’t’ game,” she said to stave off the rising dread. “Georgie, you go first.”

“He went first the last time!” Jack’s eyes shone with amber.

“Nyaha!”

“Yaha!”

“Georgie goes first,” she repeated.

“Past the boundary, you can’t raise dead things,” Georgie said.

“Past the boundary, you can’t grow fur and claws,” Jack said.

They always played the game when driving through to the Broken. It was a good reminder to the boys of what they could and could not do, and it worked much better than any lecture. Very few people in the Broken knew of the Edge or the Weird, and it was safer for everyone involved to keep it that way. Experience had taught her that trying to explain the existence of magic to a person in the Broken would do no good. It wouldn’t get you committed into a mental institution, but it did land you into the kooky idiot category and made people give you a wide berth during lunch hour.

For most people of the Broken, there was no Broken, no Edge, and no Weird. They lived in the United States of America, on the continent of North America, on the planet Earth—and that was that. For their part, most people in the Weird couldn’t see the boundary either. It took a special kind of person to find it, and the kids needed to remember that.

Georgie touched her hand. It was her turn. “Past the boundary, you can’t hide behind a ward stone.” She glanced at them, but they kept going, oblivious to her fears.

The road lay deserted. Few Edgers drove up this way this time of the evening. Rose accelerated, eager to get the trip over with and be back to the safety of the house.

“Past the boundary, you can’t find lost things,” Georgie said.

“Past the boundary, you can’t see in the dark.” Jack grinned.

“Past the boundary, you can’t flash,” Rose said.

The flash was her greatest weapon. Most Edgers had their own specific talents: some prophesied, some cured tooth-aches, some raised the dead like Georgie. Some cursed like Rose and her grandmother. But flashing could be learned by anyone with a drop of magic. It wasn’t a matter of talent but of practice. You took a hold of the magic inside you and channeled it from your body in a controlled burst that looked like a whip or a ribbon of lightning. If you had magic and patience, you could learn to flash, and the lighter the color of your flash, the hotter and more potent it was. A powerful bright flash was a terrible weapon. It could slice through a body like a hot knife through butter. Most Edgers never could get their flash bright enough to kill or injure anything with it. They were mongrels, living in a place of diluted magic, and most flashed red and dark orange. Some lucky few managed green or blue.

It was her flash that had started all of their trouble.

No, Rose reflected, they’d had plenty of trouble before her. Draytons were always unlucky. Too smart and too twisted for their own good. Grandpa was a pirate and a rover. Dad was a gold digger. Grandma was stubborn like a goat and always thought she knew better than anyone else. Mom was a tramp. But all those problems didn’t affect anyone but the individual Draytons. When Rose flashed white at the Graduation Fair, she focused the attention of countless Edge families squarely on their little clan. Even now, even with the rifles on the floor, she didn’t regret it. She felt guilty about it, she wished things hadn’t gone the way they did, but given a chance, she would do it again.

Ahead the road curved. Rose took the turn a bit too fast. The truck’s springs creaked.

A man stood in the road, like a gray smudge against the encroaching twilight.

She slammed on the brakes. The Ford skidded in a screech on the hard, dry dirt of the road. She caught a glimpse of long pale hair and piercing green eyes staring straight at her.

The truck hurtled at him. She couldn’t stop it.

The man leapt straight up. Feet in dark gray boots landed on the hood of the truck with a thud and vanished. The man vaulted over the roof to the side and disappeared into the trees.

The truck slid to a stop. Rose gulped the air. Her heart fluttered in her chest. Her fingertips tingled, and she tasted bitterness on her tongue.

She stabbed the seat belt release button, threw the door open, and jumped out onto the road. “Are you hurt?”

The Wood lay quiet.

“Hello?”

No answer. The man was gone.

“Rose, who was that?” Georgie’s eyes were the size of small saucers.

“I don’t know.” Relief flooded her. She hadn’t hit him. She got scared out of her wits, but she hadn’t hit him. Everybody was fine. Nobody was hurt. Everybody was fine . . .

