Ilona Andrews - Magic Rises

The body shuddered. Andrea jerked her crossbow up. I jumped to my feet.

The golden scales boiled, viscous like molten metal, and shrank. A beheaded human torso sprawled in the hallway. I nudged the now-human head so I could see the face. A man in his forties. Brown hair, brown beard. Never saw him before.

Andrea swore.

I leaned over, trying not to wince as my chest protested, picked up the head by the hair, and showed the face to Desandra.

She shook her head.

“Maybe someone in the hall knows. Why don’t we go and ask?”

Andrea nodded at the floor. “Any of the blood yours?”

“It doesn’t matter now, does it?” Hugh had me here in the castle. He went through a hell of a lot of trouble to get me here. He wouldn’t have done it if he weren’t certain of the only thing my blood would tell him: I was his boss’s daughter.

“I suppose it doesn’t,” Andrea said.

We went down the hallway, away from the grate.

“What are we going to do about Hugh?” Andrea asked.

“Nothing, until we know what his plan is.”

“Who’s Hugh?” Desandra asked.

“Someone we both know,” Andrea said. We turned the corner, crossed another hallway. The noise of the hall was getting closer.

Suddenly Desandra stopped. She covered her stomach with her hands. Her expression went slack.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Somebody just tried to kill my babies.” Desandra blinked and vomited on the floor.

I walked into the great hall, carrying my sword in one hand and a severed head in another. As one, people stopped what they were doing and turned to look at me. Nostrils flared, sampling the blood stench. The conversation died.

Hugh saw me and froze. Either he was one hell of an actor or he had no idea what had happened.

Curran half rose in his seat. I knew exactly what he saw. Twenty minutes ago I’d left for the bathroom. Now torn shreds of my dress hung from my side, drenched in red. Blood stained my face and hands. Behind me Andrea supported Desandra, who was pale as a sheet.

I raised the head. “Who does this belong to?”

You could hear a pin drop.

“Who owns this man?”

No answer.

“He turns into a feline creature with wings. Someone has to know him.”

A sound of slow, measured clapping broke the silence. Jarek Kral grinned at me. “Nice joke. Very funny.”

I would kill that man before this was over.

“Do you know this man?”

Jarek spread his arms. “Nobody knows this man. You bring this to us and tell us this wild story and we’re supposed to do what with it?”

“It was a monster,” Andrea said.

“We are all monsters here. Or did you forget?” Jarek chuckled. His shapeshifters grinned.

Desandra screamed something in a language I didn’t understand. Jarek barked a derisive reply.

“This could be a servant’s head for all we know.” Jarek leaned over and looked at Curran. “Perhaps you should tell your pet human to stop hacking heads from castle staff or we might not get any wine.”

People laughed.

Gray fur dashed down Curran’s arms and melted.

“What?” Jarek rose. “What, boy? Are you going to do something?”

Curran locked his hands on the table. It was an enormous table. It had to weigh over two thousand pounds.

The table creaked and left the ground.

The snickering died. People stared, slack-faced.

Curran held the table a foot off the ground for a long second. His face didn’t look strained.

Someone made a choking noise.

Curran set the table down, pushing it sideways, toward Jarek’s side.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” he said. “I think we’re done eating for the day.”

He stepped down. Our people rose. He led them across the hall, then wrapped his arm around me, and we walked the hell out of there.

“What did it look like?” Mahon asked.

We’d dropped Desandra off in her rooms. Aunt B and George decided to spend the night there. The rest of us gathered in our room. The moment Doolittle saw me, I had to submit to having my side examined. Then I was poked, my wounds were rinsed, and now he was chanting them into magical healing under his breath.

“About sixty-five inches at the shoulder, definitely feline, covered in amber scales. The scales were really thick and translucent, with sharp edges. It had wings.” I shook my head. “I have no idea what it is. What he is.”

Mahon looked at Andrea. “And you saw it?”

“Are you calling Kate a liar?” Barabas asked, his voice dry.

“Yes, I saw it,” Andrea said. “She sawed through his neck with a silver chain. It wasn’t a hallucination.”

Doolittle finished chanting. A welcome, soothing coolness spread through my side. “Good as new.”

“Thank you, Doc.”

The edges of the wounds had stuck together. Without Doolittle, I would’ve needed stitches.

“Wings?” Doolittle asked.

“Wings.”

“Feathered?”

“Sort of,” Andrea told him. “The feathers weren’t fully formed. Each was like a simple filament with a little bit of fuzz on it.”

Doolittle frowned. “The scales, you see, they would add weight . . .”

“It doesn’t make sense,” I told him. “I know. But this is what I killed.”

“Just because it has wings doesn’t mean it can fly,” Mahon said. “They can be vestigial.”

“They definitely didn’t look right,” I said.

Doolittle nodded. “I’ll test the head.”

Mahon glanced at Curran. “I spoke to the Volkodavi and Belve Ravennati at dinner. Both are convinced Jarek wants to kill his daughter. When he originally promised the pass, it was one of the four ways through the mountains. They’ve had some natural disasters since then. Now it’s one of two. He’ll do anything to hold on to it.”

“Too obvious for Jarek,” Barabas countered. “I studied him and he likes to pin the blame on someone else. He would’ve used a lynx or a wolf, so he could finger one of the other packs. Two birds with one stone. Instead they used something nobody has ever seen before.”

“The question is why?” Keira said. “Jarek is still the only one with the obvious motive. If Desandra dies, he doesn’t have to give up the pass.”

“If she dies, he can kiss his shot at grandkids good-bye,” Barabas said.

“The other two packs hate him,” Mahon said. “If Desandra gives birth, they won’t let him have the children. He may value retaining the pass more.”

“Enough,” Curran said.

They fell silent.

“We’re on full alert,” he said. “Move in groups. Lock your doors. Nobody goes or stays anywhere alone. You have to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, you wake everyone up and you go together.”

“We need to have a meeting in the morning,” I told them. “We need to set the guard shifts and work out a schedule. Let’s meet at Doolittle’s room at eight.”

“Nine.” Curran said. “Now she needs rest.”

People filed out of the room. He barred it and crouched by me. “Shower?”

“Please.”

He disappeared into the bathroom. The sound of running water was like a whisper of heaven. I was suddenly so tired. I dragged myself to my feet and into the bathroom. A shower waited for me, a tiled stall, half-hidden by a purple curtain on a curved rod. Steam rose from the tile. I tugged on the zipper of my dress. Stuck.

Curran reached over. His careful hands touched my shoulders. The sound of ripping fabric screeched and the shreds of the dress fluttered down.

“Thank you.”

I slid off my ruined underwear, unhooked my bra, dropped them to the floor, and stepped into the shower. The hot spray washed over me. Red water swirled by my feet. I closed my eyes and stood under the water. Inhale, exhale. The fight was over. Everyone had survived. The war was just beginning.