Magic Triumphs

CHAPTER 14

I HUNG UP the phone and gave it an evil stare. It didn’t squeak and flee to hide under the kitchen table. A pity.

The light of the morning shone through the windows. The last half of my morning coffee was slowly cooling in my favorite mug. The house was quiet.

Last night we’d gotten in, collected our son from Martha, did the bare minimum necessary to maintain personal hygiene, and passed out, all three of us in our huge bed. I’d had a nightmare that tech hit during the night and ripped Curran apart. I’d woken up in a cold sweat. It took several minutes of Curran holding me for my body to let go of the panicked feeling.

Once we got up, George came and collected Conlan and we split up. Curran went to George’s to make Conclave phone calls, and I made mine from our house. I hadn’t wanted him to leave. The magic had held through the night. The tech could hit at any minute, yet he acted like nothing was wrong. Nobody knew how much of him was human and how much was god at this point, and my aunt was still out of touch. But spending the entire day clutching at my husband to make sure he didn’t disappear wasn’t an option. We had to pull the Conclave together, and getting all of the Atlanta bigwigs into one spot was like pulling teeth, only a lot less fun.

The phone rang.

“This is Amy from Sunshine Realty . . .”

“Take me off your calling list, or I will find you and make you regret it.” I hung up. Great. I’d graduated to threats now. What kind of sadistic asshole calls the same number twenty damn times in the space of a week pestering strangers to sell their house?

I drank my coffee. This was the first moment I had gotten to myself in days. I remembered I had a great deal of things to sort out, but hadn’t gotten the chance to do it while they were happening, and now I just couldn’t muster any energy.

Curran was now a theophage, like Christopher, only far more gone. He had eaten six manifestations of various animal gods. Only time would tell if he survived the tech shift. Thinking about it was like having your neck exposed and waiting for the axe to fall.

Julie disappeared after Rowena’s rescue. I’d called around to Derek and the Guild, and the last time anyone had seen her, she was driving away from Kings Row at top speed. She would be back. If she went somewhere, she usually had a good reason for it.

A dragon was about to invade the city. A dragon whose brother had slaughtered most of my family. When I finally told Erra, she would go through the roof. She must’ve suspected a dragon was involved, but I doubt she’d guessed he and our ancient enemy were related. That conversation would go well, I just knew it.

We had to convince the city that a dragon was invading without any evidence.

And my father was still going on the offensive.

I felt like there wasn’t enough of me to go around.

At least Rowena was still alive. I’d done something right.

Someone knocked on the door. I walked over and opened it.

Saiman stood on my doorstep, carrying a large Tiffany-style lamp, the kind that would fit on a side table, in one hand and a duffel bag in the other.

“Did you abandon your life of wealth and intellectual brilliance and decide to sell lamps door to door?”

“Hilarious,” he said. “I may have a way to communicate with the Suanni.”

I stepped aside, let him in, and locked the door behind him.

“Is this more from the David Miller collection?” I asked.

David Miller was a magical version of an idiot savant. A cruel jest of nature or fate, he couldn’t use magic at all, but every object he’d handled during his lifetime had acquired some sort of random power. Saiman had spent a fortune acquiring Miller’s possessions after the man’s death.

“No,” Saiman said. “Where is he?”

“In the basement. Let me go first.”

I led the way. Adora glanced up from her book, gave Saiman a derisive look, and went back to her reading.

Saiman set the lamp on the side table by Yu Fong and paused, studying him.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Quite a remarkable face,” Saiman said.

Somewhere in my future, if I had one, Saiman would show up wearing Yu Fong’s face. Ugh.

Saiman knelt, unzipped the duffel, and extracted a roll of fabric, wrapped in plastic. He untied the knot and hauled out a small rug, which he placed on the floor. The old rug must’ve been vibrant at some point, but now the blues and reds of the blooms twisting across it had faded to near beige. Saiman took a tealight candle from the duffel and put it on the table, next to the lamp. Finally, he produced a small box.

“Hold out your hand.”

I offered my palm to him. He opened the box and shook a radiant amethyst into my hand. As big as a walnut, the stone pulsed with brilliant color.

“Don’t let go, or you’ll break the spell.” Saiman pulled a box of matches out. “This lamp came from Cunningham Hospital, a facility in New England that specialized in the treatment of coma patients. Countless people sat by its light and wished with every drop of their being for just one more chance to speak to their loved ones.”

All of that energy, all the love, grief, and sadness poured into the light of one lamp. So much desperation wrapped in it.

“Will it hurt him?” I asked.

“The lamp won’t wake him from the coma. But if everything goes well, we can communicate with him. The tea light will burn at an accelerated rate. We’ll have about five minutes. Ready?”

“Ready.”

Saiman lit the candle. The lamp came on with a click. The cord was right there, wrapped around it. It wasn’t plugged in, yet it glowed with a familiar electric light.