“Did you see the swords?” Jack asked.

“What swords?” All she’d seen were the blond hair, green eyes, and some kind of cloak. She couldn’t even recall his face—just a pale smudge.

“He had a sword,” Georgie said. “On his back.”

“Two swords,” Jack corrected. “One on the back and one on his belt.”

Some of the older locals liked to play with swords, but none of them had long blond hair. And none of them had eyes like that. Most people facing a truck head-on would be scared. He stared her down as if she had insulted him by nearly running him over. Like he was some sort of king of the road.

Strangers were never good in the Edge. It wasn’t wise to linger.

Jack sniffed the air, wrinkling his nose the way he did when he looked for a scent trail. “Let’s find him.”

“Let’s not.”

“Rose . . .”

“You’re on thin ice already.” She climbed into the truck and shut the door. “We’re not chasing after some knucklehead who thinks he’s too important to walk on the shoulder.” She snorted, trying to get her heart rate under control.

Georgie opened his mouth.

“Not another word.”

A couple of minutes later, they reached the boundary, the point where the Edge ended and the Broken began. Rose always recognized the precise moment when she passed into the Broken. First, anxiety stabbed right through her chest, followed by an instant of intense vertigo, and then pain. It was as if the shiver of magic, the warm spark that existed somewhere inside her, died during the crossing. The pain lasted only a blink, but she always dreaded it. It left her feeling incomplete. Broken. That’s how the name for the magic-less dimension had come about.

There was an identical boundary on the opposite end of the Edge, the one that guarded the passage to the Weird. She never tried to cross it. She wasn’t sure her magic would be strong enough for her to survive.

They entered the Broken without any trouble. The Wood ended with the Edge. Mundane Georgia oaks and pines replaced the ancient dark trees. The dirt became pavement.

The narrow two-lane road brought them past the twin gas stations to the parkway. Rose checked the parkway for oncoming traffic, took a right, and headed toward the town of Pine Barren.

Above them an airplane thundered, fixing to land at the Savannah airport only a couple of miles away. The woods gave way to half-finished shopping plazas and construction equipment, scattered among heaps of red Georgia mud. Ponds and streams interrupted the landscape—with the coast only forty minutes away, every hole in the ground sooner or later filled up with water. They passed hotels, Comfort Inn, Knights Inn, Marriott, Embassy Suites, stopped at a light, crossed the overpass, and finally turned into a busy Wal-Mart parking lot.

Rose parked on the side and held the door open, letting the boys out. Jack’s eyes had lost their amber sheen. Now they were plain dark hazel. She locked the truck, checked the door just in case—locked up tight—and headed to the brightly lit doors.

“Now remember,” she said as they joined the herd of evening shoppers. “Shoes and that’s it. I mean it.”

Read on for an excerpt from Andrea Nash’s novel, set in the world of Kate Daniels

GUNMETAL MAGIC

Available now from Ace Books

“In Gunmetal Magic, Andrews fans get an extra dose of badassery in the form of a spinoff novel starring not Kate Daniels, but her best friend, fellow former Knight of the Order, the shapeshifter Andrea Nash. . . . The fight sequences are good and bloody, the magic is bitingly potent, the villains sufficiently villainous and capable of destroying the world. What else could a girl want in a contemporary urban fantasy novel?”

—Kirkus

CHAPTER 1

Thud!

My head hit the sidewalk. Candy jerked me up by my hair and slammed my face into the asphalt.

Thud!

“Hit her again!” Michelle squeaked, her teenage voice shrill.

I knew it was a dream, because it didn’t hurt. The fear was still there, that sharp, hot terror, mixed with helpless rage, the kind of fear that turns you from a human being into an animal. Things become distilled to simple concepts: I was small, they were big; I was weak, they were strong. They hurt me, and I endured.

Thud.

