Ilona Andrews - Magic Bleeds

I steered through the gates into the courtyard. A familiar figure sauntered to the truck. Derek. I’d know that wolf gait anywhere.

Three months ago Derek had been handsome. He’d had one of those perfect male faces, fresh, almost bordering on pretty, and dark, velvet eyes that made women wish to be fifteen again. Then rakshasas poured molten metal on his face. It healed. He wasn’t disfigured, although he thought he was, but his face had lost its perfect lines.

His nose was thicker, his jaw bulkier. His eyebrow ridge protruded farther, making his eyes appear more deep set, the result of the Lyc-V thickening the bone and cartilage in response to trauma. The skin along his hairline on the left temple showed permanent scarring, where bits of his shattered skull had become lodged in the muscle. I touched it once and it felt like grains of salt under the surface of the skin. With longer hair, it would be practically invisible, but Derek kept his hair short. There were other small, minute things—the slight change in the shape of the mouth, the network of small scars on the right cheek. His face now made you want to call for backup. He looked like an older, scarred, vicious version of himself.

And his eyes were no longer velvet. One look into those eyes and you knew their owner had been through some heavy shit and, if he got pissed off, you wanted to be miles away.

I shut off the engine. The sudden silence was deafening.

Derek opened the door for me. “Hey, Kate.” He had a wolf’s voice, raspy, harsh around the edges, and occasionally sardonic. The ordeal at the Midnight Games had permanently damaged his vocal cords as well as his face. He’d never howl at the moon again, in fur or out, but his snarl made you cringe.

He looked my truck over. “Nice vehicle. Inconspicuous. Stealthy even.”

“Spare me.” I got out, carrying Teddy Jo’s sword wrapped in flame-retardant cloth, and shut the car in the poodle’s face. “Stay.”

Derek nodded at the vehicle. “Who is that?”

“Your replacement.”

He led me away from the front gate to a narrow side door.

“You replaced me with a shaved poodle?”

“He’s got mad skills.”

Derek’s eyebrows crept up.

“He can vomit and urinate at the same time and he doesn’t make fun of my car.”

He laughed under his breath.

We entered the door and started up a long winding staircase. “Let me guess, he’s up at the very top.”

Derek nodded. “Curran has the top floor to himself.”

“It’s good to be the Beast Lord.”

We kept climbing. And climbing. And climbing. Five minutes later the stairs finally ended in a large door. Derek opened it, inviting me into a small room, ten by ten. Another door blocked the exit at the far wall.

Derek waited a moment.

The second door swung open, revealing two shapeshifters, an older bald man and a woman about my age, both in superb shape. They gave me the evil eye.

Derek nodded at them.

They plainly didn’t want to let me in.

Amber rolled over Derek’s eyes. “Move,” he said quietly.

They stepped aside. Derek motioned me in. “Please.”

The boy wonder had moved up the ranks.

We passed between the shapeshifters into a hallway. On the left was a small room. A third shapeshifter, a man about Derek’s age, sat there.

We strode down the hallway, the older man and the woman shadowing us. Curran’s guards definitely had doubts about my presence here. They were right. I was up to no good.

“The gym will be on the left.” Derek nodded at the hallway, where the stone wall ended, replaced by glass. “His living quarters are upstairs. There is a small stairway down the hall.”

He pointed to the doors as we passed them. “Private meeting room. Sauna.”

“And that?” I nodded to another door.

The bodyguards looked like someone had stepped on their feet.

Derek’s face turned perfectly neutral. “It’s reserved for the female guests.”

I opened the door. A huge canopied bed occupied most of the room, gauzy curtains drawn up like clouds above the snow-white comforter. The furniture was pale, blond oak with golden accents, elegant and light, almost floating above the polished wooden floor. A large dresser stood against the wall, next to a vanity table with a three-panel mirror. The middle of the floor was taken over by an overstuffed sofa facing a fireplace with a thick white rug by it. A flat screen hung on the wall above the fireplace. The far wall was frosted glass, strategically interrupted by clear stretches forming a bamboo design. The door stood ajar and through it I saw a pristine hot tub.

“Where is Barbie?”

The female shapeshifter snickered and choked it off.

“Is there a stripper pole?”

The older man winced. Derek looked pained. “No.” “Speakers for the mood music?”

Derek pointed at the corner above a small refrigerator. I bet there was cold champagne in that fridge.

I stepped out, shut the door, and pulled on an oven mitten. The shapeshifters watched me with great interest. I untied the cord securing the flame-retardant cloth on Teddy Jo’s sword and handed it to Derek, revealing a thick, asbestos-lined scabbard. “Hold this, please.”

He took it.

I grasped the onyx-colored hilt and pulled the sword free. It was a classic Hoplite blade, leaf-shaped, about two feet long. A spark ran down the metal, from the hilt to the point. The blade burst into blinding white fire.

The shapeshifters jerked back.

Derek’s eyes went wide. “Where did you get this?”

“It’s a loaner from the Greek angel of death.” I aimed the sword at the lock and touched it to the door. Blue sparks flew.

“What are you doing?” the female bodyguard snarled.

“I’m welding the bimbo room shut.”

She opened her mouth and clamped it closed without a word.

I lifted the sword. The lock had melted into a blob of quickly cooling metal. Lovely. I held the sword straight up and turned to Derek. “Where did you say the gym was?”

They led me down the hallway into a large room. The gym was state of the art: a free-weight rack, filled with custom dumbbells, a curl bar for working the biceps, a station for dips and leg raises, and in the middle of the floor the bench press—a leather bench with a bar rest. You lay flat on the bench and raised a bar loaded with weights above your chest. Curran’s bar was already loaded. I checked the numbers etched on the disks—custom made, two hundreds and a fifty on each side. Five hundred pounds. The bar had to be specially made to support the weight. Curran truly was a scary bastard.

I smiled and lowered the flaming sword.

THE PHONE SCREAMED. I CLAWED MY EYES OPEN. Twelve minutes after 2 a.m. I had gotten in about two hours ago—Teddy Jo wanted to chat, and while we chatted, the magic crashed. It took me forever to get home, and my skull hummed like someone was beating a kettle drum between my ears.

I yawned and picked up the phone. “Kate Daniels.”

“That was a custom weight bench!” Curran snarled.

My voice dripped bewildered innocence. “I’m sorry?”

“You welded the press bar to my bench.”

“Perhaps it would help if you started at the beginning. I take it someone broke into your private exercise facility in the Keep?”

“You! It was you. Your scent is all over the bench.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Why would I vandalize your bench press?” Think, Curran. Think, you idiot.

A lion roar burst through the phone. I held it away from my ear until he was done. “Very scary. I feel it’s my duty to remind you that threatening a member of law enforcement is punishable by law. If you would like to file a petition regarding your break-in, the Order will gladly look into the matter for you.”