“Yu Fong?” I asked, the amethyst cold in my hand.

“Yes . . .” a clear male voice answered.

“This is Kate Lennart. You’re in a coma in my house. You’re safe.”

“I’m aware of my surroundings,” he said.

Okay then. “Is there anything we can do to help you?”

“The healing I require is beyond the capabilities of a human. Ask your questions. You’re wasting time.”

The candle was melting before my eyes. He was right. I had to get to the point. “Tell me about the dragon who attacked you.”

“He’s insane. We are an old species. There are traditions. Rules of conduct. One doesn’t just blindly attack another dragon without provocation.”

“How large was he?” Saiman asked.

“I’ve never seen one that large. Even my oldest brother can’t match him.”

“How can we kill him?” I asked.

“How much do you know about the dragon realms?” Yu Fong asked.

“A dragon realm is a pocket in reality,” Saiman said. “A fold in the fabric of space, where time and physical constraints have different meaning. Frequently, it is hidden in a place that one has to enter: a cave, a palace, a gorge, somewhere two separate spaces meet and a boundary exists between the two.”

Look at Saiman go. “A place one can’t enter except by invitation from the dragon,” I added. “As long as a visitor doesn’t consume anything, the dragon won’t be able to injure them.”

“But what makes the pocket?” Yu Fong asked. “What keeps it closed?”

“I don’t know,” I told him.

“An anchor. Every dragon has one. It is an object of great value to them. It can be a sword, a book, a poem on a scroll, something we treasure beyond everything else. We pour our power into it. We sleep with it, we lick it, we bathe it in our blood and in our magic. We keep it close. True, time doesn’t affect us the same way within our lairs, but time still matters. The more time that passes in the outer world, the stronger the anchor. It is the linchpin on which the entire realm revolves. A dragon as old as that insane asshole would have an anchor of overwhelming power. He can call on it anywhere and it will bring him home.”

Shit.

“We can’t kill him,” Saiman said. “Unless we somehow manage an instant death, he will call to the anchor and retreat to his realm.”

“Yes,” Yu Fong said.

Crap. Crap, crap, crap. “Can we destroy the anchor?”

“It’s an object of great power. If you were somehow to destroy it, the realm would collapse upon you.”

That didn’t sound good.

“You have a book,” Yu Fong said. “About small people. They go to the lair of the dragon and they steal his an—”

The candle went out.

“Small people?” I asked.

Saiman shook his head.

“Can we do another session?” I asked.

“Not now. We’ll have to wait at least twenty-four hours.”

I sighed.

“At least we have confirmation from an independent source,” Saiman offered.

“Fat good it will do us.” There were people at the Conclave who would insist the dragon was fake while he roasted them with his breath.

Nothing was ever easy.

“A DRAGON?” NICK peered at me from across the table.

The three knights from Wolf Trap had arranged themselves behind him. Knight-striker Cabrera looked at me like I was a spitting cobra. Her hand kept going to her sword sheath, but weapons were forbidden at the Conclave, so her fingers found only air. I could relate.

“Did I stutter?” I drank my coffee. I had outlined the events in Kings Row and my conversation with Neig.

Around the table, concerned faces frowned.

We had tried our best to get everyone together in the morning, but by the time we managed to wrangle the powers of Atlanta into Rivers Steakhouse, it was eight o’clock at night. Normally we met at Bernard’s, on neutral territory, but we needed privacy, and Bernard’s had upscale clientele and had declined to close for the night to accommodate us. Rebecka Rivers shut down her restaurant, posted a member of the kitchen staff at the door, and gave us as much coffee as we wanted, which made me want to hug her. The urge was disturbing.

Everyone who was anyone was here. Nick and the Order across from us; Jim, Dali, Robert, and Desandra to the right of them; Ghastek, Rowena, swaddled into a cloak, the hood over her face, and Ryan Kelly, every inch a businessman except for his bright purple Mohawk; the Red Guard; the Mage College; the witches, represented by Evdokia with two younger women, both of whom were probably her daughters; the volhvs, thin, gaunt Grigorii, his brother Vasiliy, who worshipped Belobog, and Roman; Teddy Jo and two others representing the neo-pagans; Saiman, representing himself; and Luther, representing Biohazard. Even the Druids came, Drest in a pristine white robe, solemn and dignified. His gaze caught mine. Yeah, yeah, no matter how well you clean up, I still saw you running around in animal skins in the woods with your body painted blue.

“So, let me get this straight,” Nick said.

Here we go. “I wish you would.”

“You’re saying that a dragon is about to invade us from a magical pocket dimension with his army.”

“Yes.”

“And he wants you to be his queen.”

“Yes.”

“And, correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re technically a princess, are you not?”

Jumping on the table and punching him in the face would be counterproductive to building a coalition.

“Yes.”

Next to me, Curran turned slightly, looking at Nick. I didn’t have to glance at his face to know his eyes had gone gold.