My skull bounced off the pavement. Blood stained my blond hair. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sarah take a running start like a kicker before a field goal. The flesh on her body boiled. Bones grew, muscles wound around them like cotton candy over a stick, hair sprouted, sheathing the new body, half human, half animal, in a coat of pale sandy fur dappled with telltale hyena spots. The bouda grinned at me, her malformed mouth full of fangs. I clenched up, curling my ten-year-old self into a ball. The clawed foot crashed into my ribs. The three-inch claws scraped a bone and it crunched inside me like a snapped chopstick. She kept kicking me.

Thud, thud, thud!

This was a dream. A dream grown from my memories, but still just a dream. I knew this, because ten years after my mother took eleven-year-old me and fled halfway across the country, I came back and put two bullets through Sarah’s eyes. I had emptied a clip into Candy’s left ear. I still remembered the way her skull had blossomed with red when the bullets tore out the other side. I had killed the entire werehyena clan. I wiped those bouda bitches off the face of the planet, because the world was a better place with them gone. Michelle was the only one who had escaped.

I sat up and grinned at them. “I’m waking up, ladies. Go fuck yourselves.”

My eyes snapped open. I lay in my closet, wrapped in a blanket and holding a butcher knife. The door of the closet stood slightly ajar, and the gray light of early morning slipped through the narrow gap.

Fantastic. Andrea Nash, decorated veteran of the Order, hiding in her closet with her knife and a blankie. I should’ve held on to the dream long enough to beat them into a bloody pulp. At least then I wouldn’t feel so completely pathetic.

I inhaled, sampling the air. The normal scents of my apartment floated to me, the hint of synthetic apple from the soap in the bathroom, the fragrance of vanilla from the candle by my bed, and strongest of all, the stench of dog fur, a leftover from when my friend Kate’s poodle Grendel had kept me company. That freak of nature had slept at the foot of my bed, and his distinctive reek was permanently imprinted on my rug.

No intruders.

The scents were muted, which meant the magic was down.

Thud-thud-thud!

What in the world?

Thud!

Someone was pounding on my door.

I kicked off my blanket, rolled to my feet, and ran out of the closet. My bedroom greeted me: my big bed, intruder-free; the crumpled mess of the blanket on the rug; my jeans and bra, discarded last night by the bed, next to a Lorna Sterling paperback with a pirate in a poofy shirt on the cover; bookcase, stuffed to the brim; pale blue curtains on the barred window, undisturbed.

I dropped the butcher knife onto my side table, pulled on my pajama pants, grabbed my Sig-Sauer P226 from under the pillow, and ran to the door. Waking up with a gun in my hand would’ve made a lot more sense, but no, I’d woken up clutching a knife. That meant I must’ve gotten up in the middle of the night, ran into the kitchen, taken a knife from the butcher block, ran back into the bedroom, grabbed a blanket, and hidden in the closet. All without realizing where I was or what I was doing. If that wasn’t crazy, I didn’t know what was.

I hadn’t slept with a knife since I was a teenager. This blast from the past wasn’t welcome and it needed to go away real fast.

Thud-thud!

I reached the door and stood on my toes to look through the peephole. A tall black woman in her fifties stood on the other side. Her gray hair stuck out from her head in a mess, she was wearing a nightgown, and her face was so twisted by worry, I barely recognized her. Mrs. Haffey. She and her husband lived in an apartment right below me.

Normally Mrs. Haffey viewed her appearance as serious business. In terms of battle readiness, she was my hero—I’ve never seen her without her makeup and hair perfectly done. Something was really wrong.

I unlocked the door.

“Andrea!” Mrs. Haffey gasped. Behind her, long white strands covered the landing and the stairwell. I was one hundred percent sure they hadn’t been there when I’d dragged myself into my apartment last night.

“What’s wrong?”

“Darin’s missing!”

I pulled her into my apartment and shut the door. “I need you to tell me from the beginning, slowly and clearly: what happened?”

Mrs. Haffey took a deep breath. She had been a cop’s wife for twenty-five years and her experience from dealing with a lifetime of emergencies kicked in. Her voice was almost steady. “I woke up and made coffee. Darin got up to take Chief outside. I took a shower. When I came out, Darin wasn’t back. I went out on the balcony, but he wasn’t in his usual spot.”

