Gunmetal Magic (51 page)

Above us Jim rounded the corner on the landing and came to a dead stop, obviously wondering if he could get away with turning on his foot and going back the way he’d come without our noticing. Curran turned to face him.

That’s right, you’re busted.

Jim sighed and headed toward us at a brisk pace.

Tall, his skin the color of rich coffee, and dressed all in black, Jim looked like he was carved from a block of solid muscle. Logic said that at some point he must’ve been a baby and then a child, but looking at him one was almost convinced that some deity had touched the ground with its scepter and proclaimed, “There shall be a badass,” and Jim had sprung into existence, fully formed, complete with clothes, and ready for action. He was the alpha of Clan Cat, the Pack’s chief of security, and Curran’s best friend.

He braked near us.

“Have you vetted the Wolves of the Isle yet?” Curran asked.

“No.”

“Who are the Wolves of the Isle?” I asked.

“It’s a small pack from the Florida Keys,” Curran said. “Eight people. They’re petitioning to join us and for some odd reason our security chief is dragging his feet on the background checks.”

Jim waved the stack of paper in his hand. “The security chief has two thefts, four murders, and an abandonment of post to deal with.”

“Murders?” I asked.

Jim nodded.

“I gave my word to the wolves,” Curran said.

“I’m not opposed to admitting them.” Jim spread his arms. “All I’m saying is let me make sure the people we have are safe before we add any more to them. By the way, Kate, did you review the Guild documents I sent you?”

Deflecting attention, are we?
I gave him my tough stare. It bounced off Jim like hail from the pavement. “Somewhat. I was busy.”

“See?” Jim pointed to me. “Your mate is doing the same thing I’m doing. Prioritizing.”

I would get him for this. Oh yes.

Curran looked at Jim. “Do you need my help with the background checks?”

A muscle in Jim’s face jerked. “No, I’ve got it.”

Ha! He didn’t want Curran in his hair either. “Don’t worry, he’s coming with me to investigate things.”

“In the city?” Jim asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s a great idea. You both should go. To the city.”

Curran and I looked at each other.

“He’s trying to get rid of us,” I said.

“You think he’s planning a coup?” Curran wondered.

“I hope so.” I turned to Jim. “Is there any chance you’d overthrow the tyrannical Beast Lord and his psychotic Consort?”

“Yeah, I want a vacation,” Curran said.

Jim leaned toward us and said in a lowered voice, “You couldn’t pay me enough. This is your mess, you deal with it. I have enough on my plate.”

He walked away.

“Too bad,” Curran said.

“I don’t know, I think we could convince him to seize the reins of power.”

Curran shook his head. “Nah. He’s too smart for that.”

We finally made it up the stairs, through the long hallway, up the second flight, and into our quarters. I dropped my bag down, shrugged out of my sword and scabbard and took a deep breath.
Aahh, home.

Generally, tackling someone from behind is very effective, because the person doesn’t know you’re coming. However, after being tackled a dozen times, the victim becomes accustomed to it. Which is why when Curran made a grab for me, I danced aside and tripped him. He grabbed my arm, then we did some rolling on the floor, and I ended up on top of him, our noses about an inch apart.

He grinned. “You’re jealous.”

I considered it. “No. But when you stared at that woman like she was made of diamonds, it didn’t feel very good.”

“I stared at her because she smelled strange.”

“Strange how?”

“She smelled like rock dust. Very strong dry smell.” Curran put his arms around me. “I love it when you get all fussy and possessive.”

“I never get fussy and possessive.”

He grinned, showing his teeth. His face was practically glowing. “So you’re cool if I go over and chat her up?”

“Sure. Are you cool if I go and chat up that sexy werewolf on the third floor?”

He went from casual and funny to deadly serious in half a blink. “What sexy werewolf?”

I laughed.

Curran’s eyes focused. He was concentrating on something.

“You’re taking a mental inventory of all the people working on the third floor, aren’t you?”

