Magic Bites (Kate Daniels #1) - Page 2

THE MAGIC HAD HIT WHILE I WAS PACKING THE essentials into my bag and I had to take Karmelion instead of my regular car. A beat-up rusted truck, bile green in color and missing the left headlight assembly, Karmelion had only one advantage – it ran on water infused with magic and could be driven during a magic wave. Unlike normal cars, the truck did not rumble or murmur or produce any sound one would expect an engine to make. Instead it growled, whined, snarled, and emitted deafening peals of thunder with depressing regularity. Who named it Karmelion, and why, I had no idea. I bought it at a junkyard with the name scrawled on the windshield.

Lucky for me, on a regular day Karmelion had to travel only thirty miles to Savannah. Today I forced it into the ley line, which in itself wasn't bad for it, since the ley line dragged it almost all the way to Atlanta, but the trek across the city didn't do it much good. Now the truck was cooling off in the parking lot behind me, dripping water and sweating magic. It would take me a good fifteen minutes to warm the generator back up, but that was alright. I planned to be here for a while.

I hated Atlanta. I hated cities, period.

I stood on the sidewalk and surveyed the small shabby office building that supposedly contained the Atlanta Chapter of the Order of Knights of Merciful Aid. The Order made efforts to conceal its true size and power, but in this case they had gone overboard. The building, a concrete box three stories high, stuck out like a sore thumb among the stately brick houses flanking it on both sides. The walls sported orange rust stains made by rainwater dripping from the metal roof through the holes in the gutters. Thick metal grates secured small windows, blocked by pale Venetian blinds behind dusty glass.

There had to be another facility in the city. A place where the support staff worked while the field agents put on a nice modest front for the public. It would have a large, state of the art armory, and a computer network, and a database of files on anyone of power – magic or mundane. Somewhere in that database my name sat in its own little niche, the name of a reject, undisciplined and worthless. Just the way I liked it.

I touched the wall. About a quarter of an inch away from the concrete, my finger encountered elastic resistance, as if I was trying to squeeze a tennis ball. A faint shimmer of silver pulsed from my skin and I withdrew my hand. The building was heavily warded against hostile magic. If someone with a lot of juice was to hurl a fireball at it, it would probably bounce off without so much as scorching the gray walls.

I opened one half of the metal double doors and walked inside. A narrow passage stretched to the right of me, terminating at a door boasting a large red-on-white sign: Authorized Personnel Only. My other option was a flight of stairs leading upward.

I took the stairs, noting they were surprisingly clean. Nobody tried to stop me. Nobody asked why I was there.

Look at us, we are helpful and nonthreatening, we live to serve the community, and we even let anyone walk into our office.

The need for an unassuming building I could understand, but public records claimed that the entire Chapter consisted of nine knights: a protector, a piner, a questor, three defenders, and three guardians. Nine people, overseeing a city the size of Atlanta. Yeah.

The stairs ended on a landing with a single metal door painted dull green. A small dagger gleamed weakly on its surface about my eye level. Knocking didn't seem like a good idea, so I swung the door open and let myself in.

A long hallway stretched before me, offering a variety of color to my tired eyes: gray and gray, and yet more gray. The ultra-short carpet boasted plain gray pile; the walls were painted in two shades of gray: lighter on top and a darker gray runner at the bottom. The small warts of electric lights on the ceiling looked gray, too. No doubt the decorator chose a particularly dull smoky glass out of esthetic considerations.

The place looked spotless. Several doors branched from the hallway, probably leading into the inpidual offices. At the very end a large wooden door supported a kite shield enameled black. In the middle of the shield reared a steel lion, polished to a bright gleam. The knight-protector. Just the fellow I needed to see.

I marched through the hallway, aiming for the shield and glancing into the doorways as I passed them. On my left I saw a small armory. A short, well-muscled man sat on a wooden bench polishing a dha. The wide blade of the short Vietnamese sword shimmered slightly as he drew an oiled cloth against its bluish metal. On the right lay a small but immaculate office. A large black man dressed in an expensive suit sat behind the desk, talking on the phone. He saw me, smiled with automatic courtesy, and kept talking.

