Magic Rises (8 page)

When Stormy died, I dug his grave,

Ay, ay, ay, Mr. Storm Along!

I dug his grave with a silver spade,

Ay, ay, ay, Mr. Storm Along!

Something purred deep within the ship. Magic sparked deep below. The hair on the back of my neck rose. The song and magic braided together and pulled me in. I wanted to join in, even though I didn’t know the words and my singing would scare off the fish in the ocean. The crew was singing full out now, Saiman’s voice blending with the others, part of the strong powerful chorus, its rhythm like the beating of a heart.

I hove him up with an iron crane,

Ay, ay, ay, Mr. Storm Along!

And lowered him down with a golden chain,

Ay, ay, ay, Mr. Storm Along!

The enchanted water generators came on, expelling magic in a thrilling cascade. The
Rush
shuddered and pulled away from the pier.

Wind bathed us, pulling at my hair. Another tremor shook the ship. The
Rush
surged forward, into the ocean. The crew clapped. Saiman took a bow, grinning. I had no idea he had it in him.

“We’re off,” Curran said.

“Yes, we are.” We would get there, we would fight, and we would return.

* * *

We hit our first storm one day out. The ocean churned and boiled, its waters leaden gray and frothy with foam. Huge waves rolled, each as big as a house, and our large cutter bobbed up and down, tossed about like a paper boat. Water hammered at the hull, and the vessel careened until I thought it would overturn and the lot of us would drown, only to roll back the other way the next second.

Saiman tied himself outside. When I asked the crew to check on him, they assured me that the ship needed a forward lookout and this was his favorite thing to do. I made it to the bridge and caught a glimpse outside. The world looked like a nightmare, with wind and water locked together in a furious primal combat. Saiman stared into the wind with a big smile on his rain-splattered face, while the ocean pretended it was a moving mountain range. The waves would crest and drench the deck, and he would disappear from view behind the curtain of water.

While Saiman was getting his freak on outside, the rest of us huddled belowdecks. One by one we all gathered in the mess hall. It was either safety in numbers or misery loves company—either one would do. Eduardo and Barabas seemed to be having the worst time of the lot. Eduardo paled and prayed quietly, while Barabas hugged his bucket and looked green. Finally Barabas informed us that it was fitting that he would die here after being dumped and he was sorry he was taking us with him. Eduardo told him to shut up and offered to throw him into a lifeboat, and then Barabas demonstrated that weremongooses did go zero to sixty in less than a second and offered to amuse himself by playing with Eduardo’s guts. They had to be told to go and sit in separate corners of the mess hall. I curled up next to Curran and fell asleep. If the ship decided to sink, there wasn’t much I could do about it.

The magic drowned the technology soon after midnight. By morning the ocean had smoothed out and the ship had stopped trying to impersonate a drunken sailor at the end of his first night of liberty.

We got some breakfast and I escaped the mess hall and climbed onto the deck. The sea lay perfectly calm, like an infinite translucent crystal, polished to satin smoothness. The magic engines made almost no noise and the ship glided over the bottomless blue depths. The ocean and the sky seemed endless.

I surveyed the sea for a few long minutes and moved on to explore the deck. In the rear I found a large clear space marked by an
H
. A helipad. No helicopter in sight. I walked out onto the helipad. Such a nice clear space. I felt slightly off after sleeping on the floor. A little exertion would do me good. I stretched, turned, and kicked the air. And one more time. I launched a quick combination, jumped, and smashed my foot into an invisible opponent’s chin.

“A knockout,” Curran said behind me.

I jumped in the air about a foot and managed to land with some semblance of dignity. He had managed to sneak up on me again. Time to save face. “Nah. That wasn’t a knockout. I just staggered him a bit.”

“I wasn’t talking about the kick, baby.”

Oh. “Smooth, Your Furriness.” I backed up and spread my arms. “Want to play?”

He pulled off his shoes.

Five minutes later, we were rolling around on the helipad as he tried to muscle his way out of my armlock, after slamming me onto the helipad.

“I finally realized the source of your mutual attraction,” Saiman said, his voice dry.

I looked up. He was standing a few feet away.

“Do enlighten us.” Curran tried to roll into me to break the lock.
Oh no you don’t.

“You both think violence is foreplay.”

I laughed.

