Magic Bites (Kate Daniels #1) - Page 4
I AWOKE IN GREG'S APARTMENT CLOSE TO SEVEN and reached for the phone. Dialing Jim's number resulted in three rings, a click, and a beep of the answering machine without any forewarning message. I left a laconic "call me" and hung up. He would be none too pleased. The morning after a night of hunting was the time for serene contemplation, as sacred to the shapeshifters as meditation to a Shaolin monk. Caught between Man and Beast, the shapechangers sought complete control over each and so they met the sunrise looking inward. Their moment of self-reflection completed, they succumbed to peaceful sleep. I had little doubt that Jim had hunted last night in the Unicorn. He was likely to be asleep already, and the machine would beep announcing the message until it drove him crazy. I smiled at the thought.
I stretched, working the kinks out of my shoulders and back. I kicked at the shadow on the wall, putting all I had into it but never touching my imaginary opponent. I cycled through some basic kicks, front snap, roundhouse, thrust, finishing with more elaborate forms. After ten minutes I broke a sweat and pushed on for another twenty, working mostly on strength in my arms, shoulders, and chest. Greg did not own weights so I used a heavy lead-filled mace instead of a dumbbell. It was poorly balanced but it was better than nothing.
I had not lifted for a few days and I felt weaker than usual. Still, the controlled, determined exertion felt good and my mood improved gradually, so by the time the shower started calling to me, I was almost upbeat.
The phone rang just as my hand touched the bathroom door. I did a 180, expecting Jim on the line.
"Jim?"
"Hello," said a male voice. It was a pleasant voice, well modulated and clear. I'd heard it before, but it took me a minute to remember where.
"Dr… Crane?"
"Crest."
Yes, the toothpaste-named charity worker. How the hell did he get my number? "Can I help you?"
"I was hoping you would have lunch with me."
Persistent bugger. "How did you get my number?"
"I called to the Order and lied to them. I said that I had information concerning the dead vampire and gave them my credentials. They gave me this number."
"I see."
"So will you join me?"
"I'm very busy."
"But you have to eat once in a while. I would really like to see you again, some place less formal. Give me a chance and if the lunch doesn't work out, I'll vanish from your horizon."
I thought about it and realized that I wanted to say yes. It was a completely ludicrous thing to do. I was sitting on top of a bomb and both the Pack and the People stood ready to light the fuse, and here I was, considering a date. How long had it been since I'd been on a real date? Two years?
"It's a deal," I said. "I'll meet you between twelve and twelve thirty at Las Colimas. Do you know where it is?"
He knew.
"And Dr. Crest?"
"Just Crest, please."
"Crest, please don't call the Order again."
I expected him to be taken aback, but he said cheerfully "Yes, ma'am!" and hung up.
Stepping into the shower, I tried to figure out why I had agreed to meet him. There had to be a reason, something besides feeling lonely and tired, and wanting normal human contact, male human contact, the kind of male that didn't warp into a monster or shift muscles around its frame with the ease of changing clothes. Perhaps, I would use this opportunity to pump him for information about the morgue's treatment of the dead vamp. Yeah, that was it.
Halfway through the shower the phone rang. I turned off the water and went to pick it up, dripping wet soap lather onto the linoleum.
"Yes?"
"This is Maxine, dear."
"Hello, Maxine."
"The protector wishes to see you in his office today at eight thirty."
"Thank you."
"No problem, dear."
I hung up and went back into the shower. The hot water hit me with a satisfying rush, soothing my muscles.
The phone rang.
I growled and stomped back to the phone, without bothering to shut off the water.
"What?"
"You've got some fucking nerve calling me in the morning," Jim growled.
"Forgive me for disturbing your beauty sleep!" I snarled.
"What the hell did you call me for?"
"I want you to claw your eyes open and give me a list of Pack murders: locations, times, and so on."
"You know, that's classified information. Who the fuck do you think you are?"
"I'm the only person that gives a shit. Look out the window. You see a line of people waiting to help your furry asses?"
I slammed the phone and returned to the shower. The absence of steam should have alerted me, but I foolishly stepped right into the ice-cold cascade. While I was talking, the shower had run out of hot water. Choking the shower pipe would not bring the hot water back, as satisfying as it might feel, so I turned the shower off and toweled dry. It was going to be one of those days.