Nick looked to the rest of the table. “Okay, what we have here, ladies and gentlemen, is a Dungeons and Dragons campaign. The evil dragon wants to steal our princess for nefarious purposes, and she’s looking for some knights in shining armor to rescue her.”

Nervous laughter ran across the table.

“Are you done?” I asked.

“No, I’m just getting started. Have you actually seen this dragon in his dragon form?”

“No.”

“What makes you think it’s a dragon?” Phillip from the Mage College asked.

“I’ve been given information by a pagan faction that states he is.”

“Which faction?” Robert asked.

The druids looked perfectly innocent. Nope, no help there.

“A pagan faction that wishes to remain anonymous.”

“I can vouch for this,” Roman said. “I was there.”

“You married them, and you’re related to her through her mother,” Nick said. “You’re not exactly a neutral party.”

The volhvs looked like they’d been slapped in the face with a fish.

“Are you questioning my son’s word?” Grigorii thundered.

Nick opened his mouth.

“We also have confirmation from Yu Fong,” Saiman said. “Obtained through magical means.”

Phillip glanced at him. “Let me guess, magical means that only you can replicate that cannot be examined by us at this time because of some technicality?”

“What are you implying?” Saiman asked, his voice icy.

“The dragon,” Curran said, his voice cutting others off.

“Yes, the dragon,” Nick said. “Has anyone actually seen this dragon?”

“Do you have any evidence of it?” Phillip asked. “Scales, claws . . .”

Rowena lowered her hood. Phillip fell silent.

“Our condolences on your suffering,” Robert said. “May I ask some questions?”

“Go ahead.”

“Kings Row is outside the People’s patrol routes. What were you doing there?”

“I was going to visit a friend. I was there on my own time and had taken one vampire with me for personal security.”

“What sort of friend?” Robert pressed.

“Is that really relevant?” Ghastek asked.

Rowena raised her hand. “I’ll answer. One of my journeymen died. He left behind a pregnant fiancée. I was fond of him and I occasionally look in on her and her daughter.”

“Were you able to visit with them?”

“No. She’d had a family emergency and went to see her family out of state. She’d left a note for me with a neighbor.”

At least she and her daughter had survived.

“What happened next?” Robert asked.

“When I stepped out of the neighbor’s house, there was an army on the street.”

You could hear a pin drop.

“There were warriors,” she said. “They wore full armor and they were killing people on the streets. The corrupted creatures served them like dogs. They ran into the houses and pulled the people out.”

“What did you do?” Robert asked.

“I am a Master of the Dead.” A cold fire flared in her eyes. “I did what I do. I killed as many as I could. Eventually my vampire and I were surrounded. I realized that I wouldn’t escape, so I sent my undead into In-Shinar’s territory. The warriors then dragged me down the street.”

And while they did that, she’d pushed her vampire as far as it could go and made provisions to secure it, so it wouldn’t slaughter anyone. And when a yeddimur chased her undead, she used her vampire to trap it. Ghastek’s team had recovered it and secured it in the Casino.

“I secured the vampire to avoid further bloodshed,” Rowena said.

I’d asked her where the pike in the vampire had come from. She didn’t know.

“What happened next?” Robert asked.

“Fire.”

We waited.

“Fire?” Jim prompted.

“A torrent of fire from the sky. When I woke up, I was encased in a pillar of molten glass.”

“And yet, here you are, unburned,” Nick said.

That was just about enough. “We were all there,” I said. “We all saw it. I had to call my father to get her out of it.”

The knight-protector leaned forward. “And there it is. All this time you’ve been giving lip service to how you’re getting ready to fight your father, and the moment things turned sour, you ran to Daddy.”

I would kill him.

“She ran to Daddy because the life of her friend mattered to her,” Curran said. “Just as the lives of all of you matter to her. And because she has enough brains to realize that Neig made this elaborate trap to prove to everyone that we couldn’t match his magic with ours. Now he knows we can.” He raised his hand and counted off on his fingers. “She killed his creatures and rescued Yu Fong. She killed his champion. She neutralized his magic and returned life to Kings Row. Has the Order made any progress in identifying the cause of the transformation in the body we sent you?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Nick told him.

“It’s a yes-or-no question, Feldman,” Curran said. “Yes or no?”

Everyone looked at Nick.

“No,” he said.

Ha! “Was the Order able to pinpoint the origin of the magic or find any other similar cases?”

“No,” Nick said.

“So, you have nothing to bring to this discussion,” I said. “You’re going to sit there and bitch and moan and push your private vendetta. Here is a thought; if I’m a princess, you’re a knight, Nick. It’s in your title. Knight-protector. How about you put on your shining armor and do some protecting against this dragon instead of relying on the princess to do your dirty work?”

Nick leaned forward. “You’re asking me to accept a mythical creature that nobody has seen for hundreds of years and which requires too much magic to survive invading us with his magical army. There is a simpler explanation.”