His expression went blank. I’d hit the nail on the head.

I slid off him and put my head on his biceps. The shaggy carpet was nice and comfortable under my back.

“Is it Jordan?”

“I just picked a random floor,” I told him. “You’re nuts, you know that?”

He put his arm around me. “Look who’s talking.”

We lay together on the carpet.

“We can’t let the necklace kill that boy,” I said.

“We’ll do everything we can.” He sighed. “I’m sorry about dinner.”

“Best date ever. Well, until people died and vampires showed up. But before that it was awesome.”

We lay there some more.

“We should go to bed.” Curran stretched next to me. “Except the carpet is nice and soft and I’m tired.”

“You want me to carry you?”

He laughed. “Think you can?”

“I don’t know. Do you want to find out?”

It turned out that carrying him to our bed wasn’t necessary. He got there on his own power and he wasn’t nearly as tired as he’d claimed to be.

Morning brought a call from Doolittle. When we arrived at the medward, Roderick was sitting on the cot, the same owlish expression on his face. The necklace had lost some of its yellow tint during the night. Now it looked slightly darker than orange rind.

I crouched by the boy. “Hi.”

Roderick looked at me with his big eyes. “Good morning.”

His voice was weak. In my mind the necklace constricted around his fragile neck. The bone crunched…

We had to get a move on. We had to get it off him.

Doolittle led us toward the door and spoke quietly. “There is a definite change in the color of the metal. He’s beginning to experience discomfort.”

“So that thing is getting hungry,” Curran said.

“Probably.” Doolittle held up a small printout. A pale blue stripe cut across the paper. The m-scan. The m-scanner recorded specific types of magic as different colors: purple for
the undead, green for shapeshifter, and so on. Blue stood for plain human magic—mages, telepaths, and telekinetics all registered blue. It was the basic human default.

“Is that the necklace or Roderick?” Curran asked.

“It’s the boy. He has power and it’s obscuring whatever magic signature the necklace is giving out.” Doolittle pointed to a point on the graph. I squinted. A series of paler sparks punctured the blue.

“This is probably the necklace,” Doolittle said. “It’s not enough to go on. We need a more precise measurement.”

We needed Julie. She was a sensate—she saw the colors of magic with more precision than any m-scanner. I stuck my head out into the hallway and called, “Could someone find my kid, please, and ask her to come down here?”

Five minutes later, Julie entered the medward. When I’d first found her, she’d been half-starved, skinny, and had had anxiety attacks if the protective layer of grime was removed from her skin. Now at fourteen, she had progressed from skinny to lean. Her legs and arms showed definition if she flexed. She was meticulously clean, but recently had decided that the invention of brushes was unnecessary and a waste of time, so her blond hair looked like a cross between a rough haystack and a bird’s nest.

I explained about the necklace. Julie approached the boy. “Hey. I’m going to look at the thing on your neck, okay?”

Roderick said nothing.

Julie peered at the metal. “Odd. It’s pale.”

“Pale yellow? Pale green?” Any tint was good.

“No. It looks colorless, like hot air rising from the pavement.”

Transparent magic. Now I had seen everything.

“There are very faint runes on it,” Julie said, “hard to make out. I’m not surprised you missed them,” she added.

“Can you read them?” Curran asked.

She shook her head. “It’s not any runic alphabet I was taught.”

Doolittle handed her a piece of paper and a pencil and she wrote five symbols on it. Runes, the ancient letters of Old Norse and Germanic alphabets, had undergone several changes over the years, but the oldest runes owed their straight
up-and-down appearance to the fact that historically they had to be carved on a hard surface: all straight lines, no curves, no tiny strokes. These symbols definitely fit that pattern, but they didn’t look like any runes I’d seen. I could spend a day or two digging through books, but Roderick didn’t have that long. We needed information fast.

Curran must’ve come to the same conclusion. “Do we know any rune experts?”