I SAT IN ONE OF THE VISITOR'S CHAIRS DEEP IN THE bowels of the knight-protector's office. This time Ted was not talking on the phone. Instead he regarded me from behind his desk like a medieval knight watching the besieging Saracens from the ramparts of his stronghold.
Moments stretched into minutes.
Finally he said, "I pulled your file from the Academy."
Oh, shit.
"You had an e-rating," he said.
E for electrum. Not that big of a deal, really.
"Do you know how many squires with e-ratings came to the Academy in its thirty eight years?" he asked.
I knew. Greg told me so many times that the number made holes in my ear membranes, but provoking the protector would do me no good, so I kept my peace.
"Eight," he said, letting the words sink in. "Including you."
I tried to look solemn.
Ted moved his pen two inches to the left, gave it a careful look, and leveled his gaze back at me. "Why did you leave?"
"I had a problem with authority."
"A bad case of honor student ego?"
"It went beyond that. I realized that the Order was the wrong place for me and I withdrew before I had a chance to do something really stupid."
In my mind Greg's voice said with a touch of reproach, And so you became a mercenary, a sword for hire, without a purpose or cause.
Ted said, "You're working for the Order now."
"Yes."
"How does it feel?"
"Well, Doctor, it feels rather sore and tingly."
He waved my quip aside. "I'm not fucking around. How does it feel?"
"Having a base in the city is nice. The MA sticker opens doors. There's a lot of responsibility."
"It bothers you?"
"Yes. When I'm on my own, I screw up and my paycheck goes down the drain, so I eat what I grow until the next thing comes along. Now I screw up and a lot of people might die."
He nodded. "Feel choked by authority?"
"No. You gave me a long leash. But I know it's there."
"Just as long as you remember."
"That's not something I would forget."
"I've got a complaint from Nataraja," he said.
I relaxed. The tide was changing. "Oh?"
"He claims that you're avoiding discussing the case with them. He had a lot to say."
"He frequently has a lot to say." I shrugged.
"You know why he's making noise?"
"Yes. Both the People and the Pack are suspects. He wants to put on a show of cooperation."
Ted nodded, approving of my assessment.
"I had no cause to go to the Casino," I said.
"You've got one now."
"Yes."
"Good. Then after we're done, go and shut him up."
I nodded.
"Tell me what you've got so far."
I unloaded. I told him about the dead vampire and the hidden brand; I told him about the meeting with the Beast Lord who wanted to be called Curran, and I told him about the yellow lines on the m-scan and Anna's dream.
He sat through it all, nodding with no expression on his stone face. When I was done, he said, "Good."
I realized that the audience was over and left the office. This time the Saracens escaped without burning oil scalding their backs.
I proceeded into Greg's office. Something had been bothering me since last night, tugging at my mind, and this morning, my wits sharpened by fury over the icy shower, I finally figured out what it was: the names of the women in Greg's file. I had forgotten about the four names, just let them slip from my memory, which was both irresponsible and stupid. I should have known better than that.
Finding the file and extracting the page listing the names took about five seconds. Sandra Molot, Angelina Gomez, Jennifer Ying, Alisa Konova. I checked Greg's files looking for the names, but none of the women had inpidual folders. Besides coming from different ethnic groups, they had nothing in common. I rummaged around for a phone book, found it in the lowest drawer, and looked through it. Gomez and Ying were common surnames, and Molot was not infrequent, so I looked for Konova. I found two men with the surname Konov, Anatoli and Denis. Russians denoted female gender by adding a vowel to the end of their surname, so a female form of Konov would be Konova. Given that, I thought the names were worth a try.
I dialed the first one and was informed by an indifferent female voice that the number had been disconnected. I tried the second number. The phone rang and an older female voice said with a slight accent, "Yes?"
"Hello, can I speak with Alisa, please?"
There was a long pause.
"Ma'am?"
"Alisa's missing," the woman said quietly. "We don't know where she is."
She hung up the phone before I had a chance to ask anything else. Since Molot was my second best bet, I looked for it and found six Molots. I hit pay dirt on the fourth one – a young male told me that Sandra was his sister and reluctantly informed me that she was also missing since the fourteenth of last month but refused to say anything else, adding "the cops are still looking for her." I thanked him and hung up.
