Bronze Gods (10 page)

“The view from this place . . . it is truly worth the trouble to find it.” He guided her, easily as if under the noon sun, through the narrow passages, fragrant with life. “You are curious to me, Aurelia. In more ways than one.” Within a few heartbeats, though, they left the maze, stepping into star-filled night.

“Curious, in that I wish to know things? Or curious, in that I make you wonder about me?”

Before them, the city sprawled, glittering like a strand of gems. Arches and buttresses; spires and towers; lights, shadows, and darkness mixing, struggling, and merging. “Both, perhaps. Does it matter?”

His eyes were lost in the world below them. He drank it in; he embraced it. She saw the hunger in his eyes and in the set of his mouth. He made no effort to conceal it.

“It matters,” she said quietly. “You matter.” To her surprise, Aurelia found it was true. And the honesty rang in her low voice, unmistakable in its music.

They had only met twice, so he
shouldn’t
. But even if his persona had been created tailor-made to intrigue her, well. It was working. She wasn’t ready to fall into his arms, but she wanted to spend more time with him. His secrets and his quiet intensity drew her.

“Does it? Do I? I would know why.” His eyes torn from the metropolis below, the hunger took a long moment to fade. “What is it
you
seek, then, Aurelia? In truth?”

Turning from the city that lay like a penitent on its knees before them, Aurelia met his obsidian eyes, reflecting starlight. “What I seek, I have.” Prevarication wasn’t one of her principal gifts, but she’d learned it at her father’s knee. Rubbing her hands along silk-clad forearms, she gazed at the cityscape. “What is it you see when you stare out?”

“I see people. Souls. Potential, blood rushing from countless hearts; I see streams and rivers of possibility. And you?” His tone was near enough a whisper that she had to lean closer to hear him.

Ah. Now
that
is truth.
And it told her more than he realized; he no longer saw the individual lives or the stories they represented. He was too old, and it was a wonder he hadn’t gone mad. He must be ancient beyond reckoning if he claimed only one name, no ties to House or kin.

“I see all the stories being told at once, right now.”

“Stories.” He frowned as if she were a mythic creature crawled from some tapestry. “A different manner of looking at it. Would you hear said stories?”

“I would know them all, yes.” Aurelia bent, then stood, a pebble in her palm. Softly rounded, as if it might have once lain in the bed of the sea. “Imagine,” she murmured, “what we could learn from this if it could speak? Where it lived, what it saw. And how it came to be here.”

“Perhaps. And yet, who is to know what a stone holds important?” There was no mockery in his tone, however. “But who is to say that what we hold important . . . is important?” He allowed a purring chuckle. “What would you hear from the stone?”

Puzzled, Aurelia knit her brows together, closing long fingers over the pebble. It was, as it happened, quartz. “Naught but truth, as you must know by now.”

“Truth. Such a thing to value. You are a strange one, Aurelia. The stories below, then, you would have their truth? And mine, as well?” Humor twined through his voice.

“Such things come in their own time.” Yielding to the impulse to make a connection, Aurelia brushed the knuckles of her free hand against his cheekbone, hardly more than a shimmer of warmth. “So then, it would be my turn to ask a question of you, having answered all yours. What is it you see when you look at me?”

“A woman who has seen enough mysteries to wish for more. Too much, perhaps, for her own good. That said, will you considering dining at my villa, Aurelia? Knowing it may not be in your best interests.”

I know,
she thought.
Oh, Theron, I should not be so intrigued by you.

“Yes,” she said softly.

As Aurelia knew, women had ever been drawn to dangerous men who whispered in the dark.

CHAPTER 9

T
HE MORNING AFTER
M
IKANI CORNERED
L
EONIDAS AT THE
theater, he tackled the unenviable necessity of asking Saskia for additional help. He made his way along Strand Avenue though this time he didn’t stop for coffee or to chat with Electra. Siren Trading bustled with service people rushing in and out. He skirted past them and waited until Saskia noticed his arrival.

“Twice in as many days, after two years. Are you trying to tell me something?”

He offered a teasing smile. “I’ve seen how prosperous the concern is. You’re quite the catch these days.”

Saskia nodded. “Indeed I am. But I collect you didn’t come
entirely
for the pleasure of my company.”

“You know me too well,” he said.

“Let’s hear it. Do I get to add another mark to the debt between us?”

“I hope not. You were pretty shaken the other day, but I wanted to ask—do you have any idea who could’ve done something like that?”

“Nobody I know would.” She broke eye contact quickly.

She only does that when she’s telling me half-truths.

So he prompted, “Then who would?”

“I hate it when you do that.” Her rueful expression spoke volumes, but her eyes hinted she was reluctant to divulge whatever she knew.

“I’ll cook dinner for you some night next week,” he promised.

Mikani saw when she weakened. Women were always charmed that he knew his way around a kitchen. They took it as a sign of impending domestication when the truth was, he preferred not to starve, and takeaway grew tiresome.

“Only if you make your special ragout.”