I tapped the paper. “I can make some calls. There is a guy—Dagfinn Heyerdahl. He used to be with the Norse Heritage Foundation.”

The Norse Heritage Foundation wasn’t so much about heritage as it was about Viking, in the most cliché sense of the word. They drank huge quantities of beer, they brawled, and they wore horned helmets despite all historical evidence to the contrary.

“Used to be?” Curran asked.

“They kicked him out for being drunk and violent.”

Curran blinked. “The Norse Heritage?”

“Mhm.”

“Don’t you have to be drunk and violent just to get in?” he asked. “Just how disorderly did he get?”

“Dagfinn is a creative soul,” I said. “His real name is Don Williams. He packs a lot of magic and if he could have gotten out of his own way, he would be running the Norse Heritage by now. He’s got a rap sheet as long as the Bible, all of it petty stupid stuff, and he’s the only merc I know who actually works for free, because he’s been fined so many times, it will take him years to get out of the Guild’s debt. About two years ago, he got piss-drunk, took off all of his clothes, and broke through the gates of a Buddhist meditation center on the South Side. A group of bhikkhunis, female monks, was deep in meditation on the grounds. He chased them around, roaring something about them hiding hot Asian ladies. I guess he mistook them for men, because of the robes and shaved heads.”

“And why didn’t anybody point out the error of his ways to this fool?” Doolittle asked.

“Perhaps because they are Buddhists,” Curran said. “Violence is generally frowned upon in their community. How did it end?”

“Dagfinn pulled a robe off one of the nuns and an elderly monk came up to him and hit him in the chest with the heel of his hand. Dagfinn did some flying and went through the monastery wall. Bricks fell on his face and gave him a quickie plastic surgery. Since the old monk had raised his hand in anger, he went into a self-imposed seclusion. He still lives near Stone Mountain in the woods. He was greatly revered and the monks got pissed off and went to see the Norse Heritage Foundation. Words were exchanged and the next morning the Foundation gave Dagfinn the boot. The neo-Vikings will know where he is. They kicked him out, but he’s still their boy.”

Curran nodded. “Okay, we’ll take the Jeep.”

“They don’t permit any technology past the fourteenth century
AD
in their territory. You’ll have to ride a horse.”

Curran’s face snapped into a flat Beast Lord expression. “I don’t think so.”

“You can jog if you want, but I’m getting a horse.”

A low rumble began in Curran’s throat. “I said we’ll take the Jeep.”

“And I said they will put an axe into your carburetor.”

“Do you even know what a carburetor is?” Curran asked.

I knew it was a car part. “That’s irrelevant.”

Doolittle cleared his throat. “My lord, my lady.”

We looked at him.

“Take it outside my hospital before you break anything.” It didn’t sound like a request.

A careful knock echoed through the door. A young woman stuck her head in. “Consort?”

What now? “Yes?”

“There is a vampire downstairs waiting to see you.”

The vampire sat on his haunches in the waiting room, an emaciated monstrosity. Vampires were nocturnal predators. Daylight burned their skin like fire, but the People had recently gotten around this restriction by applying their own patented brand of sunblock to their undead. It dried thick and came in assorted colors. This particular vampire sported a coat of bright lime-green. The sunblock covered the undead completely, every wrinkle, every crevice, every inch. The effect was vomit-inducing.

The vampire turned its head as I walked in, its eyes focusing on me with the intelligence of its navigator, sitting in an armored room miles away. The nightmarish jaws opened.

“Kate,” Ghastek’s dry voice said. “Curran. Good morning.”

“What are you doing here?” Curran asked.

The vampire folded itself, perching in the chair like some mummified cat. “I have a direct interest in determining the nature of that necklace. We have suffered great losses, we must account for them. Have you found a way to remove it?”

“No,” I said.

“So the boy’s life is still in jeopardy,” Ghastek said.

Thank you, Captain Obvious.