Magic Strikes

CHAPTER 14

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.

“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 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.”

Oh boy.

“I disclose this fact to prevent any appearance of incompetence on my part. I deal in information. I’m expert at it. When I say that I don’t know what the Reapers are, I say it with all the weight of my professional expertise behind it.”

Jim laughed softly, displaying his white teeth in a wide smile.

Saiman inclined his head in an amicable bow. He may have gathered information about Jim, but he didn’t know him. Jim was a jaguar. He showed his teeth only to people he intended to kill. He wouldn’t kill him just yet, because we needed him, but one day when Saiman least expected it, he would find himself stalked by death from above.

And I would have absolutely nothing to do with any of it. “Back to the Reapers,” I said. “Do you know what they want?”

“That I can answer. They want the Wolf Diamond,” Saiman said.

I waited for him to elaborate but he just sipped his martini. He wanted to be prompted. Fine. I obliged. “What is the Wolf Diamond?”

“It’s a very large yellow topaz.”

“Why the name?” Jim asked.

Saiman pondered his martini. “It’s the precise shade of a wolf’s eye. The stone is bigger than my fist.”

A flashy prize. The topaz itself would be very valuable owing to its uniqueness, and the presence of the stone gave the tournament a nearly legendary flair: a contest between the mightiest warriors for a fabled gemstone and glory. In reality, it was a sick game, where lives were thrown away for the sake of soft bills. Glory? There was no glory in dying for somebody else’s money and glee.

“How did you acquire the stone?” Jim asked.

“It was bought by one of the House members and donated to reward the winner of the upcoming tournament. It’s an extravagant prize, in line with our current style. People who patronize our venue expect exotic.”

A topaz bigger than a man’s fist was certainly exotic. I searched my brain for any rudimentary gem lore. Topaz was one of the twelve apocalyptic stones protecting the New Jerusalem. Naturally yellow and expensive, it was rumored to have a cooling influence on one’s temper and to protect the wearer from nightmares. The generic “protection” property was the default setting for all precious stones—that was what people said when they had no clue what the stone did or when it had no mystic properties whatsoever. I made a mental note to find a gemology book and look up topaz.

“I’ve traced the history of the stone three owners back to a German family,” Saiman said. “It doesn’t appear to have exhibited any supernatural properties. There are a number of legends attached to it, a completely normal occurrence for a precious stone of this size. The predominant belief seems to be that the stone possesses virtue and can’t be sold or taken by force, but must be gifted or won, or it will bring death to the one who stole it. I’ve been unable to determine if that’s rubbish. The Reapers seem to feel the curse is true. They approached the House shortly after acquisition asking how they could obtain the stone. Given their propensity for violence, I expected them to attempt theft or burglary, but they have done neither.”

I frowned. “Since we know very little, identifying them would be the first step.”

“And how do you propose we do that?” Saiman arched an eyebrow and gave me a seductive smile. It failed both because he was Saiman and because he looked like a woman.

“Simple. We kill one.”

Saiman pondered this.

Talking through it was a piece of cake. Doing it would be a completely different matter.

“We know that the Reapers travel in packs, which makes them difficult to follow. We also know that they disappear into Unicorn Lane, which makes them difficult to track by scent and magic. However, we’re in possession of a tracking unit whose range covers the entire Lane. We kill a Reaper and plant a bug into his body. Once they leave, we track them to the exact spot in Unicorn and approach it at our leisure. We observe their headquarters. There are all sorts of interesting questions that can be answered. How many of them are there? How are they organized? Do they have guards? Are these guards human? How do they get food? What do they eat? Is there a crew that goes out to forage? Can we apprehend the foragers and”—tear them apart a shred at a time until the damn bastards tell me how to fix Derek—“and question them?”

“You seem sure you can kill a Reaper.” Saiman stared into his empty glass, seemingly amazed by the disappearance of his martini.

I thought of Derek dying slowly in the tub of green liquid. His bones broken, his face gone, his body hurting . . .

Saiman shifted in his love seat. “Kate, your sword seems to be emitting a vapor.”

I put a leash on myself. “Get me into the Pit. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“I would love to, but I can’t.” Saiman waved his arm in disgust. “The Reapers are scheduled for one final bout before the tournament, which is a team event. The bout has been advertised as Stone class. You don’t qualify.”

“I can do it,” Jim said.

Saiman shook his head. “As much as I would love to have the Pack’s chief of security in the Pit, you wouldn’t qualify either. Stone class means an extra-large fighter.”

True. Jim was never a heavyweight. Even in his half-form, he was lean, quick, and lethal, but not bulky.

“I do have a Stone fighter available.” Saiman smiled. “Me.”

That beating I had taken from the Pack must’ve done permanent damage to my hearing. “Me who?”

“Me as in myself.”

I squeezed my eyes shut.

“What are you doing?” Saiman asked.

“I’m counting to ten in my head.” It worked for Curran; surely it would work for me . . . Nope, not feeling any better.

I opened my eyes. “I kill on a regular basis. So please understand that I say this with the full weight of my professional expertise behind it: you’ve gone off the deep end. You’re enthusiastic but unskilled, and you lack the physical strength and reflexes needed to kill a Reaper. If you enter the Pit, you will die horribly and in great pain and I won’t be able to jump in there and pull you out.”

“You’ve never seen me fight in my original form.”

A vision of golden-haired Adonis dancing through the snow flashed before me. “Yes, but I saw you dance. Your original form, while devastating to horny women and gay men, isn’t likely to slay any Reapers. You’ll get your head bashed in and we’ll lose an opportunity to plant the bug.”

Saiman smiled, a thin stretching of lips without any humor. “That was not my original form.”

Touché. “In that case, I hope your original form is a two-headed dragon spitting fire.”

“Give me an opportunity to fail,” Saiman said. “I promise that my corpse won’t interrupt your ‘I told you so’ speech. The bout is tonight. May I count on the two of you to act as my crew?”

What choice did we have? “Fine.”

Saiman rose. “I’ll have to make a formal appearance for the first part of the evening. After the fight, provided we accomplish the actual kill, the Reapers will be grounded by the Red Guards for one hour to allow us a head start. The House doesn’t wish any friction between fighters outside the ring. That will give the two of you ample time to arrive in Unicorn and make the necessary preparations. I’ll stay the night in the Arena, in my private rooms, to recuperate.”

Or he would stay the night in the morgue. The thought hung in the air like a funeral shroud. None of us mentioned it.