I knew exactly where the usual spot was: two stories under my bedroom window, where the Haffeys’ bulldog, Chief, preferred to mark his territory. I smelled it on my way to work every morning. Of course, Chief smelled my scent and it only made him more determined to pee his way to territorial supremacy.

“I called and called Darin, and nothing. I tried to go downstairs. There’s blood all over the landing and a white substance on the stairs and it’s blocking the way.”

“Did Mr. Haffey take his gun with him?”

Mr. Haffey had retired from the Paranormal Activity Division of the Atlanta Police Department. PAD cops took their guns seriously. As far as I knew, Darin Haffey never left the house without his Smith & Wesson M&P340 snub-nosed revolver.

“He always takes his gun with him,” Mrs. Haffey said.

And he hadn’t fired it, because his revolver ate .357 Magnum cartridges. When he pulled the trigger, the shot sounded like a small cannon going off. I would’ve heard the gunshot and recognized it even through the dream. Whatever happened, happened fast.

The mysterious “white substance” must’ve appeared as a result of the magic wave last night. Kate, my best friend, had warded my apartment months ago. Invisible spells shielded my place in a protective barrier. She’d covered the perimeter walls, the ceiling, and the floor. Anything magic would have a hard time breaking in, which probably explained why I’d slept safe and secure through the night.

“You know Darin’s blind as a bat.” Mrs. Haffey twisted her hands. “He can’t even see what he’s shooting at. The other day he comes running out of the bathroom, screaming and foaming at the mouth. He’d brushed his teeth with Aspercreme instead of toothpaste…”

A note of hysteria slipped into her voice. At five ten, she had eight inches of height on me and she was leaning over. “I called down to the station, but they say it will be twenty minutes or longer. I thought since you were with the Order…”

I used to be with the Order. When I was a Knight of Merciful Aid, it was my job to help people when the cops wouldn’t or couldn’t assist them with the magic hazmat. I had decorations and a stellar service record, but none of it mattered when the Order found out that I was a shapeshifter. They branded me mentally disturbed and unfit for duty and “retired” me.

But they didn’t take away my training or my skills.

I pressed a latch in my wall. A panel slid aside, revealing a small niche that used to be a hallway closet and which I had converted into my own personal armory. A row of gun barrels gleamed in the morning light.

Mrs. Haffey clicked her mouth shut.

Let’s see. I’d be bringing my Sigs, but I needed something with more power. The AA-12, an Automatic Assault 12-gauge shotgun with a 32-round clip was always a good choice. It fired 300 rounds per minute with minimal recoil. I filled mine with steel slugs. Squeeze the trigger once, and get a single shot that would punch through a car door. Hold the trigger, and anything on the other end, no matter how much hard body armor it wore, would become a smoking pile of meat in six and a half seconds. I’d paid a fortune for it and it was worth every dollar.

I grabbed the AA-12 and put on a hip holster, into which I stuck my Sig and its twin. “Mrs. Haffey, I need you to stay here.” I gave her a nice big smile. “Lock the door behind me and don’t open it until I come back. Do you understand?”

Mrs. Haffey nodded.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

I stepped onto the landing and heard the deadbolt slide shut behind me.

The “white substance” stretched in long pale strands over the walls. It resembled a spiderweb, if the spider was the size of a bowling ball and instead of working in a spiral had decided to weave only in a vertical direction. I crossed the landing and inhaled. Usually there was an up-draft here, the air rising from the front entrance to the top of the building. Today no movement troubled the stairway, but I smelled the sharp metallic odor of fresh blood all the same. Tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood up. The predator in me, the other me sleeping deep inside, opened her eyes.

I padded down the stairs, moving silently on the concrete steps, my shotgun ready. Even though magic made my existence possible, it didn’t mean that magic and I played nice. Give me guns over spells any day.

