Magic Strikes (16 page)

biological explosion.”

His words sank in. “Derek might go loup.”

Doolittle nodded. “It is a definite possibility.”

“How definite?”

“I’d estimate a seventy-five percent chance of loupism.”

I rested my elbow on the table and put my forehead on my fist.

“If Curran becomes aware of the situation, and if Derek becomes a loup, Curran will have to kill him,”

Doolittle said. “It will be his duty as the Beast Lord. The rules of the Pack dictate that when a member of the Pack becomes a loup, it’s the duty of the highest alpha present to destroy them.”

God. For Curran, killing Derek would be like killing a son or a brother. He’d worked so hard to bring him out after Derek had teetered on the edge of loupism. To have him fall into insanity now would . . .

He’d have to kill him. He’d do it himself too, because it was his duty. It would be like me having to kill Julie.

Doolittle cleared his throat. “Curran has no family. He’s a survivor of a massacre. Mahon raised him, saving him in much the same way he saved Derek. Killing Derek will inflict severe psychological damage,” Doolittle said. “He will do it. He has never shunned his responsibilities and he wouldn’t want anyone else to bear the weight. He has been under a lot of pressure in this last year. He’s a Beast Lord, but in the end he’s only a man.”

In my head, I pictured Curran standing by Derek’s body. It was in my power to spare him that. Not for Jim’s sake, but for his own. You should never have to kill children you saved.

He would be furious. He’d rip Jim to pieces.

“He gave us three days,” I said. “If we don’t resolve this by the end of those three days, I’ll go to him. I’ll tell him. If Derek goes loup before that, I will kill him.”
Please, God, whoever you are, please don’t
make me do this.

“That’s my responsibility,” Jim said.

“No. Curran accepted an offer of assistance from the Order. That means that in the matters of this investigation, I outrank you. It’s my responsibility and I’ll take care of it.” I had three days. I could do a lot in three days.

Jim’s eyes flashed.

“Deal with it,” I told him and looked at Doolittle. “What would keep a shapeshifter from shifting?”

“Magic,” he said. “Very powerful magic.”

“Feeding comes first, mating second, and shape-changing is third. Hard to override it,” Jim ground out.

“But the Reapers did override it. They held the key to it. And they damn near obliterated Derek.” I clenched my teeth.

“Your sword’s smoking,” Doolittle murmured.

Thin tendrils of smoke snaked from Slayer in my sheath, the saber feeding on my anger.

“Nothing to worry about.” I drummed my fingertips on the table. “I could possibly manage to take the Reapers into custody. But I have no reason to hold them. First, we have no proof they took out Derek.”

“They would smell of his blood,” Jim said.

“So do I. There was enough of his blood in that plaza to stain anyone who came into contact with it.

That’s not enough. Did you m-scan the scene?”

“Blue and green across the board.” Jim shrugged in disgust.

The m-scan recorded the colors of residual magic. Blue stood for human and green stood for shapeshifter. It told us absolutely nothing. Maybe if I prayed to Miss Marple, she’d hook me up with a clue . . .

“Another problem with bringing them in,” I said, “is the Games themselves. Let’s say I bring them in. I’ll have to ask questions like ‘What were you doing in that plaza?’ If they admitted to being a team in the Games, I’d have to follow up on it. I can’t just ignore the existence of an underground gladiatorial tournament. The cops, Order, and MSDU have to know the Games are going on. The fact that they take place at all means a lot of money and influence are backing them up.”

Jim nodded. “You’d get shut down before the investigation ever hits the ground.”

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And that was why I liked working with Jim. He didn’t waste any time on calling me a coward, on baiting me, and suggesting I was afraid of the pressure. He understood that if the powers that be came to bear on me, the investigation would become difficult and my progress would be slower than molasses in January. He simply acknowledged it and moved on to the next possible avenue. No angst, no bullshit, no drama.

“So officially, we both can do nothing,” I said.

“Yeah.”

Doolittle just shook his head and ate his hush puppies.

“I take it we’ll have to fight in the Games to get to the Reapers.”

“Yeah.”

“How come you never invite me to the easy jobs?” I asked him.

“I like to challenge you,” he said. “Keeps you on your toes.”

I leaned forward and drew a line across the tablecloth with my finger. “Unicorn Lane. Thirty-two blocks long and ten blocks wide. Long and narrow.” It used to be thirty blocks long and eight blocks wide, but the flare boosted it and Unicorn grew, swallowing more of the city. “As I understand it, the Reapers go in there and vanish. And your guys can’t track them down.”

“Your point?”

“You remember the firebird capture from the summer two years ago? Half of Chatham County was burning and the bird smelled like smoke. You couldn’t track it and it burned through every trap we had.”

And he had been pissed off as hell about it, too.

Jim frowned. “I remember. We baited it with a dead possum that had a tracker in it.”

“Can you get your hands on a tracker like the one we stuck into the possum?”

“It can be done.”

“What’s the maximum range of the tracker?”

“Twenty-five miles, if the tech is strong.”

I smiled. More than enough to cover Unicorn Lane.

JIM SCOWLED AT SAIMAN’S DOOR. “THE PERVERT,” he said.

“He prefers to think of himself as a sexual deviant.”

“Semantics.”

We’d talked our plan over on the way through the city. It wasn’t a great plan, but it was a slight improvement over my usual “go and annoy everyone involved until somebody tries to kill you.” Now I just had to sell my snake oil to Saiman.

Saiman opened the door. He wore a tall, thin platinum blonde, long of leg and decorated with a sneer.

Jim bristled. If he had been furry, his hackles would’ve risen.

Most people confronted with two armed thugs on their doorstep would pause to assess the situation.