“I’d love to hear it.”

“It’s your father.”

The People and the Guild representatives collectively groaned.

“Will you stop?” I growled at him. “Just stop, Nick! Stop! It’s not Roland.”

“How do you know? There are two possibilities: either he is orchestrating this, or you are complicit in his machinations.”

“Shut up!” Rowena snapped at him.

“He has a point,” Phillip yelled. “There is no evidence of this supposed dragon. It is a magical impossibility. In fact, I wrote a paper—”

“Your paper was hogwash,” Luther cut in.

“Precisely,” Saiman added.

“I am the Grand Magus. I won’t be spoken to like this!”

The table erupted in screams.

“I’ll speak to you however I please!” Luther shot back.

“You’re a loose cannon, Luther!” Phillip shook his finger at him.

“It’s Dr. Loose Cannon to you!”

“Evidence!” Nick raised his voice, trying to out scream the others. “You have no evidence, no armor from these warriors, no scales, no evidence!”

“Tell them!” Grigorii pointed at Drest.

“Tell them what?” Drest asked.

“You know what,” Grigorii yelled.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Drest shouted.

“Coward!” Grigorii spat.

“Senile fool!”

The druids and the volhvs banged their staffs on the floor, glaring at each other.

“We need to wake Yu Fong!” Phillip yelled. “He has actually seen the creature. We can ask him directly.”

“Over my dead body!” Dali snapped.

Everyone on the Pack side looked outraged.

On one side, Evdokia sighed and rolled her eyes. At the other end, Desandra clapped her hands over the cacophony, chanting, “Fight, fight, fight . . .”

I turned to Curran. “Do the roar thing.”

He shook his head. “Not yet. Let them scream themselves out.”

The front door burst open. Hugh d’Ambray strode inside, huge in a cloak and the black armor of the Iron Dogs. A beautiful woman followed him. She wore a blue dress and her hair was unnaturally white.

I’d left my sword in the parking lot. That was okay. I’d take him apart with my bare hands.

Julie squeezed in behind them.

My mind took a second to process the fact that Julie wasn’t trying to stab him in the back. In fact, she looked like she . . . Like they came in together. Like she went and got him.

Why me? Why? I couldn’t take much more of this; I really couldn’t.

D’Ambray raised a big bag and emptied it over the table. Metal clattered onto the wood: a skull in a helmet, a pair of daggers, amulets, photographs of Pictish symbols tattooed on human skin. I suppose I should be grateful he didn’t dump a rotting corpse on us.

The table went completely silent.

“I’ve come to help you with your dragon problem,” he said.

Nick turned the color of an eggplant. Next to me, Curran had gone completely still.

“Well?” Hugh grinned. “Don’t all of you thank me at once.”

The white-haired woman smiled and gave us a little wave. “Please excuse him. He forgets about manners sometimes. My name is Elara. You may know me as the White Warlock. I’ve heard so much about you. It’s so nice to meet all of you. I’m Hugh’s wife.”

The world stood on its hands and kicked me in the face.

HUGH D’AMBRAY HAD a wife. He owned a castle. He lived in the middle of Kentucky’s wilderness. They’d first encountered Neig’s troops over a year ago. They’d fought them and developed some strategies. He was glad to share those strategies with us. He had no doubt that Neig was a dragon. He could field three hundred of his Iron Dogs and personally lead them to assist us with this fight. He regretted he couldn’t field more, but he’d had to leave a force to guard the castle. In return, he expected the city of Atlanta to help him with some herb sales.

Herb sales.

I sat and listened to all of it as if I were under water. It didn’t seem real. It was so bizarre, my brain refused to digest it.

His wife was the White Warlock. I’d caught Evdokia’s glance once or twice. She didn’t seem shocked. The witches had known. Julie wouldn’t even look at me. They came in together. She went and got him.

Maybe he’s married and living happily in some castle somewhere.

She had known where he was, and she didn’t tell me.

I realized the room was silent. Everyone was looking at me, including d’Ambray. He must’ve asked me a question.

I took a stab in the dark. “I need to think about it.”

“We should adjourn,” Ghastek said.

“Great idea!” Phillip reached toward the pile of armor on the table.

“No!” Luther slapped his hand away.

“Do not touch me.”

“This is the best evidence we have so far!” Luther said. “You’re not getting your paws on it.”

“It’s not,” Saiman said, turning to Ghastek. “He has a live specimen.”

Luther and Phillip swiveled to Ghastek. Luther opened his mouth and struggled to form words, but nothing came out.

“He’s had it for twenty-four hours and he didn’t notify anyone,” Saiman snitched.

“The yeddimur is the property of the People,” Ghastek said.

The three experts screeched in unison, like they had suddenly turned into harpies.

“Enough,” Curran roared.

Silence claimed the table.