The web grew thicker. At the Haffeys’ landing, it swallowed the walls and the wooden stair rail. I turned, heading down. The stench of blood assaulted my nostrils and I tasted it on my tongue. All of my senses went into overdrive. My heart beat faster. My pupils dilated, improving my vision. My breathing sped up. My hearing sharpened and I caught a distant noise, muffled, but unmistakable: the deep, throaty bark of a bulldog.

I took a few more steps down. Blood stained the stairs. A large amount, at least a couple of pints, possibly more, all in big round drops. Either someone bled and walked, or someone bled and was carried. Please don’t be Darin. I liked Darin and I liked his wife. Mrs. Haffey was always kind to me.

The first floor landing was a narrow tunnel within the web. The door to apartment 1A was intact, but buried in white strands. The same solid wall of white sealed the way downstairs, and none of it was torn. No sign of Darin going that way. The door to 1B lay in a splintered wreck. Bloody marks stretched across the threshold, pointing into the apartment. Someone had been dragged inside.

I stepped into the hallway. A new scent tugged at me, a slightly sour, prickly odor that set off instinctual alarms in my head. Not good.

The apartment had the exact same layout as mine: a narrow hallway, opening into the kitchen on the right, the living room on the left, then the first bedroom, and then a short perpendicular hallway leading to the utility room and guest bathroom, and finally to the master bedroom with a bathroom en suite.

I moved in, nice and easy, slicing the pie around the corner: starting at the wall and moving at a ninety degree angle away from it, leaning slightly away from the wall to see the threat around the corner before it saw me. Jumping around the corners was very dramatic but would get your head blown off.

Kitchen—clear.

I moved into the living room.

On the left, by a coffee table, sat a large wicker basket full of yarn. Two long wooden needles stuck out of it at an angle. Next to the basket lay a severed human arm. The blood had pooled from it, soaking the beige wall-to-wall carpet in a dark red stain.

Pale skin. Not Darin Haffey. No, this was likely Mrs. Truman who lived in this apartment with her two cats. She liked to play bridge with her knitting club and collected yarn for “special” projects, with which she never did anything. Now her torn-off arm lay next to the basket with her knitting stash. No time to absorb and deal with it. I still had Darin to find.

I moved on. The sour prickly scent grew stronger.

Bedroom—clear. Bathroom—clear.

A huge hole gaped in the floor of the utility room. Something had smashed through the floor and tile from below.

I circled the hole, shotgun pointing down.

No movement. The floor below me looked clear.

A muffled noise cut through the quiet.

My ears twitched.

Woof! Woof!

Chief was still alive somewhere in there. I jumped into the hole, landed on the concrete floor of the basement, and moved away from the light streaming through the hole. No need to present a clear target.

Gloom filled the basement, dripping from the web into dark corners. The walls no longer existed. There was only web, white and endless.

My eyes adjusted to the darkness. Shapeshifter vision guaranteed that as long as there was some light, I wouldn’t bump into things.

Wet dark smears marred the concrete. Blood. I followed it.

Ahead the concrete split. A long fissure ran through the floor, at least three feet wide. The apartment building was already none too sturdy. The magic hated tall buildings and gnawed on them, pulverizing brick and mortar until the structure crashed down. The bigger the building, the faster it fell. Ours was too short and too small and so far we had escaped unscathed, but giant holes in the basement didn’t exactly inspire confidence.

A snorting noise came from inside the gap. I leaned over it. A whiff of dog-fur stink washed over me. Chief, you silly knucklehead.

I crouched by the hole. The bulldog squirmed below, snorting up a storm. He must’ve fallen into the fissure, and the drop was too sheer for him to jump out.

I put my shotgun on the ground and leaned in, grabbing Chief by the scruff of his neck. The bulldog weighed eighty pounds at least. What in the world were the Haffeys feeding him, small elephants? I yanked him out and jumped to my feet, shotgun in my hands. The whole thing took half a second.

Chief pressed against my leg. He was an Olde English Bulldogge, a throwback to the times when the English Bulldog was used for bull-baiting. A powerful, agile dog, Chief feared neither garbage trucks, nor stray dogs or horses. Yet here he was, rubbing against my calf, freaked out.