“Deal. But if I’m called away—”

“You have to answer. I understand.” There was a quiet sorrow in her eyes; she was one who had professed to love him before the demands of his job and the invisible wall between them grew too much for her to scale on a daily basis.

“That much hasn’t changed.”

“Be careful. These are dangerous people. And I’ll be expecting a note about dinner, Janus.”

She scrawled an address on expensive stationery. At the moment, there were two junior clerks waiting with documents in hand, presumably for Saskia’s perusal. She gestured them into her office to wait, but Mikani feared if he lingered, she might decide to come along.

“Soon,” he promised.

He left without looking back, had been doing so for as long as he could remember. Mikani strode the five blocks to the nearest station, the paper safely in his pocket. The underground carried him to Iron Cross; there he had to switch to a ramshackle old train that would take him beyond the borders of the city proper. Mikani had rarely traveled beyond the end of the line, but the address he sought lay among the saltwater tenements that clustered along the cliff’s edge on the other side of the bay. Here, the buildings were no more than worn scrap wood with tin roofs, hammered together with hope and rusted nails. The windows were rough-cut, covered in skins, and the smell combined all the worst aspects of the sea and unwashed humanity. It was a fierce enough stench to bring tears to his eyes, but if people could manage to live here, he could tolerate the smell for an hour or so.

There were no numbers on the houses, but Saskia had added some landmarks and descriptives to help him find the place. In Dorstaad proper, this would be considered a warehouse. But Mikani saw no goods as he poked his head inside; instead, it was more of a longhouse, a larger structure where citizens gathered to talk, out of the wind, away from the sharp bite of the sea. It was cool today, but not cold; winter had yet to unleash its fangs, so the fire pit in the center of the room was unlit. People lounged on rough-hewn furniture while others practiced a knife-fighting technique Mikani identified as unique to some of the northern Summer Clan. In the back corner, a young man in a harlequin’s vest was unmistakably casting a glamour. The air glimmered silver around him, sharp and bright to Mikani’s enhanced senses. He wondered what effect the boy was trying to invoke.

Conversation halted.

Mikani had been the cynosure of unfriendly eyes before, but this was the first time he believed everyone present was weighing the odds of successfully disposing of his corpse. Impressions of shock and rage bombarded him.
It usually takes more than this for me to enrage a room so fully.
Before anyone could react, he flashed his credentials.
Hopefully, that will give them pause.

“I’m Inspector Mikani . . . and I’m looking for a magical expert.”

That seemed to free everyone from their shocked stillness. A titter ran through the room, then someone called, “Yer mum thinks I’m both magical
and
expert.”

He ignored that. “Perhaps I should’ve led with the fact that I’m investigating a murder. I’ll make it worthwhile for anyone who speaks with me.”

“Who got it?” a woman called out.

“A young girl.” He omitted mentioning that she came from one of the great Houses, feeling pretty sure that would make it impossible to get any information.

“I’ll talk to you.” It was the boy in the vest, who had been casting.

He had lank dark hair, and as he strode before the windows, Mikani saw that he was younger than he’d initially estimated, no more than thirteen and gaunt to the point of emaciation. But he carried a faint shimmer, as if he had magic in his skin. The others turned away, appearing to return to their business, but Mikani sensed that they were listening to every word.

He didn’t insist that he needed an older expert; sometimes street rats knew surprising things, a lifetime of being overlooked and sneaking into places they shouldn’t be. Instead, he explained the apparatus that had killed the girl and produced sketches. Succinctly, he summarized the circumstances and how there hadn’t been sufficient time for Miss Aevar to die, at least not without paranormal intervention.

Mikani ended by asking, “Do you have any idea what the lenses are or how the killer used magic to murder her?”

“First, we’ll be talking bits, crescents, and talons, yer investigorship. Or if you prefer, I also accept notes. The more
I
get, the more you’ll get.”

Mikani wasn’t sure whether the boy knew anything of value, so he put five silver crescents in his palm. “Is that enough for an answer?”

The coins disappeared. “Just one. And the machine sounds like a siphon.”

If Ritsuko were here, she’d be scratching notes, determined not to miss a single word. Mikani cracked his senses wider and let them drift; the amount of raw power in this room was
staggering
. Any one of these people could easily be a killer, and their living conditions were such that he could almost understand if they were driven to it. The boy before him felt like a shard of ice, frozen sharp, and tight with hatred. Not of Mikani, precisely, but for the whole world order.

“What’s a siphon?” He knew what the word meant in a general sense, but not in this context.

The boy opened his palm, and Mikani sighed as he paid five more crescents. “Sometimes people want power they don’t possess. There are ways to steal it.”

Hm. So magic can be transferred?
He made a mental note to talk to Saskia; though if she’d had any insights about the device, surely she would’ve shared them.

“Have you ever seen anything like this before?”

“Oh no. You couldn’t pay me enough to answer that.” Which was a frustrating and fascinating answer.

“Do you fear reprisal? I must remind you, this is an official CID investigation. If you fail to share knowledge that could lead to the arrest of the perpetrator, that constitutes obstruction.”