I called nineteen people with the last name Ying and twenty-seven with the surname Gomez. I could not find Jennifer Ying, but there were two Angelinas among the Gomezes. The first one was two years old. The second was twenty and missing.
It was a safe bet that Jennifer Ying had suffered the same fate as the other three women. I considered a visit to the precinct, but the rational part of my brain informed me that not only would they throw me out without any information, I'd also call enough attention to myself to make my job even more difficult. Cops had respect for full-fledged knights, but they did not cooperate with them unless the circumstances left them no choice. I was not even a knight.
It was possible that all four ladies grew claws and fur and called Curran "Lord," in which case it would be logical to suppose that they were missing, because they were among the seven dead shapechangers. I called Jim to verify, but either he was not home or he decided not to take my calls. I didn't leave a message.
With nothing left to do, I put away the file. It was nearly lunchtime and I had a plastic surgeon to meet.
THE DECORATOR OF LAS COLIMAS MUST HAVE been a great admirer of both early Aztec and late Taco Bell architectural styles. The restaurant was a gaudy mess of bright booths, garish pi?atas, and fake greenery. A resin skull rack modeled after the actual racks, which the ancient Aztecs filled with countless skulls of human victims, crowned the roof of the long buffet table. Small terra-cotta replicas of arcane relics sat on the windowsills among the plastic fruit spilling from wicker cornucopias.
The setting did not matter. The moment I walked in, the delicious smell enveloped me, and I hurried past the five-foot-high terra-cotta atrocity meant to personify the famous Xochopilli, the Prince of Flowers, which separated the entrance from the cash register. A redheaded waitress thrust herself in my way.
"Excuse me," she said with a smile that showed off her entire set of teeth. "Are you Kate?"
"Yes."
"Your party is waiting. This way, please."
As she led me past the buffet table, I heard a male voice, asking the waitress, "Do you serve gravy with that?"
Only in the South.
The waitress delivered me to a corner booth, where Crest sat, immersed in the menu.
"I found her, Doctor!" she announced. The patrons at the neighboring tables glanced at me. If the restaurant was not so crowded, I would have strangled her on the spot.
Crest glanced from the menu and shot her a smile. "You remembered," he said, his voice filled with surprise. "Thank you, Grace."
She giggled. "Let me know if you need anything!"
She swept away, putting an extra kink into her walk. I would not have thought that a woman with an ass that bony could make it wiggle so much but she proved me wrong.
I landed.
"A storm walking in," he said.
"Five minutes here and the waitresses already bat their eyelashes at you," I said. "It must be a talent."
He unrolled his napkin, took a round-tipped serrated knife from it, and mimicked being stabbed in the heart. "Actually, it's not a talent," he explained, waving the knife around. The knife's blade looked sharp. "Most people treat waitresses like dogs. They bring you food and wait on you, therefore they must be a lower breed of human being and don't mind being harassed."
I took the knife away from him before he hurt himself and put it on the table.
The redheaded Grace returned, dazzled us with another smile, and asked if we were ready to order. I ordered without looking at the menu. Crest asked for churassco and chimichurri in unaccented Spanish. Grace gave him a blank look.
"I think he would like the filet mignon in garlic and parsley sauce," I said. "The Chef's special."
Her face brightened. "Anything to drink with that?"
We both ordered ice water and she departed, wiggling furiously.
Crest grimaced.
"A sudden change of attitude?" I asked.
"I detest incompetence. She works in a restaurant that serves Latino cuisine. She should at least know how the names are pronounced. But then she probably does the best she can." He looked around. "I must say, this isn't a place to promote quiet conversations."
"You have a problem with my taste?"
"Yes, I do," he said.
I shrugged.
"You are quite… hostile." He did not say it in a confrontational way. Instead, his voice held quiet amusement.
"Was I supposed to pick a quiet place, tastefully decorated and private, that would promote intimate conversation?"
"Well, I thought you might."
"Why? You blackmailed me into lunch, so I thought I might at least enjoy the food."
He tried a different line of attack. "I've never come across anyone like you."
"Good thing, too. People like me don't like it when you try walking over them. They might break your legs."
"Could you actually do it?" He was grinning. Was he flirting with me?
"Do what?"
"Break my legs."
"Yes, under the right circumstances."
