Alaskan Fury (36 page)

Zenaida was using seiðr.  The
stock-in-trade of vampires and jötunn, who worked with compulsions and cravings
and geases…

…And blood.  The siphoning of
power from one entity to another.

Why had she never seen this
before?  Draining the blood, using it to power Order artifacts…  Imelda
realized that she, like everyone else within the Church, had simply assumed
that perhaps there was a divine method for such requisitioning of the
condemned’s power.  The Purification.  The Confession…  The idea that it was
being harvested using the same filthy tricks as vampires and blood-magi left
her guts churning.

Seiðr.  Zenaida was using seiðr.

Imelda’s hands were shaking as
she took the cup, emptied its contents into the sink, turned on the water,
flushed the rest of her medication down the toilet, and began scrubbing her
hands with soap.  While she would have been able to keep poisoned pills as
evidence, such blood-magics were a thousand times more dangerous.  They were
tied to a single person, specifically, so they were harmless to all others, but
with that one victim, they worked as an ever-present drive brewing in their
subconscious.  A simple sleepwalk would then end in Imelda swallowing the
entire bottle, wherever she decided to stash them. 

Somehow, the concha had gotten
hold of her blood.  Somehow, she had knotted a weave of seiðr around her,
compelling her to…

Imelda froze, remembering
Jacquot, lurking outside her door.  She remembered the IV she had haphazardly
tugged from her hand, leaving blood to drip on the carpet in passing.

Outside, she heard the helicopter
continuing to power up.  Listening to the rotors’ increasing thumping whine,
Imelda cleaned out the inside of the cup until the black veins disappeared,
dried it, and hastily returned it to its case.  She could deal with Zenaida
later, once she found out exactly what it is she was dealing with.

Jogging outside, she was already
halfway out into the hallway before she realized she’d left the light on in the
bathroom.  She hesitated a heartbeat, listening to the helicopter roar on the
tarmac outside, knowing that, at four in the morning, someone was surely going
to object.   Not wanting to take the extra time to run back to the bathroom to
shut off the light, Imelda decided the Order could afford a few extra watts on
the next electricity bill and shut the door to her room anyway.

Chapter
14: An Inquisitor’s Wager

‘Aqrab rounded the next hilly
rise of the cluster of peaks between the two great mountain ranges, shielding
his eyes against the glare of the snow, carving a path into the
already-hip-deep drifts for his magus to follow as he considered what their
bargain would be that night.  He had to be careful not to take things too
quickly, but never in his life had he thought the Fury could open up to him so
fast.  It had worked beyond his wildest dreams.

He had been stunned at how truly
easy it was to drive her over the edge.  A simple trace of his hand here, a hot
wisp of breath there…  Even now, she walked at the very edge of their five
hundred cubits because, earlier that morning, he had brushed his fingers across
the sensitive spot he had found at the nape of her neck, feather-light, to see
what would happen, and she’d collapsed into his arms, gasping, shuddering with
orgasm, and calling him a ‘mindless ape’.

He’d been grinning inwardly ever
since. 
So
many possibilities…

His mind already entertaining
itself with the exquisite ways her tawny body would contort beneath his touch
in tonight’s bargain, he didn’t notice the dark shapes squatting upon the
mountain’s crest ahead of him until one of them moved. 

“Peace, djinni,” a woman in black
fatigues said, standing slowly.  She was not looking directly at him, he
noticed, but somewhere near his chest.  Her eyes were as blue as glacial ice,
but they bore dark rings around them; the gaunt, pale look of a skeleton. 
Though she carried no guns he could see, she wore an all-black, military garb
in the same style as those who hunted them.  Further, there was no disguising
the Inquisition helicopter, looming on the next peak behind her like an ugly
black insect.  Beside it, a Nordic-looking man casually leaned against the open
door of the cockpit, a pistol in his hand, watching them.  Well out of range
for the weapon to be effective, but a warning nonetheless.

“Mon Dhi’b,” ‘Aqrab called
carefully behind them, coming to a wary halt.  “Are you back there?”

Behind him, his magus sulked,
“It’s not like I can go
far
, djinni.  What, did you think you lost me in
a snowbank?”  She scoffed and offered him several different options for a good
self-dicking, all of which required a distinct lack of lube.

“Peace, djinni,” the black-clad
woman repeated softly, her eyes warily watching the wolf.  Her accent sounded
like that of a Spaniard.  If she understood the Old Tongue, she made no indication. 
Now that ‘Aqrab got a good look at her, he realized she was covered in a vest
studded in what looked like clear plastic compartments filled with various
shards of multi-colored metals…that stank of solidified fire.  The same strange
heat-energy-smell as TNT, but stronger, more concentrated, more dangerous.  In
one gloved hand, she clutched what looked like a high-tech flashlight…or maybe
a sword pommel.