In his place I wouldn't have given myself a second glance either. I wore my work clothes: jeans loose enough to let me kick a man taller than me in the throat, a green shirt, and comfortable running shoes. Slayer rested in its sheath on my back, partially hidden by my jacket. The saber's hilt protruded above my right shoulder, obscured by my hair gathered into a thick plait. The braid was cumbersome – it slapped my back when I ran and made for an excellent hold in a fight. If I were a little less vain, I would've cut it off, but I've already sacrificed feminine clothes, makeup, and pretty underwear in the name of functionality. I would be damned if I gave up my hair, too.

I reached the protector's door and raised my hand to knock.

"Just a moment, dear," said the stern female voice I had heard through the phone yesterday.

I glanced in its direction and saw a small office cluttered with file cabinets. A large desk sat in the middle of the floor and on top of the desk stood a middle-aged woman. The woman was tall, prim, and very thin, with a halo of curly hair dyed platinum-gray. She wore a stylish blue pantsuit. A matching pair of shoes rested near the leg of the chair she must have used to get on the table.

"He's with someone, dear," the woman said. She raised her hands and proceeded to change the twisted bulb in a feylantern affixed to the ceiling next to an electric light. "You don't have an appointment, do you?"

"No, ma'am."

"Well, you're in luck. He's free for the morning. Why don't you give me your name and the reason for your visit, and we'll see what we can do."

I waited until she finished with the feybulb, told her that I was here in connection with Greg Feldman, and gave her my card. She took it down, showing no reaction at all, and pointed behind me. "There's a waiting area over there, dear."

I turned and walked into the waiting area, which turned out to be just another office, equipped with a black leather sofa and two chairs. A table stood against the wall by the door with a coffeepot, guarded by two stacks of small clay cups. A large jar of sugar cubes stood next to the cups and next to the jar sat two boxes from Duncan's Doughnuts. My hand twitched to the doughnuts, but I restrained myself. Anyone who had the pleasure of trying one of the old Scot's doughnuts quickly learned you couldn't eat just one, and waltzing into the protector's office covered in hand-whipped chocolate cream wasn't a good way to make the right impression.

I found a safe spot by the window, away from the doughnuts, and glanced past the bars to the outside, at the small stretch of the overcast sky, framed by roofs. The Order of Merciful Aid offered just what its name suggested: merciful aid to anyone who asked. If you could pay, they would charge you; and if you couldn't, they would kill shit on your behalf pro bono. Officially their mission statement was to protect humanity against all harm, by magic or by weapon. Trouble was, their definition of harm seemed rather flexible and sometimes merciful aid meant they lopped your head off.

The Order got away with a lot. Its membership was too powerful to be ignored, and the temptation to rely on it was too great. It's been endorsed by the government as the third part of the law enforcement triumvirate. The Paranormal Activity Police pision, the Military Supernatural Defense Units, and the Order of the Knights of Merciful Aid were all supposed to play nice together and keep the general public safe. In reality, it didn't exactly happen that way. The knights of the Order were helpful, competent, and lethal. Unlike the mercenaries of the Guild, they were not motivated by money and they stood by their promises. But unlike the mercs, they also made judgments and they believed that they always knew best.

A tall man stepped into the waiting room. The stench hit me almost before I saw him, a sickeningly sweet, lingering odor of rotting garbage. The man wore a sweeping brown trench coat stained with ink and grease spots and smeared with so many varieties of foodstuff and plain trash that he looked like young Joseph in his coat of many colors. The coat hung open in the front to allow a glimpse of an abomination of a shirt: blue and red with green tartan stripes. His filthy khaki pants were held up by orange suspenders. He wore old steel-toed paratrooper boots and leather gloves with their fingers cut off at the first knuckle. On his head sat a felt hat, an old-fashioned fedora, soiled and stained beyond belief. Thick mousy hair dripped in limp strands from under the hat.

He saw me and tipped his hat, holding its rim between his index and middle finger the way some people hold cigarettes, and I got a glimpse of his face: hard lines, three-day stubble, and pale eyes, quick and cold. There was nothing especially threatening in the way he looked at me, but something behind those eyes made me want to raise my hands in the air and back away slowly until it was safe to run for my life.

"Maaaa'am," he drawled.

He scared the shit out of me. I smiled at him. "Good morning." My greeting sounded a lot like "niiice doggy." I'd have to squeeze past him to get to the door.