I turned to Luther. “You’re the leading expert on infectious magic.” I looked at Ghastek. “You’re the leading expert on magic virus–induced transformations.” I turned to Saiman. “You have a wide variety of expert knowledge across several fields.” I glanced at Phillip. “You’re a professional skeptic terrified for your reputation. Work together.”

Ghastek looked taken aback. “You want me to . . .”

“Share,” I said.

He blinked.

“Work together. Publish a joint paper afterward if you want, I don’t care. Just get me something we can use.”

Curran rose to his feet. I got up and we walked out.

Behind me, Hugh murmured, “That went well.”

“Give them time,” Elara said.

“Steed,” Hugh said.

I stopped. One wrong word to Christopher and I would murder him. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Barabas. His eyes had gone bright red.

“You’ve survived,” Christopher said.

“You know what they say about me. Hard to kill. I have some things to apologize for.”

“Come by the house,” Christopher said. “303 Forest Lane. We’ll talk.”

I forced myself to resume walking.

Curran and I got into the Jeep. I chanted at the engine until it turned over, and we drove out of the parking lot. It had rained while we were inside. The city seemed annoyed, like a cat who’d gotten wet.

“Am I crazy?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

“That did just happen?”

“It did.”

“Julie went and got him after Kings Row.”

“It appears so.”

The city rolled past us.

“He walks up to Christopher and says ‘hi,’ and Christopher says, ‘Come by my house’?”

Curran didn’t answer.

“He put Christopher into a cage and nearly starved him to death, and now it’s all forgive and forget?”

“I didn’t forget,” Curran said, his face grim. “I remember Mishmar.”

I’d almost died in Mishmar, because Hugh had teleported me there and tried to starve me into compliance.

“I remember Aunt B,” I said.

Curran didn’t say anything.

“What the hell did he ask me?” I asked.

“If you would accept his help.”

“I feel like I’ve gone nuts.”

“Join the club,” he said.

He braked, thrusting his arm in front of me. The vehicle screeched to a stop.

“What is it?”

“Look.”

Straight ahead a large post-Shift building sat on the corner of the city block. The lights were on and in the glow, I could see people sitting at the desks, phones to their ears. It had to be almost ten o’clock. Who would be calling anyone at this hour . . .

My brain finally noticed the sign illuminated by the feylanterns: SUNSHINE REALTY.

I turned to Curran. “Can we? Can we please?”

My husband’s eyes flared with gold. “Oh yes.”

We left the car running and headed to the door.

“The whole body or just the head?” he asked, cracking his knuckles.

“Just the head.” I pulled magic to me. “Freakier that way.”

Curran tried the door and swung it open for me. Oh goody. Unlocked. I walked in. My husband followed.

A young blond woman looked up at us from her desk. “Hi, there. My name is Elizabeth. Are you here to sell your house?”

“Elizabeth, is the owner in?”

“He is!” She put an extra spoonful of sugar into her voice.

“Can you get him for us?” I asked.

“Who should I say is here?”

“Tell him it’s Kate Lennart.” The first pulse of my magic shook the building. “Daughter of Nimrod.” A stronger pulse. People looked up from their desks. “Blood Blade of Atlanta and her husband, the God-King Curran Lennart.”

The whole building resonated, as if someone had struck a giant gong.

Curran’s human face broke and a monstrous lion head appeared on his shoulders. My husband roared.

WHEN WE GOT home, Curran went to Derek’s house and I went across the street. George opened the door and held her finger to her lips. I snuck after her upstairs.

“Where have you been?” George whispered. “Derek said the Conclave broke up an hour ago.”

“We had to make a stop.” We didn’t kill anybody. After Curran roared, everyone cleared out and then we had a discussion with the owner about appropriate phone marketing etiquette, calling hours, and the meaning of “take us off your calling list.” He walked away on his own power without a scratch on him, but I was confident the unwanted calls would stop.

Conlan was in his room, asleep on the bed. Martha lay next to him, curled up around my son.

“Let Mom have him tonight,” George said. “She lost him yesterday. She needs this.”

I didn’t want to leave him. I wanted to pluck him out of the bed, take him home, and snuggle with him to reassure myself he was okay. But he was asleep and so was Martha. I escaped the house without waking anyone.

As I crossed the street, I saw wet tire marks leading up Christopher and Barabas’s dry driveway. The lights were on.

I should wait. It was late. Even by shapeshifter standards.

No, screw it. I marched to the house and knocked on the front door.

Barabas opened it and stepped aside. “It’s for you.”

Christopher walked out of the kitchen, a cup of tea in his hands. He was barefoot and wearing sweatpants and a simple dark T-shirt. His eyes were clear—no hint of Deimos—and his pale hair framed his face like a silk curtain. “Come in. Tea?”

“No.”

“I’ll get you some chamomile,” Barabas said. “You look like you need it.”

“Right now, I’d have to drown in calming tea for it to do any good.”