“Mon Dhi’b,” ‘Aqrab said slowly,
as his magus continued to detail out her complaints to the gods behind him. 
“Please come here.”

“Neek hallak, djinni!”

“If I could fuck myself, I
would,” ‘Aqrab snapped back.  “But until someone
wishes
that for me, I’d
really appreciate
your attention on this nice young lady who smells of
explosives.”

His magus made a startled grunt. 
Then, suddenly, Kaashifah was pushing past him, all fur and fang.

“Peace!” the woman snapped,
holding up both hands, making the rolls of explosives jostle upon her chest,
showing the object she grasped tightly in her left.  “I carry a deadman’s
switch.  You bite me, wolf, and all three of us will die.”  Without taking her
eyes from the air in the general area of the magus, she said to ‘Aqrab, “Inform
her that she will show herself and speak to me civilly or she will die.  I’ve
had much less sleep than I should have, I’ve developed ulcers from not eating
enough, my head is throbbing like it’s being split with an axe, and I’m not
feeling charitable.”

His magus stalked toward the
woman anyway, obviously fully intent on ripping her to pieces.  ‘Aqrab watched
that realization strike the woman’s haggard face, watched her eyes narrow in
resolution, and got an odd tickling sensation in the back of his mind, like
someone was playing with the strings of Fate.  He watched her fingers loosen on
the sword-pommel.

‘Aqrab darted forward and grabbed
the back of his magus’s shirt and dragged her bodily backwards.  “May you die
by the fleas of a thousand camels, mon Dhi’b!” he cried.  “Look at her vest!  I
smell fire-clay.”

His magus shook herself out of
his grip and glared up at him for an instant before turning to the woman and
looking her up and down with disgust.  Then she glanced around them, but except
for the helicopter on the next peak in the distance, they appeared to be the
only souls in the area.  Just the two of them and—judging by the rank on her
shoulder—an Inquisitor. 

Eventually, his magus returned
her attention to the woman, “What do you want, qybah?”

Slowly, the Inquisitor’s hand
tightened back on the object she carried.   She divided her attention between
an area just above Kaashifah’s head and an area just below ‘Aqrab’s left
nipple.  “Show yourselves.”

“Like Hell!” his magus snapped. 
“You think
explosives
scare me, qybah?  I’m going to rip off your bigoted
head and fling it down the mountainside, like I did with your craven, child-killing
compatriots.”

‘Aqrab could
feel
their
fates twisting with every harsh word, and watched the woman’s fingers twitch
again on the device.  Realizing he had a problem on his hands that required a
poet, not a bloodthirsty, limb-flinging maniac, ‘Aqrab tore a hole into the
veil to the half-realm and bodily shoved his magus into it.  Even as she was
letting out a warning shout, he wove the tear shut behind her.

The Inquisitor jerked at the
blast of heat, her face wary.  “Did you jump realms, then?”

As soon as his magus was out of
sight, ‘Aqrab lifted the little clay pendant of an old-fashioned oil-lamp that
Kaashifah had made for him from around his neck and gently set it down in the
snow at his feet.  Stepping to one side, he cleared his throat.

Immediately, the woman’s glacial
blue eyes lifted to meet his.  In that moment of startlement upon meeting his
eyes, his head obviously much more lofty than she had anticipated, ‘Aqrab saw a
flash of wary intelligence…as well as a complete lack of fear.  Not, he noted,
something that most mortals—even
Inquisitors
—were known for, in the face
of a djinni.

“And the wolf?” the Inquisitor
demanded, as if her vest had put him solidly on her rack.

“I sent her somewhere safe so we
could talk,” ‘Aqrab said.  “I figured you’d rather deal with a poet than a
warrior, but I can follow her in an instant, if you try anything underhanded.” 
He crossed his arms over his chest, considering her arrangement of explosives. 
Many of the metal shards he saw through the plastic looked…uncomfortable, and
there was the unmistakable writhing blackness of basilisk venom in several of
the pouches.  “What do you want from me?”

There was no missing the look of
disappointment on the woman’s face.  “I’m not here for you.  I came to speak to
the angel.”

‘Aqrab froze. 
Since when does
an Inquisitor refer to a wolf as an angel?
  Very carefully, he said, “My
mistress is no angel.”  About ninety percent of the time, she was a qybah.  For
the rest, she was a rabid hyena.

The woman’s gaze sharpened.  “Yet
you knew exactly who I was talking about.”  She gave him a wan smile.  “I’ve
spent enough sleepless nights studying your kind, djinni.  I know you can’t
lie.  What is she, then?  A terror?  A pain in your ass?  A puta?”  Her
mirthless smile fading, she said, “No, I wasn’t speaking of her
qualities
. 
I spoke of her
nature
.  And she has wings.  Doesn’t she?”