The receptionist came to my rescue. "You can go in now, dear," she called.

The man stepped aside, bowing slightly, and I walked by him. The side of my jacket brushed against his trench coat, probably picking up enough bacteria to knock out a small army, but I did not pull away.

"Nice to meet you," he murmured as I passed him.

"Nice to meet you, too," I said and escaped into the protector's office.

I found myself in a large room, at least twice the size of the offices I'd seen so far. Heavy burgundy draperies covered the windows, letting in just enough light to create a comfortable gloom. A massive desk of polished cherry-wood dominated the room, supporting a cardboard box, a heavy mesquite wood paperweight with a Texas Ranger badge on top, and a pair of brown cowboy boots. The legs in the boots belonged to a thick-shouldered man, who leaned back in an oversized black leather chair listening to the phone at his ear. The knight-protector.

At some point he must have been very strong but now his muscle was sheathed in what my father had called "hard fat." He was still a large, strong man and he could probably move fast if he needed to, despite the unsightly bulge around his middle. He wore jeans and a navy blue shirt with a fringe. I did not know they even made those anymore. The clothes in which the West was won – or sung into submission – were meant for whiplash-lean men. They made the protector look like Gene Autry gone on a long Twinkie binge.

The knight looked at me. He had a wide face with a massive square jaw and probing blue eyes under heavy eyebrows. His nose was misshapen from being broken too many times. The hat hid the hair, or more likely, the absence of it, but I was willing to bet that what was left of the growth on his head had to be gray and short.

The protector motioned me to one of the smaller red chairs set before the desk. I sat, getting a look into the cardboard box on his desk. It contained a half-eaten jelly doughnut.

The knight resumed listening to the phone conversation, so I looked around his office. A large bookcase, also of dark cherrywood, stood at the opposite wall. Above it I saw a large wooden map of Texas decorated with strips of barbed wire. Golden script etched under each piece announced the name of the manufacturer and the year.

The protector finished his conversation by hanging up the phone without saying a word. "You've got some paper to show me, now's the time."

I handed him my merc ID and half-a-dozen recommendations. He flipped through them.

"Water and Sewer, huh?"

"Yes."

"Gotta be tough or dumb to go down into the sewers these days. So, which one are you?"

"I'm not dumb, but if I tell you I'm tough, you'll peg me for a bravo, so I'm going to smile cryptically." I gave him my best cryptic smile. He did not fall down to his feet, kiss my shoes, and promise me the world. I must be getting rusty.

The protector squinted at the signature. "Mike Tellez. I've worked with him before. You do regular work for him?"

"More or less."

"What was it this time?"

"He had a problem with large pieces of equipment being dragged away. Someone told him he had a baby marakihan."

"They're marine," he said. "They die in fresh water."

An overweight slob who eats powdered jelly doughnuts, wears shirts with fringe, and identifies an obscure magical creature without a momentary pause. Knight-protector. Camouflage expert extraordinaire.

"You got to the bottom of Mike's problem?" he asked.

"Yes. He had the Impala Worm," I said.

If he was impressed, he did not show it. "You kill it?"

Very funny. "No, just made it feel unwelcome."

The memory stabbed me, and for a moment I stumbled again through a dim tunnel flooded with liquid excrement and filth that rose to my hips. My left leg burned with icy pain and I struggled on, half-dragging it, while behind me the enormous pallid body of the Worm spilled its life-blood into the sludge. The slick green blood swirled on the surface, each of its cells a tiny living organism consumed by a single purpose: to reunite. No matter how many times or how many miles apart this creature appeared, it was always the same Impala Worm. There was only one and it regenerated endlessly.

The protector put my papers on his desk. "So, what do you want?"

"I'm investigating the murder of Greg Feldman."

"On whose authority?"

"My own."

"I see." He leaned back. "Why?"

"For personal reasons."

"Did you know him personally?" He delivered the question in a perfectly neutral tone, but the underlying meaning was all too clear. I felt happy to disappoint him.

"Yes. He was a friend of my father."

"I see," he said again. "Your father wouldn't be available for a statement?"

"He's dead."

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't be," I said. "You didn't know him."

"Do you have anything that might support your relationship with Greg Feldman?"