“I’ll fix you a cup.” Barabas went into the kitchen.

I slipped my shoes off, walked into the living room, and sat on the sofa. Christopher sat in a big blue chair. There was a quiet elegance about Christopher, even when he slumped barefoot in a chair.

“Go ahead,” he said.

“He put you in a cage. He starved you for weeks. You were covered in filth. I don’t know of any person, aside from Raphael, who has the right to want to kill him more than you. And you invited him to your house. Help me understand this.”

Christopher looked into his cup. “Do you want to kill him?”

I sighed. “No. I don’t. I should, because his centurion killed Aunt B, because he broke Curran’s legs, and because of Mauro. Curran probably will kill him given a chance. But right now, all I want is to understand you.”

“Hugh kidnapped you and starved you nearly to death. Why don’t you want to kill him?”

“Because I met my father. I’ve trained all my life to murder him, and when we met, I put it aside. My father has the impact of a supernova. He had Hugh since he was a small child. He shaped and molded him, and Hugh had no defenses against that. It was never a fair fight. My father bears a lot of responsibility for Hugh d’Ambray. That said, Hugh is a butcher.”

“He is,” Christopher said.

Barabas came over and handed me a cup of steaming chamomile tea. “Drink.”

I took a sip. He landed in a leather chair, pulled a folder from a bag next to it, and began reading the contents, pen in hand.

I drank my tea. We sat in silence for a couple of long minutes. I exhaled. The world settled down.

“Fine,” I said finally, setting the cup on the side table. “Tell me about Hugh d’Ambray.”

Christopher smiled. It was a small smile, tinged with regret. “The first time I realized something was off, I had just been made Tribunus, second in command after Morgan, who was Legatus of the Golden Legion at the time. We were in Boston: your father, Morgan, Hugh, and I. Roland wanted to meet with a senator about matters of magical policy. The meeting went well. We were planning to leave in the morning. A hospital across the street from the hotel caught on fire. Hundreds of burn victims, mostly children. D’Ambray went down there. He healed for hours. By morning, he could barely stand. Morgan sent me down there to tell him Roland wanted to leave.”

Christopher looked into his cup again. “I found him covered in soot, going from child to child, sometimes healing two at a time. D’Ambray told me he wasn’t done. Morgan sent me down again, then went himself. We couldn’t drag Hugh away from those children. He was manic. By the time we came back, your father was awake, sitting in the hotel restaurant, drinking a cup of coffee and watching the rescue crews. He paid the bill, walked across the street, and told Hugh it was time to go. Hugh told him he wasn’t done. He had a boy, maybe twelve, and the child had inhaled hot smoke. It burned him from the inside out. Every time he breathed in, he made this whistling grinding sound. D’Ambray was trying to put him back together. Your father looked at Hugh for a moment and said, ‘It will be fine.’ Hugh dropped the boy to the ground and followed us out. On the way to the cars, he made a joke about a passing woman’s ass.”

I knew that Hugh. The one who made jokes and stepped over burning bodies. The healing Hugh . . . He did save Doolittle. He saved Ascanio too, but he blackmailed me to do it. He’d killed Mauro. Mauro was my friend.

“For the next two years, I was busy with Morgan,” Christopher said. “After I killed him and became Legatus, I looked further into Hugh. As Legatus, I answered only to Roland. I controlled the entirety of the People. I made a study of any potential rivals rising through the People’s ranks, and I studied Hugh. D’Ambray wasn’t an immediate threat. We were equal but separate, and he showed no signs of wanting to take my place. Still, one does due diligence.”

Christopher drank his tea.

“Other people’s pain brings Hugh discomfort.”

I almost laughed. “Hugh d’Ambray?”

Christopher met my gaze. “Do I strike you as a man likely to jump to conclusions?”

Barabas chortled in his chair.

“The nature of his magic is such that when he sees an injury, it creates distress. Not pain exactly, but a high degree of anxiety. This mechanism allows him to precisely identify the problem and correct it. He is compelled to heal.”

“You’re describing someone who is almost an empath, but instead of emotional pain, he feels physical pain. That kind of person wouldn’t willingly harm others. Hugh is a killer.”

“A paradox,” Christopher said. “So I asked myself, how do I reconcile the two? And then I watched your father. What I’m about to tell you is conjecture, but it’s conjecture based on careful observation and a lot of thought. I believe your father required a warlord. He wanted someone young and with a great deal of magic. He found Hugh and he tried to mold him into the tool of destruction he needed. However, the position called for a psychopath with a sadistic streak. Hugh was never that. He was perfect in every other way: he was physically and magically gifted, a superior fighter, a talented strategist, charismatic, loyal, happy to serve, but he wasn’t a sadist. So your father used the blood bond between them to blunt his emotions. On multiple occasions, I’ve observed Hugh agitated and arguing his point. Your father would speak to him and suddenly Hugh would come to his point of view and the source of the agitation would no longer matter.”