"I have a brown belt in karate," he said. I decided that he found my tough woman persona amusing. "I might put up a fight."
This was actually fun. I gave him a full blast of my psychotic smile and said, "Brown belt? That's impressive. But you have to remember, I break legs for a living while you…"
"Fix noses?" he put in.
"No, I was going to say stitch up corpses, but you're right, 'fix noses' would've made a much better retort."
We grinned at each other across the table.
Grace arrived right on cue, holding two platters. She set them in front of us and was called away before she could blind Crest with another toothy smile.
"The food's wonderful," he said after the first two bites.
And cheap, too. I raised my eyebrow at him, meaning I told you so.
"I'll stop trying to impress you if you promise not to break my legs," he suggested.
"Alright, where did you learn to speak Spanish?"
"From my father," he said. "He spoke six languages fluently and understood who knows how many. He was an anthropologist of the old kind. We spent two years at Temple Mayor in Mexico."
I arched an eyebrow, took a bottle of hot sauce shaped like a stylized figurine, and put it in front of him.
"Tlaloc," he said. "God of rain."
I smiled at him. "So tell me about the temple."
"It was hot and dusty." He told me about his father, who tried to understand people long gone, about climbing the countless steps to the top of the temple, where twin shrines stared at the world, about falling asleep under the bottomless sky by the carved temple walls and dreaming of nightmarish priests. Somehow his voice overcame the noise of the restaurant, muting the conversations of other patrons to subdued white noise. It was so remarkable that I would have sworn there was magic in it, except that I felt no power coming from him. Perhaps it was magic, but of that special human kind – magic born of human charm and conversation, which I too often discounted.
He talked while I listened to his pleasant voice and watched him. There was something very comforting about him, and I was not sure if it was his easy manner or his complete immunity to my scowling. He was funny without trying to joke, intelligent without trying to sound erudite, and he made it plain he expected nothing.
The lunch stretched on and then suddenly it was close to one thirty and time for me to go.
"I had a great time," he said. "But then I talked the whole time, so I suppose that's obvious. You should've shut me up."
"I enjoyed listening to you."
He scowled at me, disbelieving, and warned, "Next time it will be your turn to talk."
"Next time?"
"Would you go to dinner with me?"
"I would," I found myself saying.
"Tonight?" he asked, his eyes hopeful.
"I'll try," I promised and actually intended to do so. "Call me around six." I gave him my address in case the magic knocked the phone out.
I insisted on paying my half of the lunch and declined an offer to be walked to my car. The day I needed an escort was the day I'd turn my saber over to someone who knew what to do with it.
"MR. NATARAJA WOULD BE DELIGHTED TO SPEAK with you," a cultured male voice informed me through the phone. "However, his schedule is extremely busy for the next month."
I sighed, tapping my nails on Greg's kitchen table. "I'm sorry I didn't catch your name…"
"Charles Cole."
"I tell you what, Charles, get Rowena on the line for me now, and I won't tell Nataraja that you've tried to stonewall the Order-appointed investigator he's been waiting for."
There was silence and then Charles said in a slightly strained voice, "One moment, please."
I waited by the phone, very pleased with myself. There was a click, and Rowena's flawless voice said, "Kate, my deepest apologies. What an unfortunate misunderstanding."
Score one for me. "No offense taken," I told her. I could afford to be gracious. "I was notified that Nataraja would like to speak to me."
"Indeed. Unfortunately, he's in the field. If he knew of your intention to visit, he would have postponed. He will be back this evening and I would be indebted to you if you could meet with us later, let's say at two tonight?"
Score one for Rowena. "No problem."
"Thank you, Kate," she said.
We said good-byes and hung up. She had a way of subtly turning every conversation personal, as if the matter discussed was vital to her and any refusal of her request would injure her. It worked both ways – when you agreed to something, she acted as if you did her a great personal favor. It was an art I would have loved to learn. Unfortunately I had neither time nor patience to spare.
Unsure what to do next, I tapped my fingernails on the table. Until I got my interview with Corwin, I could not eliminate him as a suspect and I had no other suspects so far. Maybe if I annoyed Nataraja enough, he would supply me with other leads, but it wouldn't happen until tonight, which left twelve empty hours. I looked around the apartment. It had lost its immaculate air. There was dust on the windowsill, and several dishes sat in the sink. I pushed myself free of the chair and started looking for the broom, rags, and bleach. Come to think of it, a nap wouldn't hurt either. I had a long night to look forward to.