Derek came over, moving in that languid wolfish stride, took off his boots and socks, and dropped down into a one-armed push-up. He was still doing them fifteen minutes later, when Barabas and Keira emerged onto the helideck and began sparring. Barabas was shockingly fast, but Keira and Jim clearly shared a gene pool, because she just kept on coming.

Andrea and Raphael were next, and then Eduardo, George, and Mahon also found the helideck. Watching Eduardo and Mahon spar was like watching two rhinos trying to wrestle. They smashed against each other and then puffed and strained for ten minutes without moving an inch. Finally, red-faced, they broke apart and shook.

“Thank you,” Eduardo said.

“Good match,” Mahon said.

Raphael stripped off his shirt. He wore a black muscle shirt underneath that left his shoulders exposed. Andrea raised her eyebrows, clearly appreciating the view. Raphael walked out onto the helipad with a plain six-inch knife in his hand. It was the only weapon permitted during the Pack challenges, and during the marathon of shapeshifter attacks that earned me my place as the Pack’s “Beast Lady,” I had gotten very good use out of mine. Barabas joined Raphael. They clashed, lightning fast, and danced across the helipad. The core difference between a sword fighter and a knife fighter wasn’t speed or strength. When a swordmaster took out his sword, the outcome wasn’t always certain. He might have meant to injure his opponent or to disarm him. But when a knife fighter pulled out a knife, he meant to kill.

Aunt B walked out onto the helipad wearing loose yoga pants. “I’m just here to stretch. Kate, want to help?”

“Sure.”

Thirty seconds later, as I was flying through the air, I decided that this wasn’t the best idea.

“Watch yourself,” Doolittle said. He sat on the side, holding a book.

“Are you going to join us, Doc?” Raphael asked.

“I’m sunbathing,” Doolittle told him. “And enjoying my book. Don’t bother me with your foolishness.”

Barabas held up a folder. “As long as we’re all here, I need to brief you on our situation.”

“Maybe later?” Keira said. “I have plans.”

“What plans?” Barabas peered at her.

“I was going to go and think deep thoughts, somewhere in the sun.”

“With your eyes closed?” George asked.

“Possibly.”

“Someone sit on her before she escapes.” Barabas raised his folder. “It’s my job to make sure we don’t go into this venture blind. You’re all here, so you will have to suffer through this whether you like it or not.”

“But . . .” Keira began.

Curran glanced at her.

“Oh, fine.” She stretched out on the deck. “I’m listening.”

“You’ve all heard about Desandra and the twins by now,” Barabas began. “However, this fight isn’t really about the babies. It’s about territory. The Carpathians form a mountain range in the shape of a backward C that runs through many different countries, including Poland, Slovakia, Hungary, Romania, Ukraine, and Serbia. These mountains constitute Europe’s largest forested area and contain over a third of all European plant species.”

Keira yawned.

Barabas rolled his eyes. “Here is the deal. It’s shapeshifter paradise. Miles and miles of wooded mountains, lakes, rivers, and a good supply of fresh water and game. The terrain is harsh and the human population is light. You could dump a battalion of Army Rangers into the Carpathians, and they would wander around for years, shooting at shadows.”

“Sounds good,” Mahon boomed.

“It is. Prime country. So this guy, Jarek Kral, figured this out early on. He clawed his way to the top of a small wolf pack and spent the next twenty years murdering, bargaining, and scheming to get more land. Now he controls a big chunk in the northeast. He’s a powerful sonovabitch, and he’s got serious anger management issues. Holds grudges and never forgets an insult. There was this werebear who said something Jarek didn’t like. Three years later Jarek sees him at a dinner, walks over, stabs him with a knife, rips the guy’s heart out of his body, throws it on the ground, and stomps it into mush. And then goes back to finish his food. He’s famous for it.”

“Sounds like a lovely man,” George said.

“Here, I’ve got a picture.” Barabas passed a photograph to Eduardo on his left. “Jarek is a powerful guy, but he has a problem. In thirty years he managed eleven children. Seven went loup, two were killed with their mother when a rival pack ambushed them, one challenged Jarek and lost, and that leaves him with Desandra. Jarek is like our Mahon. He’s all about dynasties and alliances. It’s killing him that he doesn’t have a son.”

Mahon sighed. “Wait until you live as long as I have. And I have a son. I just wasn’t his first father, that’s all.”