I took a second to bend down and pet his big head. It will be okay, boy. You’re with me now.

We started forward, moving slowly out of the first narrow room into a wider chamber. The web spanned the walls, creating hiding spots in the corners. Creepy as hell.

I carefully rounded the corner. At the far wall to my right, two furnaces sat side by side: the electric for the times when technology had the upper hand and the old-fashioned coal-burning monstrosity for use during the waves, when the magic robbed us of electric current. To the right of the coal furnace stood a large coal bin, a four-foot-high wooden enclosure filled with coal. On the coal, half-buried, lay Mr. Haffey.

Two creatures crawled on the concrete in front of the bin. About thirty inches tall and at least five feet long, they resembled huge wingless wasps, with a wide thorax-chest slimming down before flaring into thick abdomen. Stiff brown bristles covered their beige, nearly translucent bodies. Their heads, bigger than Chief’s massive skull, bore mandibles the size of garden shears. Their claws scraped the concrete as they moved—an eerie, nasty sound.

The left creature stopped and planted its six chitin-sheathed legs. Its tail end tilted up and a stream of viscous liquid shot out, adhering to the wall. The creature scrubbed its butt on the floor, anchoring the stream, and moved away as the secretions hardened into pale web.

Ew. Ew, ew, ew.

Mr. Haffey raised his head.

The creatures stopped, fixated on the movement.

I fired.

The shotgun barked, spitting thunder. The first steel slug punched into the right creature, cutting through the chitin like it was paper-thin plywood. The insect broke in half. Wet innards spilled onto the floor, like a bunch of swim bladders strung together. Without a pause, I turned and put a second shot into its buddy. Chief barked next to me, snapping his jaws. The creatures jerked and flailed, dragging their body chunks. The sour, spike-studded odor filled the air.

Darin Haffey sat up in the bin. “I see Kayla dragged you into this.”

I smiled at him. “No, sir, I just came to borrow a cup of sugar.”

“Heh.”

The web obscuring the rest of the room to my left tore.

“Incoming,” Mr. Haffey snapped, raising his firearm.

The first insect burst into the open. I fired. Boom!

Two more. Boom, boom!

Boom!

Boom, boom, boom!

The broken chitin bodies crashed into each other, making a pile of jerking legs and vomit-inducing entrails.

Boom, boom, boom! Boom!

An insect leaped over the pile, aiming for me. I swung the shotgun up. The impact exploded the creature’s gut, spraying foul liquid over me. Bug juice burned my lips. Ugh.

A smaller insect dashed toward me. Sharp mandibles sliced at my leg. You bastard! Chief rammed the creature, ripping into the thing before I could sink a slug into it.

Boom! Boom!

I kept firing. Finally the revolting flood stopped. I waited, listening, but no more skittering came. My calf burned. The pain didn’t bother me too much, but I’d be leaving a blood trail, which would make me ridiculously easy to track. I had five shots left in the AA-12. No way to know if I had killed them all or if this was the calm before the second wave of insects. I had to get Mr. Haffey out of here.

He was sitting in the coal bin, staring at the pile of insect parts. “Damn. That’s some shooting.”

“We aim to please,” I told him.

“You aim like you mean business.”

Funny thing, praise. I knew I was a great shot, but hearing it from the PAD veteran made me all warm and fuzzy anyway. “Have you seen Mrs. Truman?”

“I saw her body. They ripped her to pieces, the assholes.”

Poor Mrs. Truman. “Can you walk?”

“The fuckers got me in the leg. I’m bleeding like a stuck pig.”

That’s why he’d hidden in the coal. He’d buried his leg in the coal dust to smother the scent. Smart. “Time to go, then.”

“You listen to me.” Mr. Haffey put some cop hardness into his gruff voice. “There’s no way for you to get me out. Even if I lean on you, I’m two hundred and twenty pounds and my weight will just take you down with me. Leave me a gun, and you get out of here. Kayla must’ve called over to the station. I’ll hold them off until…”

I swung the shotgun over my shoulder and picked him up out of the coal. I wasn’t as strong as a normal shapeshifter, although I was faster and more agile, but a two-hundred-pound man still wasn’t a challenge.