When I woke up later in the now clean apartment, the light outside had turned the deep purple of late evening.
Crest hadn't called. Too bad.
An interesting thought occurred to me while I lay for a few extra precious seconds in my bed, staring out the barred window at the encroaching twilight. I held on to it, padded, to the kitchen, and called the Order, hoping Maxine was still there. The phone was turning into my weapon of choice.
Maxine answered.
"Good evening, Kate."
"Do you always work late?"
"Sometimes."
"If I asked you to check on something for me, would you do it?"
"That's what I'm here for, dear."
I told her about the missing women. "The cops are involved so there has to be a file on at least one of those women, Sandra Molot. I need to know if they did a general homing spell using one of her personal effects. And same for the other three."
"Hold on, dear, I'll try to find out."
She put me on hold. I waited, listening to the small noises coming over the empty phone line. The night had fallen, and the apartment was dark, save for the kitchen, and eerily quiet.
Tap. Tap.
Something scratched at my kitchen window. It was a small sound, like a dry twig striking the glass.
I was on the third floor. No trees stood close to the building.
Tap.
Silently I backed into the hallway and picked up Slayer, cradling the phone between my cheek and my shoulder.
The line came alive and I almost jumped. "Jennifer Ying has no file," Maxine said.
"Aha." I turned the light off, drowning the kitchen in darkness.
Tap. Tap.
I moved to the window.
"They do have files on the other three women."
I reached for the curtain and jerked it aside. Two amber eyes glared at me, full of longing and hunger. A face that was a meld of wolf and human leaned on the glass. Its misshapen horrid jaws did not fit together right and long strands of drool hung from its crooked yellowed teeth.
The skin around the lupine nose wrinkled. The nightmarish thing sniffed the glass, blowing air through its black nostrils and making a small opaque circle of condensation. It raised one deformed hand and tapped the glass with an inch-long claw.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Both standard and high-end locating spells were made in all three cases. They were blocked and produced no results. Kate?"
"Thank you very much, Maxine," I said, unable to take my gaze off the monster at my window. "I have to go now."
"Any time, dear. Play nice with the wolf."
Carefully I put the phone aside. Slayer in hand, I murmured the spell dissolving the ward around the glass and unlocked the window.
The claws hooked the window's edge and effortlessly slid it upward. The wolf-man stepped inside with marked slowness, one furry sinewy leg at a time, and stood seven feet tall in my kitchen. Dense gray fur sheathed its head, shoulders, back, and limbs, leaving the sickening face and the muscular chest bare. I could see round dark spots dotting the skin tightly stretched over his pectorals.
"Alright, pretty boy. What do you have for me?"
He reached toward me, holding a large envelope in his claws. A red wax seal with some sort of imprint secured the envelope.
"Open it," I directed.
The wolf-man clumsily snapped the seal, pulled out a single piece of paper, holding it with his claws, and offered it to me. I took it. His claws left small tears in the paper.
Four lines written in beautiful calligraphy said
His Majesty Curran,
the chosen Lord of Free Beasts,
requests your presence at the meeting of his Pack
at 22:00 of this night.
The paper was signed with a scribble.
"My own fault, huh," I said to the wolf-man. "I did tell him I wanted a formal invitation."
The wolf stared at me. His drool made small sticky puddles on the kitchen linoleum. I thought of being alone with two hundred monsters just like him, each faster and stronger than me, ready to tear me apart at the whim of their leader, and a sinking feeling sucked at my stomach. I didn't want to go.
"Are you supposed to escort me?"
The nightmare opened his mouth and produced a low guttural growl, the frustrated snarl of a mind gifted with the power of speech but locked in a body unable to produce the words. Only the most adept of the shapechangers could speak in a midform.
"Nod, if yes," I said.
The wolf nodded slowly.
"Very well. I need to change. Stay here. Don't move. This is a dangerous place for a wolf. Nod if you understand."
He nodded.
I stepped into the hallway and touched the wall, activating the ward. A translucent red partition materialized in the doorway, separating the kitchen and the monster within from the rest of the apartment. I went to get dressed.