I should’ve seen it. Suddenly so many things made sense. Mishmar made sense. My father told him to do whatever was necessary to make me comply and numbed him enough to do it, so Hugh did it.

“You have a blood bond with Julie,” Christopher said. “Tell me, can it be done?”

I sighed. “Yes. I can impose my will over hers. I can make her not care. It comes with a heavy price tag.”

Christopher set down his cup and leaned back, braiding his fingers on his knee. “What are the consequences?”

“If you superimpose yourself on your blood bonded, eventually their mind will break. There will be nothing left except a reflection of you. They will be lobotomized. My aunt gives me a lecture on this at least once every three months, just in case I forget. She’s fond of Julie.”

“Question.” Barabas raised his finger. “Hugh was bound to Roland for decades, and now we know Roland blunted his emotions. Then Roland broke the blood bond.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Why isn’t Hugh dead?”

I raised my hands. “Because he is Hugh. He’s unkillable. Curran broke his back and threw him into a magic fire that melted an entire stone castle, and he’s still alive. He shouldn’t even be able to form coherent thoughts.”

The name Iron Dogs fit in more ways than one. A dog is hardwired to please a human. When you got a puppy and raised it to adulthood, you shaped the dog. Take a puppy and give him a loving home, and in most cases, he will be a sweet dog. Take the same puppy and chain him in the yard, and it will be a whole different story. My father had taken a stick to his dog and beaten him senseless every time he strayed out of line. Poor Hugh. But he never turned on his master. He never bit the hand that held the stick.

“Yes, my father imposed his will on him, but that doesn’t absolve him of responsibility for having done horrible shit.”

“My point precisely,” Barabas said. “There is no way to tell how much of what he did was Roland’s doing and how much was him. Maybe he is a violent psychopath. He could’ve rebelled. He didn’t.”

“Hugh wouldn’t rebel,” I told him. “He is loyal. The real question is, who are we dealing with now? My father is gone. It’s just Hugh. None of us know who Hugh is. He’s done so much fucked-up crap. I’m not sure I can deal with it. I don’t know if it’s in me. I mean, Christopher, he put you in a cage.”

“Your father put me in a cage,” he said.

“But Hugh kept you there,” Barabas said.

“Have you ever wondered how I survived two months in a cage with no food or water?” he asked. “Why I didn’t go into organ failure? Why I had no sores, despite sitting in my own filth?”

“Hugh fed you,” I guessed.

Christopher nodded. “At night. He talked to me.”

I threw my hands up. “He shouldn’t have kept you in the cage in the first place.”

“He kept me alive.”

Barabas sighed.

Christopher’s expression sharpened, growing somehow more fragile. “The two of you only remember the man in the cage. Before that I was the Legatus of the Golden Legion. I murdered my way to the top. I committed atrocities. And unlike Hugh, I have nobody to blame but myself. I own everything I’ve done. I did it because I wanted power. I must live with it. Hugh lives with his memories. It will be his choice to atone for what he has done, or not. But I’ve forgiven Hugh, because if I don’t forgive him, there is no hope for forgiveness for someone like me.”

He rose and went upstairs. Barabas went after him, and I let myself out.

I WALKED INTO our house and went down to the basement. Yu Fong was still comatose. Adora was nowhere to be found.

I climbed back up and walked into our kitchen. The light was on, warm and soft. The air smelled of cooked butter and fresh coffee. Curran stood by the stove, toasting bread. A plate of sliced smoked meat sat next to him.

I unbuckled my sheath, Sarrat still in it, and hung it over a chair.

It was so comfortable here, in the kitchen. Just me and him. I loved our son, but sometimes it was nice to take a short break from being responsible for a tiny human.

“Where is Adora?”

“I sent her home to take a break. Shower, sleep, that type of thing. She’ll be back in the morning.”

I set the table. We would never be ordinary. We would never have sheltered lives. But we could have this, a quiet moment of simple happiness, sandwiched between danger and desperation. I lived for these moments.

“I’ve decided to give d’Ambray a chance,” I said.

“I thought you might.”

He slid the last slice of bread onto the plate and turned around to me.

“What gave me away?”

“You tend to give people second chances. And third. And fourth.”

“Pot, kettle. Can you work with him?”

He shrugged. “We need him and his wife. I can always kill him later.”

His Furriness, the Long-term Planner. “We’ll have to sit down with them eventually and have a conversation. Can you be civil?”

I pulled a block of cheese out of the fridge and cut it into paper-thin slices.

“Can you?”

“I’m always civil.”

He crossed his arms. The muscles on his forearms stood out. Mmm.

“Really?” Curran asked.

“Sometimes I jump on the table and kick people in the face, but I’m always civil about it.”

He moved behind me. His breath touched my skin. I stopped slicing.

“Always civil?” he murmured. His fingers eased my hair from my shoulders. His lips grazed the sensitive spot on the back of my neck. I shivered.

