Magic Burns (2 page)

“You said it was a live-preferred bounty,” I murmured. The living Jeremy was worth a lot more than his corpse. We’d still get paid, but we had just waved a third of the money good-bye.

“It is.” Jim twisted the body on its side, exposing Jeremy’s back. A thin metal shaft, tipped with three black feathers protruded from between Jeremy’s shoulders blades. Before my mind had the time to digest its significance, I hit the deck, cradling the salamander. Jim somehow got there before me.

We stared into the gloom. Darkness and silence.

Someone had taken out our mark with a crossbow bolt. Could have taken us out, as well. We had stood by the body for at least four seconds. More than enough time to squeeze off two shots. I touched Jim and touched my nose. He shook his head. With all the sulfur in the air he probably couldn’t smell a skunk if it sprayed him in the face. I lay very still and tried to breathe quietly. Listening was our best bet.

A minute dragged by, long, viscous, and silent. Very slowly Jim shifted into a crouch and nodded to the left. I had a vague feeling the door lay to the right, but in the darkness with some unknown crossbowman waiting, I would trust Jim’s senses over mine.

Jim grasped Jeremy’s corpse, slung it over his shoulder, and we took off, bending low, running fast, him ahead and me, half-blind in the gloom, slightly behind. Concrete supports flashed by, one, two, three, four. The tech hit, and before I could put down my raised foot, the magic drained from the world, leaving the battered technology in its wake. The fluorescent lamps in the ceiling blinked and snapped into life with a buzz, bathing the garage in a weak man-made glow. The black rectangle of the exit gaped ten feet before us. Jim dived into it. I lunged to the left, behind the nearest support. The salamander in the globe stopped glowing and went to sleep, looking like a harmless black lizard. My long-range weapon was tuckered out.

I set it down on the floor and slid Slayer from its sheath. Salamanders are overrated anyway.

“He’s gone,” Jim said from the doorway and pointed behind me.

I turned. Far at the back, the concrete wall had crumbled, revealing a narrow passageway probably leading up to the street. He was right. If the bowman wanted to take us out, he had had plenty of time to do it.

“So he sniped our mark and left?”

“Looks that way.”

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“I don’t get it.”

Jim shook his head. “Weird shit always happens around you.”

“This was your gig, not mine.”

A shower of sparks fell from above the door and a green EXIT sign burst into life.

Jim stared at it for a moment, his features twisted in a distinctly feline expression, disgust and fatalism rolled into one, and shook his head again.

“Dibs on the bolt in his back!” I called.

“Be my guest.”

Jim’s pager went off. He checked it and a familiar neutral mask slid onto his face.

“Oh no, you don’t! I can’t carry him by myself.”

“Pack business.” He headed for the exit.

“Jim!”

I killed the urge to throw something at the empty doorway. Served me right for taking a job with a guy who served on the Pack Council. It’s not that Jim was a bad friend. It’s just that for shapeshifters, Pack business always took precedence. On a scale from one to ten, the Pack was eleven and everything else a one.

I stared at a very dead Jeremy lying like a sack of potatoes on the floor. Probably a hundred and fifty pounds, dead weight. There was no way I could carry him and the salamander at the same time. There was no way I could leave the salamander unattended, either. The magic could hit anytime, setting the little lizard ablaze. Plus, the sniper might still be around. I needed to get out of here, and fast.

Jeremy and the salamander, each worth four grand. I no longer did a lot of work for the Guild, and gigs of this size didn’t come my way too often. Even split in half with Jim, the bounty would cover my two mortgages for two months. The thought of leaving four grand on the floor made me physically ill.

I looked at Jeremy. I looked at the salamander. Choices, choices.

THE MERCENARY GUILD’S BOUNTY CLERK, A SHORT,trim, dark-haired man, stared at Jeremy’s head on the counter. “Where is the rest of him?”

“I had a slight logistics problem.”

The clerk’s face split in a wide smile. “Jim took off on you, didn’t he? That will be one capture ticket then?”

“Two tickets.” Jim might be an asshole, but I wouldn’t screw him out of his share. He’d get his capture ticket, which entitled him to his half of the bounty.

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“Kate, you’re a pushover,” the clerk said.

I leaned over the counter and offered him my best deranged smile. “Wanna push and see if I fall over?”

“No thanks.” The clerk slapped the stack of forms on the counter. “Fill these out.”