I could easily provide him with collaboration. If he was to look me up in his files, he would find that Greg had sponsored my application to the Order, but I did not want to go in that direction.

"Greg Feldman was thirty-nine years old. He was an intensely private man, and he disliked being photographed." I handed him a small rectangle of the photograph. "This is a picture of me and him on the day of my high school graduation. There is an identical picture in his apartment. It's located in his library on the third shelf of the central bookcase."

"I've seen it," the protector said.

How bloody nice. "Can I have that back, please?"

He returned the photo. "Are you aware that you're named as a beneficiary in Greg Feldman's will?"

"No." I would've welcomed a moment to deal with my guilt and gratitude, but the knight-protector plowed on.

"He bequeathed his financial assets to the Order and the Academy." He was watching me for a reaction. Did he think I cared about Greg's money? "Everything else, the library, the weapons, the objects of power, is yours."

I said nothing.

"I've checked on you with the Guild," he said. The blue eyes fixed me in place. "I've heard you're able but hurting for money. The Order's prepared to make you a generous offer for the items in question. You'll find the sum to be more than adequate."

It was an insult and we both knew it. I thought of telling him that if it wasn't for Oklahoman cowboys and Mexican whores having a bit of fun, there would've been no Texans, but that would be counterproductive. One didn't call a knight-protector a whoreson in his own office.

"No, thank you," I said with a pleasant smile.

"Are you sure?" His eyes took my measure. "You look like you could use some money. The Order will give you more than you'd get auctioning it off. My advice, take the money. Buy yourself a decent pair of shoes."

I glanced at my beat-up sneakers. I liked my shoes. I could bleach them. It took the blood right out.

"Do you think I should get some like yours?" I asked, looking at his boots. "Who knows, they might throw a cowboy shirt with a fringe in with them. Maybe even a girdle."

Something stirred in his eyes. "You got a mouth on you."

"Who, me?"

"Talk's cheap. What can you really do?"

Thin ice. Proceed with caution.

I leaned back. "What can I really do, Sir? I won't do anything to threaten or antagonize the knight-protector in his own office no matter how much he insults me. That would be stupid and highly hazardous to my health. I came here in search of information. I just want to know what Greg Feldman was working on when he died."

For a moment we sat there looking at each other.

The knight-protector sucked the air into his nose with an audible whoosh and said, "You know anything about investigative work?"

"Sure. Annoy the people involved until the guilty party tries to make you go away."

He grimaced. "You know that the Order's investigating this matter?"

In other words, run along, little lady, and let people who are more competent handle it. "Greg Feldman was my only family," I said. "I'll find who or what killed him."

"And then what?"

"I'll burn that bridge when I cross it."

He laced the fingers of his hands into a single fist. "Anything able to take out the knight-piner is packing some power."

"Not for long."

He thought about that for a while. "So happens I could use you," he said.

That was unexpected. "Why the hell would you want me?"

He gave me what he must have considered his cryptic smile. It reminded me of a grizzly awakened in midwinter. "I have my reasons. Here's what I'll do for you. You get a Mutual Aid sticker on your ID, which should open you some doors. You get to use Greg's office. You get to look at the open file and police report."

Open file meant I would get the case as it came to Greg: bare facts and no or little findings. I would have to retrace Greg's steps. It was bloody more than I expected.

"Thank you," I said.

"The file doesn't leave the building," he said. "No copies, no quotes. You'll make a complete report to me and only to me."

"I'm bound by the Guild's disclosure of information act," I said.

He waved it aside. "It's taken care of."

Since when? This knight-protector was going far out of his way to help a worthless merc. Why? People who did me favors made me nervous. On the other hand, it was bad manners to look a gift horse in the mouth. Even if you're getting it from an overweight cracker in a fringe shirt.

"Officially you have no status with me," he said. "Screw up and you're persona non grata."

"Understood."

"We're done," he said.

Outside the receptionist waved me over and asked for my ID. I gave it to her and watched as she affixed a small metallic Mutual Aid sticker to it, an official "stamp" of the Order's interest in my humble work. Some doors would open to me and more would slam in my face. Oh, well.

"Don't mind Ted," the receptionist said, returning my ID. "He's harsh sometimes. My name's Maxine."

"My name's Kate. Would you point out the late knight-piner's office to me?"