Especially if one of those two had threatened to kill you five hours earlier if you didn’t give her a horse, and the other was a six-foot-tall man with glowing green eyes who wore a fur-edged cloak, carried a shotgun, and looked as if he lived to grind people’s faces into brick walls. But Saiman merely nodded and stepped aside. “Come in.”

We came in. I sat on his sofa. Jim assumed a standing position behind and slightly to the left of me, with his arms crossed on his chest. Soft music layered with a techno beat played in the background. Saiman made no offer to turn it off.

“I’ve returned your horse,” I told him. “It’s downstairs with the guards.” Jim had brought a spare mount for me.

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“Keep it. I have no need of one. Would you like something to drink?”

And risk another ultimate luxury lecture? Let me think . . . “No, thank you.”

“Anything for you?” Saiman glanced at Jim, saw the Stare of Doom, and decided safety had its advantages over courtesy. “Pardon me while I get something for myself. I think better with a glass in my hand.”

He made a martini and came to sit on the love seat, crossing one impossibly long leg over the other and flashing me with his cleavage
. Yes, yes, your boobies are nice. Settle down.

“How did it go with the Reapers?” I asked.

Saiman glanced at Jim. “Less than satisfactory.”

“The Order has a certain interest in the Reapers.” Technically that was true. I was an agent of the Order and I had an interest in the Reapers. I had an interest in killing every last one of them in an inventive and painful way.

“Oh?” Saiman arched an eyebrow, once again copying me.

“More to the point, I have a personal stake in this matter. I want the Reapers eliminated.”

Saiman’s gaze probed me. “Why? Does it have anything to do with your young friend?”

I saw no point in lying. “Yes, it does.”

Saiman saluted me with his glass. “I find personal motives to be best.”

He would, the selfish bastard.

“So what do you need from me?” he asked.

“I propose a partnership.” I was getting better at this game. I didn’t quite throw up in my mouth as I said that. One small victory at a time. “You want the Reapers out. So does the Pack, and so do I. We join forces. You provide access to the Games. We provide the muscle.”

“I’m to be an opportunity while you will be the means?”

I nodded. “We share information and resources to accomplish a common goal. Think of it as a business arrangement.” The business angle would appeal to him.

Saiman leaned forward, very intent. “Why should I work with you? Just how badly do you want this, Kate?”

A low warning growl reverberated in Jim’s throat.

I leaned back and swung one leg over the other, mimicking his pose. “You need us more than we need you. I can flash my ID, walk into the Midnight Games, and make myself a giant pain in the ass. I’m very good at that.”

“I have no doubt,” Saiman murmured.

“I’ll shine a big searchlight onto the Games and the Reapers in particular. Sooner or later they’ll develop a burning desire to kill me, and Jim here will help me slaughter them one by one. He has a big axe to grind. Meanwhile, the attendance to the Games drops, House profits plummet, and you lose money.”

I gave him a smile. I was aiming for sweet, but he turned a shade paler and scooted a bit farther from me.

Note to self: work more on sweet and less on psycho-killer.

“Since you don’t wish to work with us, you’ll have to hire some muscle to assist you with the Reaper issue. As the parking lot incident showed, they’re all about loading you on the first available train to the afterlife. You require protection, which will cost you a lot of trouble and money—judging by Mart, you must employ top talent if you wish to keep breathing. After the Reapers help a couple of your bodyguards find their wings and halos, you’ll have to hire replacements, only now you’ll enjoy the reputation of a man whose bodyguards die. Prices will shoot up into the stratosphere and the quality of employees will drop. Despite popular misconceptions, most bodyguards aren’t suicidal. So you see, you need us more than we need you. We’ll kill the Reapers one way or the other. We don’t really care. We work for revenge, not for money.”

Saiman studied me as if he saw me for the first time. “This is a side of you I’m unfamiliar with.”

It was the side of me I used to settle disputes between the Guild and the Order, which was technically my job. I rose. “Think about it. You know my number.”

“Is there a method to your madness?” Saiman asked.

“You’ll have to shake on it to find out.” Since I trusted him about as far as I could throw him, I would’ve
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preferred to have his signature in blood on a magically binding contract, but I’d take a shake. Provided he didn’t spit into his hand first.

I took exactly three steps toward the door before he said, “We have a deal.”

“HERE IS WHAT I KNOW,” I SAID. SOME OF IT CAME from Jim and some of it I had put together. “The Reapers entered the picture approximately two months ago. Most of them are certified as human and have passed the m-scan with flying colors.”

“Blue across the board.” Saiman’s face dripped distaste.

“But the Reapers aren’t exactly human. We’ve established that. However, because they fight as

‘normals,’ initially the House gave long odds in their favor. They were an unproven commodity and most humans fighting against a shapeshifter or a vamp will typically lose. The Reapers cost the House a great deal of money, correct?”

Saiman confirmed it with a short nod. “Yes. There are also other reasons for their ‘humanity.’ You see, to participate in the tournament, the team must consist of seven members, at least three of whom have to be human or a human derivative, such as a shapeshifter. Without three humans, they wouldn’t be able to enter the tournament.”

“So to sum up: you don’t know what they are, how they’re tricking the m-scanner, or where they go when they leave the Games?”

“No.” Saiman wrinkled his nose in distaste, a distinctly female gesture that fit the blonde to a T.

“Not very useful, are you?” Jim said.

Thank you for your help, Mr. Diplomacy.

Saiman glanced at him. “Twenty-one years ago, on April twenty-third, you killed the man who murdered your father while they had been incarcerated. You nailed your father’s killer to the floor with a crowbar through his stomach, and then you dismembered him. The coroner estimated he took over three hours to die. His name was David Stiles. You were never charged with the crime.”