The inch-thick stack of paperwork promised to occupy me for a good hour. The Guild had pretty lax rules—being an organization of mercenaries, they took keen interest in profit and little else—but death had to be reported to the cops and thus required red tape. The small significance of Jeremy’s life was reduced to the price on his head and a lot of carefully framed blank spaces on a piece of paper.

I gave the top form the evil eye. “I don’t have to fill out the R20.”

“That’s right, you work with the Order now.” The clerk counted off eight pages from the top of the stack. “There you go, VIP treatment for you.”

“Yipee.” I swiped my stack.

“Hey, Kate, let me ask you something.”

I wanted to fill out my forms, go home, and take a nap. “Shoot.”

He reached under the counter. The Mercenary Guild occupied an old Sheraton Hotel on the edge of Buckhead and the clerk’s counter had been a lobby bar in that previous life. The clerk pulled out a dark brown bottle and set it in front of me with a shot glass.

“Why, no, I won’t drink your mysterious love potion.”

He guffawed. “Hennessy. The good stuff. I’ll pay for the info.”

“Thanks, but I don’t drink.” Not anymore, anyway. I still kept a bottle of Boone’s Farm sangria in my cabinet for a dire emergency, but hard liquor was right out. “What’s your question?”

“What’s it like to work for the Order?”

“Thinking of joining?”

“No, I’m happy where I’m at. But I’ve got a nephew. He wants to be a knight.”

“How old?”

“Sixteen.”

Perfect. The Order liked them young. All the easier to brainwash. I pulled up a chair. “I’d take a glass of water.”

He brought me water and I sipped it. “Basically the Order does the same thing we do: they clear magic hazmat. Let’s say you’ve got a harpy in a tree after a magic wave. You’re going to call the cops first.”

“If you’re stupid.” The clerk smirked.

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I shrugged. “The cops tell you that they’re busy with a giant worm trying to swallow the federal courthouse, instruct you to stay away from the harpy, and tell you they’ll come out when they can. The usual. So you call the Guild. Why wait, when for three hundred bucks a couple of mercs will bag the harpy with no fuss and even give your kid a pretty tail feather for his hat, right?”

“Right.”

“Suppose you don’t have three hundred bucks. Or suppose the job is code 12, too nasty for the Guild to take it. You still have a harpy and you want her gone. So you call the Order, because you heard they don’t charge that much. They ask you to come to their Chapter, where a nice knight talks to you, gets your income assessed and tells you good news: they’re charging you fifty bucks because they’ve determined that’s all you can afford. Kismet.”

The clerk eyed me. “What’s the catch?”

“The catch is, they give you a piece of paper to sign, your plea to the Order. And there in big letters it says that you authorize the Order to remove any threat to humanity that arises in connection with this case.”

The Order of Merciful Aid had chosen its name well. They provided merciful aid, usually on the edge of the blade or by the burn of a bullet. Trouble was, sometimes you got more aid than you wanted.

“Let’s say you sign the plea. The knights come out and observe the harpy. At the same time, you notice that every time you see the damn thing, your elderly senile aunt disappears. So you watch the old lady and sure enough, the magic wave hits and she turns into a harpy. You tell the knights you want to call the whole thing off—you love your aunt and she does no harm sitting in that tree anyway. The knights tell you that five percent of harpies carry a deadly disease on their claws and they’ve determined her to be a danger to humanity. You get angry, you yell, you call the cops, but the cops tell you it’s all legal, there is nothing they can do, and besides the Order is part of the law enforcement anyway. You promise to lock your aunt up. You try a bribe. You point to your kids and explain how much they love the old lady. You cry. You beg. But nothing helps.” I drained my glass. “And that’s what it’s like working for the Order.”

The clerk poured himself a shot and tossed it down his throat. “Did that really happen?”

“Yep.”

“Did they kill the old lady?”

“Yep.”

“Jesus.”

“If your nephew thinks he can do that, tell him to apply to the Academy. He’s at a good age for it. It’s hard physically and the academic load is pretty big, but if he has the will, he’ll make it.”

“How do you know?”

I swiped my stack off the counter. “Back when I was a kid, my guardian enrolled me. He was a knight-diviner.”

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“No shit. How long did you last?”

“Two years. Did well on everything except mental conditioning. I’ve got authority issues.” I waved at the clerk and took my paperwork to one of the tables in the gloom.