I double-timed it to the hole, Chief at my heels. The bulldog had a death grip on a chitinous leg as long as he was. He had to lean his head back to carry it, but the look in his eyes said no army in the world could take it away.

“This is embarrassing,” Mr. Haffey informed me.

I winked at him. “What, Mrs. Haffey never carried you over the threshold on your wedding night?”

His eyes bulged. “That’s just ridiculous. What are you?”

I’d spent most of my life pretending to be human. But now the hyena was out of the bag, and sooner or later I had to start owning up to it. “A shapeshifter.”

“Wolf?”

“A bouda.” Well, not exactly. The truth was more complicated, but I wasn’t ready for those explanations yet.

We reached the hole. If I were a regular bouda, I could’ve jumped out of the hole with Mr. Haffey in my arms. But I knew my limits and that wasn’t happening. Throwing him out would injure his dignity beyond repair. “I’m going to lift you. Can you pull yourself up?”

“Is the Pope Catholic?”

I lowered him down, grabbed him by the hips, and heaved. Mr. Haffey pulled himself over the ledge and I got a real close look at that wound. It was a four-inch rip down his leg and touching his sweatpants left my palm bloody. He needed an ambulance yesterday.

I tossed Chief and his prize out of the hole, jumped, caught the edge, and hopped up.

“Will you at least carry me fireman-style?” Mr. Haffey huffed.

“No can do, sir. I’m trying to keep your blood from dripping out of your leg.”

He growled deep under his breath.

I picked him up and started out. “It will all be over soon.”

He guffawed.

I caught the familiar scuttling sound behind me, coming from the master bedroom.

“I thought the Order didn’t allow shapeshifters.”

“They don’t. When they figured me out, they fired me.”

The scuttling chased us.

“That’s bullshit right there.” Mr. Haffey shook his head. “And discrimination. You talk to your union rep?”

“Yes, I did. I fought it as long as I could. Anyway, they retired me with full pension. I can’t appeal.”

Mr. Haffey gave me an appraising look. “You took it?”

“Nope. Told them to shove it.”

I dropped him to the floor as gently as I could and spun, shotgun ready.

A huge pale insect lunged at us. I pumped two slugs into it and it thrashed on the floor. I gathered Mr. Haffey up and double-timed it to the door.

“Listen, most of my contacts have retired, but a few of us have kids in the department. If you need a job, I can probably fix up something. The PAD will be glad to have you. You’re a hell of a shot. Shouldn’t let that go to waste.”

“Much appreciated.” I smiled. “But I’ve got a job. I work for a business. My best friend owns it.” I started up the stairs.

“What sort of business?”

“Magic hazmat removal. Protection. That type of thing.”

Mr. Haffey opened his eyes. “Private cop? You went private?”

That’s cop mentality for you. I tell him I’m a shapeshifter and he doesn’t blink an eye. But private cop, oh no, that’s not okay.

“So how’s business?” Mr. Haffey squinted at me.

“Business is fine.” If by fine, one meant lousy. Between Kate Daniels and me, we had a wealth of skills, a small sea of experience, and enough smears on our reputation to kill a dozen careers. All of our clients were desperate, because by the time they came to us, everybody else had turned them down.

“What does your man think about that?”

Raphael Medrano. The memory of him was so raw, I could conjure his scent by just thinking about him. The strong male healthy scent that drove me crazy…

“It didn’t work out,” I said.

Mr. Haffey shifted, uncomfortable. “You need to drop that silliness and get back in uniform. We’re talking retirement, benefits, advance in rank and pay…”

I ran up to my door. “Mrs. Haffey!”

The door swung open. Mrs. Haffey’s face went slack. “Oh my God, Darin. Oh God.”

In the distance the familiar sirens blared.