His lips were hot on my skin. I arched my back against him, raised my hand, and slid it into his hair. He hadn’t buzzed it down.

“We’re childless tonight,” he murmured into my ear. “Nobody in the house except us.”

“What about Julie?”

“She’s sleeping over at Derek’s. She thought you might need time.”

What I needed was a temper transplant, because if she walked through that door right now, I’d yell at her until sunrise.

“She knew where Hugh was.”

“Apparently.”

He kissed me again. His arms slid around my waist, pulling me closer to him, the steel cords of muscle warm against me. Yes . . .

“We don’t have to be quiet,” he promised, and nipped my neck. Tiny sparks of pleasure burst through me.

“We don’t?”

“No.”

“What makes you think that I wouldn’t be quiet anyway?”

“Is that a challenge?” His hand stroked my raised arm. Breath caught in my throat. There shouldn’t have been anything erotic about him touching my arm, but my whole body went to attention, tracking the progress of his fingers.

“Would you like it to be, Your Godliness?”

He stopped. “Still mad?”

I turned around and looked at him. Really looked at him.

“Are you still you?”

Gray eyes looked back at me, full of dancing golden sparks. “I’ve been eating gods for nearly two years. You’ve been living with me all this time. Eating, sleeping, having sex. You tell me.”

“I don’t know,” I whispered.

“Test the waters and find out. Unless you’re chicken.”

“I wish you hadn’t done it.”

“I knew it. Too scared.”

“I’m scared for you, idiot.”

He gave me an appraising look. “Keep telling yourself that. But it would go easier if you just admit it.”

“Admit what?”

He pointed at himself. “All this is too much for you.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re right. That’s totally it. I’ve beheld your godly manliness and now I’m overcome with womanly trepidation. Get over yourself.”

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll go easy on you.”

Screw it. I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him. He tasted of coffee and Curran. I caught his lip between my teeth, nipped, and licked him. He opened his mouth and I slipped my tongue in, teasing him. He picked me up, his hands squeezing my butt, and kissed me back, tasting my mouth. My tongue flicked across his. My breasts ached. My body was aware that I was empty, and I needed to be full of him.

“Playing with fire,” he told me, setting me on the kitchen table.

“No, just pulling a lion by his whiskers.” I kissed the sensitive skin under the corner of his jaw. He made a deep male noise. We kissed again. The world went hot and focused. I pulled his T-shirt off and ran my hands over the ridges of his stomach, over the hard muscles of his chest, over tight nipples, kissing him, eager and hot and wanting.

He pulled off my T-shirt. His hand slipped into my bra, easing my breast out, his thumb sliding over the sensitive bud of nipple. I gasped and kissed him harder. He was on fire, and if I just kissed him hard enough, I’d coax it out of him.

He worked the bra off me and lifted me up. His mouth found my right breast, sucked, his tongue painting heat and texture across my nipple, and a jolt of pleasure made me moan. I wrapped my legs around him. He carried me to the living room. My feet touched the soft rug. I was hot and wet and in a terrible hurry. He was kissing me, touching me, squeezing, stroking. He couldn’t get enough. I worked his jeans open and pulled his shaft out, running my hand up and down the hardness wrapped in silken skin. He groaned and squeezed me to him. His eyes had gone gold. His upper lip rose, baring his teeth.

I tripped him. It was a classic move, simple and effective. He was off balance, because he wanted another go at my breasts. For a moment his weight was on his right leg, and I swept it out from under him. He could’ve fought me on the way down, but instead he just fell. I pulled off my jeans and my underwear, yanked his off him, and landed on him.

He grinned at me and there was no man more handsome on Earth. “Your move, ass kicker.”

He was still him. Still my Curran. Still enough left.

I kissed him and slipped his hard shaft inside me. It felt like heaven. He growled and thrust up. I rode him, matching his thrusts with mine, feeling every inch of him fill me, sliding into my hot slickness. His hands roamed my breasts, slipped over my stomach, and touched the sensitive spot between my legs. I cried out. He snarled in response.

I rode him faster and faster, lost to the rhythm, until the pressure that had built inside me crested and drowned me in ecstasy. And then he was behind me, thrusting hard, and then I was on top again, then we were face-to-face, slowing the pace. Savoring each minute. Every moment was a gift. I loved it all: the taste, the scent, the touch, the way he looked at me, the gold sparks in his eyes, the touch of his hands on my skin, the way his whole body tensed when he thrust into me . . . I came again, and then his body shuddered, and he finished. We collapsed side by side on the rug.

My head was spinning. Sweat cooled slowly on my body. I was so happy. Exhausted and happy. Soft comfortable darkness came.

“Kate,” he said. “We can’t fall asleep here. Come on, baby.”

Somehow we made it upstairs into the bed. He wrapped his arms around me, and I drifted off to sleep.