Truth was, I didn’t do well. I did great. Tested right off the power-scale. Got certified as an electrum-level squire. But I hated it. The Order required absolute dedication, and I already had a cause. I wanted to kill the most powerful man in the world, and that kind of desire leaves little room for anything else. I dropped out and went to work for the Mercenary Guild. It broke Greg’s heart.

Greg had been a great guardian, fanatical in his determination to protect me. For Greg, the Order was a place of safety. If my target found out I existed, he’d kill me, and neither Greg nor I had enough power to resist him. Not yet anyway. Had I joined the Order, every last knight would protect me against this threat. But it wasn’t worth it, so I parted ways with the Order and never looked back.

And then Greg was murdered. To find his killer, I went to the Order and maneuvered myself into their investigation. I found the murderer and killed him. It was a grisly, nasty affair, now called the Red Point Stalker case. In the process my Academy record came to light and the Order decided they wanted me back. They weren’t subtle about it, either. They made up a job—a liaison between themselves and the Mercenary Guild—promised me Greg’s office, his files, authority to handle minor cases, and a steady paycheck. I took it. Part of it was guilt: I had shunned Greg after dropping out of the Academy. Part of it was common sense: I had mortgages on both my father’s house, near Savannah, and on Greg’s place here in Atlanta. To give up either one would be like ripping a chunk out of my body. Guild gigs paid well but I had a small territory near Savannah and a big job happened there maybe once every six months.

The lure of steady money proved to be too strong.

My affiliation with the Order wouldn’t last. But for now, it worked. I had yet to default on either payment and once I filled out these forms, I’d ensure I could cover my bills for another month or two.

After writing my merc ID number ten times on every imaginable piece of paper, I was treated to a

“check yes or no” questionnaire. Yes, I acted in self-defense. No, I didn’t believe excessive force was used in subduing the suspect. Yes, I perceived the suspect as presenting imminent threat to myself and others. By the time I reached the “fill in the blank” portion my eyes needed match sticks to stay open. In the “state the suspect’s intent as perceived by you” section, I wrote down, “Intended to burn down the city due to being a complete crackpot.”

When I finally stepped out of the Mercenary Guild’s heavy, reinforced steel doors, the sky was pale gray with that particular color that usually meant the sun was rising. At least I had the bolt from Jeremy’s back. And I was three hundred bucks richer, thanks to my advance. The rest of the money would have to wait until the cops approved the kill. By the time I got to the intersection, I had the advance divided between various bills. I still had it—if I thrust my hand in my pocket, I would feel the soft paper of four worn fifty-dollar bills and five twenties, and yet the money was already gone.

The great mystery of the Universe.

TWO HOURS LATER, I STUMBLED INTO THE ATLANTAchapter of the Order, bleary-eyed and armed with a huge mug of coffee, the mysterious bolt wrapped in a brown paper bag and tucked securely under my elbow. The office greeted me with its plethora of vivid color: a long hallway with gray carpet, gray walls, and gray light fixtures. Ugh.

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As I stepped in, the magic hit. The electric lights went out. The bloated tubes of feylanterns flared a gentle blue as the charged air inside them reacted with magic.

This was the third wave in the last twenty-four hours. The magic had been going crazy the last couple of days. Shifting back and forth like it couldn’t make up its mind.

The faint clicking of an ancient typewriter echoed in the empty office, coming from the secretary’s nook by the door of the knight-protector. “Good morning, Maxine.”

“Good morning, Kate,”said Maxine’s voice in my head.“Rough night?”

“You could say that.”

I unlocked my office door. The Atlanta Chapter of the Order made an effort to appear as inconspicuous as possible, but my office was small even by their standards. Little more than a cube, it was barely large enough to house a desk, two chairs, a row of filing cabinets, and some bookshelves. The walls showcased another radiant shade of gray paint.

I paused in the doorway, arrested in midstep. I had inherited the office from Greg. It had been almost four months since his death. I should have gotten over it by now, but sometimes, like this morning, I just…had a hard time making myself enter. My memory insisted that if I stepped in, Greg would be there, standing with a book in his hand, his dark eyes reproachful but never unkind. Always ready to pull me out of whatever mess I had gotten myself into. But it was a lie. Greg was dead. First my mother, then my father, then Greg. Everyone I ever cared about died violently, in a great deal of pain. If I took a moment to let it sink in, I’d be howling like a Pack wolf during a full moon.