The cavalry arrived with guns and in large numbers. They loaded Mr. Haffey into an ambulance, thanked me for my help, and told me that since I was a civilian, I needed to keep the hell out of their way. I didn’t mind. I’d killed most of what was down there and they had gotten all dressed up and gone through the trouble of bringing flamethrowers. It was only fair to let them have some fun.

I tended the cut on my leg. There wasn’t much to do about it. Lyc-V, the virus responsible for shapeshifters’ existence, repaired injuries at an accelerated rate, and by the time I got to it, the gash had sealed itself. In a couple of days, the leg would be like new, without scars. Some Lyc-V gifts were useful. Some, like berserker rage, I could live without.

I was scrubbing the bug juice off my face with my makeup removal washcloth, when the phone rang. I wiped the soap off my face and sprinted into the kitchen to pick it up.

“Hello?”

“Nash?” a smooth voice said into the phone.

The smooth voice belonged to Jim, a werejaguar and the Pack’s security chief. He usually went by Jim Black, if you didn’t know him well. I’d dug through his background during my tenure with the Order. His real name was James Damael Shrapshire, a fact I kept to myself, since he didn’t advertise it.

Atlanta’s Shapeshifter Pack was the strongest in the nation, and my relationship with it was complicated. But the Pack backed Cutting Edge, the business Kate owned and for which I now worked. They had supplied the seed money and they were our first priority client.

“Hey, Jim. What can I do for you?” Jim wasn’t a bad guy. Paranoid and secretive, but then cats were odd creatures.

“One of our businesses got hit last night,” Jim said. “Four people are dead.”

Someone obviously had a death wish and that someone wasn’t very bright, because there were much easier ways of committing suicide. The Pack took care of their own and if you hurt their own, they made it a point to take care of you. “Anybody I know?”

“No. Two jackals, a bouda, and a fox from Clan Nimble. I need you to go down there and check it out.”

I headed into the bedroom. “No problem. But why me?”

Jim sighed into the phone. “Andrea, how many years did you spend as a knight?”

“Eight.” I began pulling my clothes onto the bed: socks, work boots, jeans…

“How many of those did you spend on active cases?”

“Seven.” I added a box of ammo to the clothes pile on the bed.

“That’s why. You’re the most experienced investigator I’ve got who’s not tied up in something, and I can’t ask the Consort to look into it, because A) she and Curran are working on something else and B) when the Consort gets involved, half of the world blows up.”

Kate the Consort. The title still made me grin. Every time someone used it, she got this martyred look on her face.

“This mess looks to be complicated and the cops are in up to their elbows. I need you to go down there and untangle it.”

Finally. Something I could actually sink my teeth into.

I held the phone between my shoulder and my ear and took a pencil and a notepad off the nightstand. “You’ve got an address?”

“Fourteen-twelve Griffin.”

Griffin Street ran through SoNo, one of the former financial districts, sandwiched between Midtown and Downtown. The name came from “South of North Avenue.” It was a bad, unstable area, with old office buildings crashing down left and right.

“What were the shapeshifters doing there?”

“Working,” Jim said. “It’s a reclamation site.”

Reclamations. Oh no. No. He wouldn’t do that to me. I kept my voice even. “Who was in charge of the site?”

Please don’t be Raphael, please don’t be Raphael, please don’t…

“Medrano Reclamations,” Jim said.

Damn it.

“Raphael is being questioned by some cops, but I’ve sent some lawyers down to make sure they don’t keep him. He’ll join you as soon as they spring him out of there. Look, I know things aren’t good between you and Raphael, but we all have to do things we don’t want to do.”

“Jim,” I cut him off. “I’ve got it. A job is a job. I’m on it.”

Ilona Andrews is the pseudonym for a husband-and-wife writing team. Together, they are the coauthors of the #1 New York Times bestselling Kate Daniels urban-fantasy series, including Magic Rises, Magic Slays, Magic Bleeds, and the romantic urban-fantasy novels of the Edge, including Steel’s Edge, Fate’s Edge, and Bayou Moon. They currently reside in Texas with their two children and numerous pets.

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