Curran grinned.

The photograph of Jarek finally made its way to me. A man in his late forties stared to the side with an expression of derision and disbelief on his face, as if he had just stepped on a worm and was flabbergasted that the creature had managed to get itself plastered to the bottom of his shoe. His brown wavy hair fell around his face, reaching to his broad shoulders, but did nothing to soften the impact of the face. Jarek’s features were made with broad strokes: large eyes under bushy slanted eyebrows, large nose, wide mouth, firm chin and a square jaw. It was a powerful face, male and strong, but lacking refinement. He didn’t look like a thug, but rather like a man without conscience, who killed because it was convenient.

Not the type of man I’d want to cross.

Curran looked over my shoulder. “Yes. That’s him.”

I leaned against him and passed the picture to Raphael.

“So back to Desandra,” Barabas said. “Nobody wanted to ally themselves with Jarek, because he isn’t exactly a man of his word. So he bargained with his daughter. By herself, Desandra is penniless. However, her first son will inherit Prislop Pass. It’s a pass in northern Romania, on the edge of his territory, and it has a ley line running through it. If you’re going from Russia, Ukraine, or Moldova to Hungary or Romania, you’re going to take that pass. Which brings us to the other two packs.”

He held up a picture. A family sat around the table. Three younger men, one elderly, and three women. “Volkodavi. A mixed pack, part Polish, part Ukrainian, part whatever. They’re rubbing up against the Carpathians from the east, in Ukraine, and they control the eastern hills. Here is Radomil, Desandra’s first husband.”

Barabas handed the photograph to Eduardo, who passed it to George. George blinked and sat up straighter. “Whoa.”

“I know, right?” Barabas grinned.

Andrea leaned over. “Let me see. Not my type.” She leaned over to show Aunt B. Aunt B raised her eyebrows.

The picture went from hand to hand until I finally got it. Radomil was pretty. There was no other word for it. His hair, a rich golden blond, lay in waves on his head, framing a perfectly symmetrical face. A generous mouth stretched in a happy smile showing white teeth, a touch of stubble on the chin, high cheekbones, and glass-bottle-green eyes, framed in dense, dark blond eyelashes.

Curran looked over my shoulder and studied it with a perfectly neutral expression.

“Radomil’s older brother and sister pretty much run the pack,” Barabas said. “We don’t know very much about them. Look here.” He lifted another photo. Two parents and two grown sons, both handsome, dark-haired, hazel-eyed, with narrow faces, short haircuts, and clean-shaven square jaws.

“Gerardo and Ignazio Lovari, sons of Isabella and Cosimo Lovari. We’re interested in Gerardo.”

“No, dear,” Aunt B said. “We’re interested in Isabella. I’ve met her before. That woman rules Belve Ravennati. All of the Wild Beasts of Ravenna answer to her including her two sons. They’re a very disciplined pack. Mostly lupine and very acquisition-minded.”

“Try to remember their faces. All these people will be there,” Barabas said. “And that brings us to our lovely destination. We’re actually going to Abkhazia. It’s a disputed territory on the border between Russia and Georgia, and it’s directly across the Black Sea for everyone involved. Once every fifty or sixty years, Russia and Georgia have a war over it and it changes hands. The local pack is a werejackal pack, not large, but enough people to slaughter the lot of us. We don’t know anything about it. But we do know several things.” Barabas held up a finger. “One, the alpha couple will be the most likely target.”

Everyone looked in our direction. Curran smiled.

“That’s how I would do it,” Mahon said. “Split the alphas and you split the pack. If you do it right, the pack will turn on itself.”

Being a target didn’t thrill me, but it wouldn’t be the first time.

Barabas held up two fingers. “Two, they’ll try to reduce our numbers.”

“Buddy system,” Curran said. “Nobody goes anywhere without someone with them. Pick your buddy and stick with them.”

“Three.” Barabas raised three fingers. “Trust no one. I don’t know where they’ll put us, but we’ll have no privacy. Even if your rooms are empty, you can be sure that someone is listening to you breathe. Don’t discuss anything important unless you’re outside and you can see a mile around you.”

“And four,” Curran said. “We will be provoked on every turn. Collectively the three packs want us there. Individually, they don’t. The only reason they want an arbitration is that none of the packs is strong enough to take the other two. If two clans fight, the third will destroy the victor.”