Ilona Andrews - Magic Rises

“Did the other lookouts hear anything?”

“No.”

I looked at Derek. “Anything?”

“Similar scent as in the hallway,” he said.

Locked door, heavy weaponry. The only access was from the air. So the wings had been functional after all. Still, the one I’d killed didn’t have a wingspan wide enough for it to fly. It was a heavy bastard, too. I turned. The main building of the castle rose in front of me. Tall, blocky, with a blue roof.

“It glides,” I said. “It probably took off from the main keep, swooped down, and rammed Tamara.” The fight must’ve been brutal and quick, because the werejackal didn’t have a chance to call for help.

“Why did it take the body?” Hibla asked.

“I don’t know.” Something had taken the other guard too, the one who’d stood over the mechanism guarding the hallway gate. “Have you ever heard about anything like that?”

Hibla shook her head. “It is not local. I know all of the local creatures.”

“There must be miles of mountains out there.” And some of them spawned mutant kangaroo goats with bone axes in their chests. “Are you sure these shapeshifters haven’t crawled out of some dark ravine?”

She crossed her arms. “I told you I know all the local creatures.”

I fought to keep from grinding my teeth. She’d invited me in and now she’d decided to get all defensive. “Any rumors of anything similar? Anything at all?”

“No. I need useful information. You are not being useful.”

I thought of telling her to bend over so I could remove the iron stick she had jammed up her ass, but getting into a fight with the head of Hugh’s security wasn’t in our best interests. I needed to maintain a working relationship, because I might have to rely on Hibla later.

Derek was leaning over the wall. “Kate?”

I came over. The southern wall rose above a large square inner yard. Practice dummies sat along the walls. Past them a big metal cage hung from chains, about five or six feet off the ground. A pile of rags lay inside it.

The pile stirred. A rag was thrown back and then a grimy face stared up at me.

“Who is that?”

“A prisoner,” Hibla said.

“Why is he in a cage?”

“He belongs to Lord Megobari. He’s a criminal. This is his punishment.”

Hugh put people in cages. Lovely. “What’s his crime?”

“He stole.”

“Take me to talk to him.”

Hibla grimaced. “It’s forbidden.”

“The contract the clans signed gives me the authority to pursue and eliminate any danger threatening Desandra. A similar creature attacked her and we can now conclude there are more of them out there. That tells me Desandra is in danger. If Lord Megobari makes an issue of it, tell him I insisted. He will believe you.”

Hibla’s face told me she had no doubt about that part. “Follow me.”

We entered the tower and descended a spiral staircase.

“Their scent is odd,” Derek said. “Like someone shoved sandpaper up your nose. Must be something they give off only when transformed, because I haven’t smelled it before.”

“How tight is your security?” I asked.

If looks could conduct electricity, Hibla would’ve electrocuted me on the spot.

“I’m not questioning your competence,” I told her. “I’m trying to do my job. If a stranger scales the wall, how fast would you know about it?”

“If he entered the keep, immediately,” Hibla said. “We have patrols at the doors and in the hallways. They are trained to remember scents and faces.”

“What if he entered one of the minor buildings?”

“We do rolling sweeps of every structure twice a day. We may not see him, but we would smell him. I would know within twelve hours.”

I had to give it to Hugh, his security was good. “Any strangers since we arrived?”

“Aside from you and the three packs, no.”

“How many people, besides us and you, are in the castle?”

“The Volkodavi have eighteen, the Italians have twenty, and Jarek Kral has twenty also.”

That was fifty-eight, and including us would make it an even seventy. “And you are confident your people can recall seventy different scent signatures?”

Hibla looked at Derek.

“Yes,” he told me. “Five hundred people come to the Keep during any week. I recognize every single scent.”

I knew that shapeshifter scent memory was good, but I had no idea it was that good. Thinking about remembering five hundred scent signatures made my head hurt.

“How can you be the Consort and not know this?” Hibla said, in the way someone would say, Of course the Earth is round; what are you, a moron?

Derek bared his teeth. Great. If he went for Hibla’s throat, I’d have a mess on my hands.

“In the U.S., shapeshifters don’t volunteer information about themselves to others,” I told her. “I learn as I go, and the subject of just how many scents you can recall never came up.”

Hibla checked Derek’s face. “We can recall thousands. Knowing this is important.” Her tone made it plain she thought I was a moron unfit for duty. First Desandra, now her. I was beginning to get tired of the constant you-are-not-a-shapeshifter song.

“Learning other things was a priority.”

“What other things?”

“How to effectively kill one of you with a six-inch knife. I’m a fast learner and I had a lot of practice. Turns out there is a way to jam the knife blade under the cervical vertebrae in such a way that your neck pops right out. Remind me some time, I’ll show you.”

Hibla blinked.

Derek laughed quietly.

“What about the head of the man I killed? Do you know his scent?”

“No,” Hibla admitted.

“So he wasn’t with any of the packs.”

“No.”

“And we don’t know how he got into the castle?”

Her upper lip wrinkled. “No.”

Strangers or not, the assaults had to be coming from one of the three packs. Someone had made a bargain with the devil and now these creatures were walking among us disguised.

We came to a heavy steel door barred by a metal rod as thick as my arm. It had to weigh at least fifty pounds. Hibla casually lifted it with one hand and pushed the door open. We emerged into the courtyard and I made a beeline for the cage.

The prisoner saw me. The pile of rags shifted and a dirt-smeared hand reached between the bars toward me.

“Please . . .”

Next to me Derek grimaced. A moment later I caught it too, the stench of stale urine and feces. Hugh was a fucking bastard. “Your magnanimous Lord Megobari lets him sit in his own excrement.”

There was a small pause before Hibla answered. “It can’t be helped.”

Yes, it can. It definitely can.

We reached the cage. A man looked at me through the bars with feverish eyes. Not that old. It was hard to tell with all the dirt, but possibly twenties. Filthy dark blond hair. Scarce beard. His cheekbones stood out, sharp like blades on his gaunt face. Unless he was naturally emaciated, they were starving him.

“Please,” he whispered.

English. Fantastic.

“Beautiful lady, please, water.”

I pulled a canteen off my belt and passed it to him. He grabbed it and drank greedily, gulping the water.

“Easy. If you drink too much too fast, you’ll vomit.”

The man kept drinking. His hands shook. He barely looked human.

“How long has he been in the cage?”

“Two months,” Hibla said.

Dear God. “And the last time he had water?”

“He gets a cup of water and a cup of gruel every morning.”

This was torture. Hugh gave him just enough to keep him alive but not enough to end thirst and hunger. I’d done without water before. When you don’t have it, that’s all you can think about. I didn’t care what the man had stolen; putting him in a cage and letting him rot in his own filth was inhuman. “How can you follow a man who does this?”