I CHOSE LOOSE DARK GRAY PANTS, CUT TO FLARE at the bottom. They masked my foot when I kicked. The prospect of many claws at my back made me think of light armor, but my suit waited for me at my real house along with the rest of my supplies, long overdue. Not that it would help anyway, not in the middle of the Pack. I dug in the closet, where I kept a couple changes of clothes. When Greg was alive, I only came to his apartment as a last resort, which usually meant I was bleeding and my clothes were ruined.
I thumbed through the outfits and my hands grazed leather. A black leather jacket. I could dimly recall wearing it at some point. Must've been during my "Oh look, I'm tough!" days. I slipped it on and looked in the bedroom mirror. I looked like a bravo. And it was hot. Oh well. It was better than nothing. I took the jacket off, changed my T-shirt for a dark gray tank top, slipped on the tangle of the back sheath, and put the jacket on again. Thugs are us. Great. Just add a super-tight ponytail and loads of mascara, and I'd be ripe to play a supervillain's evil mistress. Ve haf vays of making you gif us your DNA sample.
I settled for my usual braid.
Having rebraided my hair, I paused, considered the arsenal available to me, put on thin wristbands loaded with silver needles, and took nothing else except Slayer. To get clear of two hundred enraged shapechangers I'd need a case of grenades and air support. There was no reason to weigh myself down with extra weapons. Then again, maybe I should take a knife. One knife, as a backup. Okay, two. And that's it.
Armed and dressed to kill – or rather to die quickly but in style – I went to get the wolf-man and together we took the gloomy staircase down to the street. I held Betsi's back door open for my guide and he slid into the backseat. As we started out of the parking lot, his claw tapped me on the back and pointed to the left. I took the hint and turned in that direction.
The traffic was light, almost nonexistent. Deserted streets, flooded with a yellow electric radiance, stretched before us. Few people owned cars that ran during tech. There was no need to invest in them, since it was plain that magic was gaining the upper hand.
An ancient blue Honda came to a stoplight in the left turn lane next to us. A man and a woman in the front seat were talking. I couldn't see the man except for his darkened profile, but the woman's face wore a blissful, slightly dreamy look as if she was remembering some happy moment. A small brown-haired boy sat in the backseat.
In a moment he would see the monster in my car. I braced myself for a scream.
The boy squinted and grinned. I glanced in the rearview window. The wolf-man was pretending to pant, black lips stretched in a happy canine smile. The gloom of the car hid most of his face and only the muzzle, illuminated by the outside light, and the glowing eyes were visible.
The boy mouthed something that might have been "Good dog." The light changed and the Honda drove on, vanishing into the night and carrying away the child and his parents, their reminiscing undisturbed.
We drove on, winding our way northeast toward Suwanee. It took us nearly an hour to reach the shapechanger compound and we had to leave the city behind to get there. All but invisible from the highway, the fortress sat in the middle of a clearing, defined by a dense wall of brush and oaks that looked decades older than they had any right to be. The only sign of its existence was a single-lane dirt road that veered so abruptly from the highway that I missed it despite my guide and had to double back.
The trail brought us to a small parking lot. I parked next to an old Chevy truck and held the door open for the wolf-man. He stepped out and paused in a kind of silent salute to the building. The compound loomed before us, a forbidding square building of gray stone nearly sixty feet high. Darkness pooled in the narrow arched windows, guarded by metal grates. The place looked like the keep of a castle rather than a modern fort.
The wolf-man raised his narrow muzzle and let out a long, wailing howl. Icy fingers of fear clawed their way up my spine and clutched my throat. The howl lingered, bouncing off the walls and filling the night with the promise of a long, bloody hunt. Another voice joined it from atop the keep, a third came from the side, then a fourth… All around us the sentries howled and I stood still in the whirlpool of their war cries. A bit dramatic, and yet it had the likely desired effect of turning a badass like me into just another frightened ape shivering in the darkness.
Satisfied, my guide strode toward the keep and I walked after him listening to the last echoes of the blood hymn flee into the night. The wolf-man stopped before a large metal door and knocked. The door swung open and we stepped inside, into a small chamber lighted with electric lamps.
A short woman with very curly blond hair waited for us. Some unspoken communication must have passed between her and my guide, and she looked at me. "This way, please."
I follow