Refusing to wince, ‘Aqrab said,
“What are you expecting to accomplish with this?”  He gestured at the vest she
wore.  “You have thirty seconds to explain yourself before I slip realms.”

Her ice blue eyes scanned his a
moment, wasting a dozen precious seconds, before she said, “Your mistress
carried a pendant.  A member of my Order wears a similar pendant.  What does it
mean?”

‘Aqrab felt the fire in his chest
sputter in shock.  “Someone else
wears
it?”

She watched his reaction much too
closely.  “Your mistress’ pendant burns those who try to wear it
illegitimately,” she said.  “I know.  I already tried.”  She peeled the collar
of her shirt back, exposing an angry red wound at her throat.  Dropping the
shirt, she said, “What does it mean?  It is a symbol of the angels, yes?”

This is the one who has been
hunting us.
  ‘Aqrab realized he had been staring.  He considered lighting
her afire and slipping realms, as he had done with Thunderbird.  As a mortal,
he doubted she would survive it.  Yet the woman’s complete lack of fear left
him indecisive.  He could feel the strings of Fate twirling around them,
dangling, unused, across their bodies like the gods’ discarded puppet-strings,
yet alive with nervous, dangerous energy.  As if, at any moment, they could
leap to life and snag his arms and legs and make him dance for the
self-important fools that ruled the Realms.

Clearing his throat,
uncomfortable at the odd feeling, ‘Aqrab said, “Last I checked, you were trying
to kill us, young lady.”

The Inquisitor cocked her head at
him, and he got that slightly disorienting feeling of strings sliding down his
back, curling around his arms and legs.  “Should I?”  She held up the deadman’s
switch and showed it to him, allowing him to see the trigger she kept depressed
clearly. 

‘Aqrab peered at the woman as the
weave dangled and twisted around him, getting the unnerving feeling that his
next words would change the course of history.  A history that, if he chose
unwisely, would be sans a certain sand-singing djinni.  He cleared his throat,
wondering if he was dealing with a self-avowed martyr.  Very carefully, he
said, “What is in-for-red?”

The woman cocked her head at
him.  “Infrared?”

“In-for-red.  Yes.  What is it? 
Tell us that and we will tell you about the pendant.”

The Inquisitor scanned him with
her icy blue eyes before she said, “It is a heat-sensing system that displays
an image based on a target’s heat signatures versus its surroundings.”

Heat.  They find me by my
heat.
  ‘Aqrab must have been staring at her, because the woman smiled and
said, “Now tell me about the pendant.”

He warily glanced at the
helicopter behind her.  Was this a trick to keep him talking so her snipers
could get into position?

“Djinni,” the woman said, “if I’d
wanted to detain the two of you idiots, I could have done it.  You leave a
trail wide enough for a blind man to follow, and you have not altered your course
since you began your trek.”  Watching him, she said, “I want to speak to the
angel.  I want to know what she knows.  She speaks with me, now, and I won’t
come back here with my men tonight and personally execute you both.”

‘Aqrab felt a spark of irritation
at the mortal’s impudence.  “You have done a poor job of that thus far, First
Lander.  This is the first time we’ve seen your ilk in weeks.”

“I gave the order to stop
following you,” the woman said.  “I will not risk more of my men until I’m
certain I know what I’m dealing with.”

‘Aqrab peered at her over his
crossed arms.  “So, in telling you what we are, we will be signing our death
warrants?”

With a no-nonsense growl, the
woman replied, “That depends on what you tell me.”

She’s serious,
‘Aqrab thought,
stunned. 
The Inquisitor is considering letting us go.
  He wondered if
she had any idea they were about to bring the dragons down upon their heads. 
Probably not.  Otherwise, she would be triggering that switch in her hand…

After a moment’s deliberation, he
raised his voice slightly.  “Mon Dhi’b?  Are you listening to all this?”

The air directly in front of the
Inquisitor said, “I am.”

“Are you going to be reasonable?”

“Once I kill her, djinni, you
will be next.”

‘Aqrab gave a long-suffering look
to the Inquisitor.  “You see what I have had to deal with?”

“What did she say?” the
Inquisitor asked, eying the air in front of her with a complete lack of
surprise.

‘Aqrab sighed.  “She said she’s
here and listening.”

“What language is that?” the
Inquisitor demanded.

‘Aqrab hesitated.  Instinctively,
he knew that the less information he gave the Inquisition, the better.  “An old
one.”

The Inquisitor seemed to take
that in stride.  “Tell her to speak English.”