"I'd be glad to. The last one on the right."

"Thank you."

She smiled and went back to her work. Peachy keen.

I reached Greg's office and stood in the doorway. It didn't look right.

A square window spilled daylight onto the floor, a narrow desk, and two old chairs. To the left, a deep bookshelf ran the length of the wall, threatening to collapse under the weight of meticulously arranged volumes. Four metal file cabinets as tall as me towered at the opposite wall. Stacks of files and papers crowded in the corners, occupied the chairs, and choked the desk.

Someone had gone through Greg's papers. They'd done it carefully. The place wasn't ransacked, but someone had looked at each of Greg's files and didn't return them to their proper place, instead choosing to stack them on the first horizontal surface available. These were Greg's private papers. For some reason, the idea of someone touching Greg's things, going over them, reading his thoughts after his death bothered me.

I stepped through the doorway and felt a protective spell close behind me. Arcane symbols ignited with a pale orange glow, forming complex patterns on the gray carpet. Long twisted lines connected the symbols, crisscrossing and winding about the room, their intersections marked by radiant red dots. Greg had sealed the room with his own blood, and more, he had keyed it to me, otherwise I wouldn't be able to see the spell. Now any magic I did in this room would stay in it, leaving no echo beyond the door. A spell of this complexity would take weeks to set up. Judging by the intensity of the glowing lines, it would absorb one hell of an echo. Why would he do that?

I walked between the files to the bookshelf. It held an old edition of the Almanac of Mystic Creatures, an even older version of the Arcane Dictionary, a Bible, a beautiful edition of the Koran bound in leather and engraved with gold, several other religious volumes, and a thin copy of Spenser's Faerie Queene.

I made my way to the metal cabinets. As expected, they were empty. The shelves were marked in Greg's own unique code, which I couldn't read. It didn't matter really. I picked up the closest stack and carefully slid the first file onto the metal frame.

Two hours later, I finished with the papers on the floor and the chairs and was ready to start on the stacks covering the desk when a large manila envelope stopped me. It lay on top of the central stack, so my name, written with black marker in Greg's cursive, was plainly visible.

I lowered the stacks to the floor, pulled up a chair, and emptied the envelope onto the desk's surface. Two photographs and a letter. In the first photo two couples stood side by side. I recognized my father, a hulking, red-haired man, enormous shoulders spread wide, one arm around a woman who had to be my mother. Some children retain memories of their deceased parents, a shadow of a voice, a hint of a scent, an image. I recalled nothing of her, as if she had never existed. My father kept no photographs of her – it must have been too painful for him – and I knew only what he told me. She was pretty, he had said, and she had long blond hair. I stared at the woman in the photograph. She was short and petite. Her features matched her build, well-formed, delicate, but devoid of fragility. She stood assured, with easy, natural poise, clothed in a kind of magical allure and perfectly aware of her power. She was beautiful.

Both he and Greg told me I resembled her, but no matter how hard I studied her image, I could see no resemblance. My features were bolder. My mouth was larger and not pouting by any stretch of the imagination. I did manage to inherit her eye color, dark brown, but my eyes had an odd cut, almond-shaped, slightly elongated. And my skin was a shade darker. If I overloaded on eyeliner and mascara, I could easily pass for a gypsy.

There was more to it than that – my mother's face had feminine gentleness. Mine didn't, at least not when compared to hers. If we were to stand side by side in a room full of people, I wouldn't get a single glance. And if someone had stopped to chat me up, she could've stolen him with a single smile.

Pretty… Yeah. Nice understatement, Dad.

On the other hand, if the same people had to pick one of us to kick a bad guy in the kneecap, I'd get the vote, no problem.

Next to my mother and father, Greg stood by a lovely Asian woman. Anna. His first wife. Unlike my parents, those two stood a little apart, each maintaining a barely perceptible distance as if their inpidualities would strike a spark if they reached for one another. Greg's eyes were mournful.

I put the photograph face down on the desk.

The other photo was of me, about nine or ten years old, ping into a lake from the branches of a giant poplar. I didn't know he had it or even when it was taken.

I read the letter, a few sparse lines on the white piece of paper, a part of Spenser's poem.

"One day I wrote her name upon the strand,

But came the waves and washed it away:

Again I wrote it with a second hand,

But came the tide, and made my pains his prey."

