Ilona Andrews - Magic Slays

I thrust my hand at the larger man’s forehead. My blood connected with his skin, and I whispered a single power word. “Amehe.” Obey.

It hurt. Dear gods, it hurt, it hurt like a sonovabitch, but I didn’t care. Julie in a hospital bed, Ascanio torn and broken, Joey dead, corpses in the streets, children in their best clothes lying in the dirt, looking at the sky with dead eyes . . . They would never rise again. They would never walk, never laugh, never be. The rage inside me was boiling over.

The man froze, the line of magic between him and me taut with power. I’d promised myself I’d never do this again, but some promises had to be broken.

“Rise,” I told him.

He stood up.

“What did you do to him?” the female Keeper cried out, her voice squeaking.

Curran was watching me, his face unreadable like a slab of stone.

“Rope.” I gave the man a mental push. Sweat broke out on my hairline. The magic drain crushed me. It felt like I was dragging a chain with an anchor on the end of it.

Slowly he walked to the cart, untied the knots, and pulled the rope from the device. I pointed to the ringleader. “Tie him.”

Jim grabbed the ringleader’s wrists and pulled him up. The larger man looped the rope around the man’s waist.

“There is nothing you can do to me,” the ringleader said. The Keeper woman watched us with open horror.

I picked up the other end and showed it to the larger man. “Hold.”

He clamped it.

I glanced at the shapeshifters. “He’ll need help.”

Jezebel shed her fur and took the end of the rope. Good. The change would tire her out. She was strung out too high. She needed to burn off some of that edge.

“Give me room.”

The shapeshifters parted. The ringleader stood by himself.

I took a deep breath. “Ahissa.” Flee.

The shock of the power word nearly took me to my knees.

The ringleader screamed, a sharp high-pitched shriek full of animalistic, mind-numbing fear, and ran. On the left, one of the boudas dashed away in panic, caught by the edge of the magic.

The rope snapped taut. The man fell and clawed the dirt, kicking, trying to swim away through solid ground. His larger friend held him, a blank expression on his face. The ringleader raked the soil, again and again, trying to get away, howling in hysterical frenzy. The shapeshifters watched him with stone faces.

“How long does it last?” Curran asked.

“Another fifteen seconds or so.”

Moments stretched by. Finally the man stopped digging, his screams fading to weak hysterical sobs, echoed by the woman crying behind me. His fingers were bloody stumps, his nails torn off. I closed the distance between us and leaned over him. He looked up, slowly, his eyes brimming with echoes of panic.

“I bet the people of Palmetto would’ve screamed too, if you had given them a chance,” I said softly. “What do you say we do it again? I bet I can turn your hair gray before lunch.”

The man scrambled away from me and sprang to his feet. He managed a good sprint for about three yards and then the rope jerked him down. Jezebel gripped it and pulled him back, dragging him across the ground.

“No!” the man wailed. “I’ll tell you anything, anything!”

Didn’t take much after all. I braced myself and let out another power word. “Dair.” Release.

The larger man sagged on the ground, his mind suddenly free. For a second he just sat there, a sad, abandoned expression on his face, and then he collapsed, curling into a ball, and bawled like a lost child.

“They’re all yours,” I said to Jim, and forced myself to walk to the Jeep. Every step took an effort. Someone had filled my shoes with lead while I wasn’t looking.

We had won. It had cost hundreds of human lives, but we had won. We had the device. We’d rout the Keepers. Maybe I’d catch a break and Julie would survive.

“We’re building another one!” the man behind me yelled through the sobs.

The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I turned slowly.

He cringed on the ground. Curran leaned to him. His face unreadable, his voice almost casual. “Run that by me again?”

“We had a man, a man on the inside.” The man’s words came out too fast, tumbling over each other. “He copied the inventor’s plans. We’ve been building it for weeks. We just needed a working prototype to fine-tune it. It’s three times as big as this one.”

Damn it all to hell.

“Range?” Curran asked.

“Five miles,” the man stammered out.

Enough power to wipe out everything from the city center all the way to Druid Hills. They could kill most of the city. All they needed was a strong magic wave.

Curran pointed at Jim. “Tell that man everything you know. Location, time, names, everything.”

Jim grabbed the man by the throat. His lips parted in a feral grin. “Don’t keep anything to yourself.”

“Barabas!” Curran roared.

The weremongoose stepped from the Pack. A hundred pounds, sheathed in reddish fur, Barabas opened his mouth filled with sharp teeth and licked his fangs. The narrow horizontal pupils slit his coral-red irises in half, making him look demonic.

“I need you human,” Curran ordered.

Fur split, melting. A moment and Barabas stood in front of Curran, nude, his eyes still glowing with madness. “Lord?”

“Call the Conclave.”

The Conclave started as a quarterly meeting between the Pack and the People, officiated by a neutral party, usually someone from the Mage Academy, and held at Bernard’s, an upscale Northside restaurant. It gave the Pack and the People a chance to resolve problems before things spiraled out of hand. The last two times, representatives of other factions had attended to resolve their own issues. I had attended only one so far, because the meeting over the Christmas holiday had been canceled by mutual agreement.

“Should I schedule it at Bernard’s?” Barabas asked.

“No. There.” Curran pointed to a lonely Western Sizzlin’ steak house sitting on a low hill. The building was all glass and stone. The tall windows overlooked the town. To get to the place, the leaders of the factions would have to ride through the graveyard that was Palmetto.

“When?”

“Four. Sunset is at six. I want them to see the town. Invite the mages, the druids, the witches, the Guild, the Natives, Norse Heritage. Invite everyone.”

“Except the Order,” I added. “The Keepers may have infiltrated it.”

Curran nodded.

“And if the cops restrict access to the area?” Barabas asked.

Gold rolled over Curran’s eyes. “Buy the place. They can’t restrict access to our own land. Go.”

Barabas took off running.

“The volhvs have the inventor,” I said. “We need access. I need to make some phone calls.”

“I’ll take you,” Curran said.

We walked to the car. I was so tired, I could barely move.

“Curran?”

“Yes?”

Today was apparently the day for finding out what mating with me really meant. I nodded at the men. “One of them has my blood on his forehead. The blood must be destroyed or it can give me away if someone scans it.”

Curran gave me a look usually reserved for the mentally challenged. “Someone would have to find the bodies, first.”

Behind him the sounds of enraged boudas tore through the silence, followed by a cacophony of screams.

“In that case, cut off his head,” I said.

Curran gave me a look like I was stupid.

“My father made the damn vampires. I don’t know what my blood will do to a dead body. Cut off the guy’s head before you bury him.”

“Should I stuff his mouth with garlic?”

“Curran!”

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”