The boy held out his thin wrists, eyes mocking. “You want to lock me up, yer inspectorship? Have at it. At least then I’d get fed regular.”

It was impossible to threaten someone for whom gaol represented a step up the social ladder. “What else can you tell me?”

“Were there any conductors present?” The boy answered with a question.

“
Metal
is a conductor. Can you direct me to someone partial to such creations? Or at least theorize a purpose for the contraption, the reason she died like that.”

“My life wouldn’t be worth a copper if I aimed you at my fellows. As to the other, if I had to guess? He killed her to steal what power she possessed. But for some reason, he couldn’t absorb it directly.”

“Are you sure you can’t—”

“Forget it. That’s all you’re getting out of me.” The boy finally yielded to the silent demand all around him that he stop cooperating with the authorities. He turned and bounded out a nearby window, limber as a half-starved cat as he went over the sill, the stained leather shade flapping behind him.

In that moment, the mood turned.

An older man with bent shoulders stepped out of the mob. He gestured and spat an unintelligible sound. Mikani’s chest went tight, and the bitter hint became an overwhelming, nauseating taste that made him want to throw up. He felt something cocoon him, a sticky and vaguely slimy sensation on his skin.
Bronze gods, what’s he done? No.
Then, just as suddenly, the feeling vanished. He panted for breath, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and glared at the old man.

“That was a
lesson
. The Houses gobble every hint of the old ways up and pretend they’re keeping people safe by hoarding the power, but it’s still out here, still among even the lowest of us.” The man’s eyes burned black, so dark that the pupil and iris overlapped, just holes that fell endlessly into his head.

“You’ve made your point,” Mikani croaked. His throat felt raw; his skin tingled.

“Have I? You tell me how it’s fair that the Houses control everything. The mirrors, the ember spheres . . . all the elementals and all free trade. The rest of us are left scrambling for scraps from the high table.”

“I don’t quite see how this relates to my line of inquiry. I’m just trying to discover who killed a young girl in a quite horrific way. And why.” He was cool, not intimidated by the way the ragged men drew closer. He’d faced worse odds . . . and the anticipation of trouble was already rushing through his veins, better than whiskey or Dreamers.
Granted, either of those would likely make what’s coming a lot less painful.

“Why?” The old man offered a dry laugh. “Those who possess power are always in danger of having it stolen.”

“I think it’s time you moved along,” another man said.

“If I don’t? Are you going to glamour me again?”

“No magic,” the old man ordered. “Otherwise, do as you will.”

Their collective rage and resentment blistered his skin, and five men encircled him. Mikani no longer felt sure his badge and official status would be enough to protect him. He wondered if they were hiding the killer, covering for him. There was no telling what they imagined they’d gain by offing a House scion, but maybe they saw it as the opening salvo of a slow-building class war.

“Your shiny badge don’t mean nothing here.” A tall, thin man spat at Mikani’s feet.

They didn’t wait for a reply; they all came at him at once, and he answered with a sweep of his walking stick. So long as they didn’t bespell him, he’d fight at these odds—and not report them for the magical infractions he’d observed, much to his partner’s chagrin if she ever found out. But Ritsuko had surprised him with her willingness to overlook the Dreamers; maybe she’d understand this, too. His cane connected with a ferocious thwack, and blood spattered from the man’s busted lip.

It’s such fun, after all.

•   •   •

M
IKANI HAD BEEN
gone most of the day. Bronze gods, she hoped he was staying out of trouble. He had a propensity for stirring the pot when left to his own devices . . . and that had been happening more of late. They were running leads separately to cover more ground, but also because . . . well.

Best not to think of the pub . . . or the Moment.

It just seemed best to get some space between them, in addition to being more efficient. He had an angle on the magical connection to follow, which had left Ritsuko following up on Academy leads. None of the interviews had produced anything concrete though she’d frightened one of the students badly enough to confess to several unrelated misdemeanors. Now she was wrapping up their paperwork—and she’d noticed how often her partner skipped out on the busywork, but since she didn’t have any gifts to augment her flare for organization, she figured it was fair that she did the lion’s share of the filing. Such tasks suited her nature anyway; she liked putting everything in order.

With a faint sigh, she reviewed the latest report. It took days for the lab to determine anything, but they thought the ash she’d found at the murder scene had an herbal origin. She couldn’t make any sense of that. Who bound a woman to a giant metal slab and cooked her with lenses and sprinkled herbs around the perimeter? The case had no precedent. After her interviews, she’d gone through many old files and found nothing similar.

Mikani’s consultant had confirmed—the reason the murder seemed so clean and impossible? Magic.
That’s all I need.
To make matters worse, House Aevar was leaning on the City Council for a fast arrest. They didn’t care about the truth; they might even prefer a scapegoat. Ritsuko didn’t operate that way. More than most, she had to be sure of her facts because they would be called into question simply because she was a woman. Some officers would deal only with Mikani, and when they did acknowledge her, they acted as if she were obligated to run their errands.