Below four words were written in Greg's blood.

Amehe

Tervan

Senehe

Ud

The words blazed with red fire. A powerful spasm gripped me. My lungs constricted, the room blurred, and through the dense fog the beating of my heart sounded loud like the toll of a church bell. A tangle of forces swirled around me, catching me in a twisted mess of slippery, elastic power currents. I reached out, and gripped them, and they carried me forth, far into the amalgam of light and sound. The light permeated me and burst within my mind, sending a myriad of sparks through my skin. The blood in my veins luminesced like molten metal.

Lost. Lost in the whirlwind of light.

My mouth opened, struggling to release a word. It wouldn't come and I thought I would die, and then I said it, pouring my power into the weak sound.

"Hesaad." Mine.

The world stopped spinning and I found my place in it. The four words towered before me. I had to say them. I held my power and said the words, willing them, forcing them to become mine.

"Amehe. Tervan. Senehe. Ud."

The flow of power ebbed. I was staring at the white piece of paper. The words were gone and a small puddle of crimson spread across the sheet. I touched it and felt the prickling of magic. My blood. My nose was bleeding.

Pulling a dressing from my pocket, where I always carried some, I pressed it against my nose and leaned back. I'd burn the bandages later. The watch on my wrist said 12:17 p.m. Somehow within those few instants I had lost almost an hour and a half.

The four words of power. Obey, Kill, Protect, and Die. Words so primal, so dangerous, so powerful that they commanded the raw magic itself. Nobody knew how many of them there were, where they came from, or why they held such enormous hold over magic. Even people who had never used magic recognized their meaning and were subject to their power, as if the words were a part of some ancient racial memory we all carried.

It wasn't enough to merely know them; one had to own them. When it came to acquiring power words, there were no second chances. You either conquered them or you died trying, which explained why so few among the magic workers could wield them. Once you made them yours, they belonged to you forever. They had to be wielded with great precision and using them took a chunk of power that left the caster near exhaustion. Greg and my father both warned me that the power words could be resisted, but so far I hadn't had a chance to use them against an opponent that did. They were the last resort, when all else failed.

Now I had six words. Four given to me by Greg and two others: Mine and Release. My father taught them to me long ago. I was twelve and I almost died making them mine. This time it had been too easy.

Maybe the power of the blood grew with age. I wished Greg was alive so I could ask him.

I glanced to the floor. The orange lines of Greg's ward had grown so dim, I could barely see them. They had absorbed everything they could.

The words clamored in my head, shifting and tossing, trying to find their place. Greg's last gift. More precious than anything he could have given me.

Gradually I became aware of someone watching me. I looked up and saw a lean black man in the doorway. He had smiled at me when I passed by his office some three hours earlier.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Tripped a residual ward," I mumbled, the rag still covering my nose. "Happens. I'm okay."

He eyed me. "You sure?"

"Yeah." Okay, I'm an incompetent moron, go away now.

"I brought you Greg's file." He made no move to enter the room. Smart. If I had tripped a trap set up by Greg, it could hit him as well. "Sorry it's so late. One of our knights had it."

I walked to him and took the file from his hands. "Thanks."

"No problem." He regarded me for a moment and walked away.

I rummaged through Greg's desk for a mirror. Every self-respecting mage had a mirror close to hand. Too many spells required it. Greg's was a rectangle set in a plain wooden frame. I caught my image in it and almost dropped the rag. My hair glowed. It radiated a weak burgundy luminescence, which shifted when I ran my hands through it, as if each inpidual strand of hair was coated with fluorescent paint. I shook my head, but the radiance didn't dim. Growling at it didn't help either and I had not the faintest idea how I could get rid of it.

I hid in the farthest corner of the room, invisible from the door, and opened the file. If you can't make it go away, wait it out.

The last time I assimilated words of power, I was exhausted. Now I felt exhilarated, high on magic. The energy filled me, and I struggled to contain it. I wanted to jump, to run, to do something. Instead I had to hide in a corner and concentrate on the file before me.

The file contained a coroner's report, a summary of a police report, some hurried notes, and several photos of a crime scene. A wide shot showed two bodies sprawled on the asphalt, one corpse stark, pale, and nude and the other a