Ilona Andrews - Magic Bites

The lunch stretched on and then suddenly it was close to one thirty and time for me to go.

“I had a great time,” he said. “But then I talked the whole time, so I suppose that’s obvious. You should’ve shut me up.”

“I enjoyed listening to you.”

He scowled at me, disbelieving, and warned, “Next time it will be your turn to talk.”

“Next time?”

“Would you go to dinner with me?”

“I would,” I found myself saying.

“Tonight?” he asked, his eyes hopeful.

“I’ll try,” I promised and actually intended to do so. “Call me around six.” I gave him my address in case the magic knocked the phone out.

I insisted on paying my half of the lunch and declined an offer to be walked to my car. The day I needed an escort was the day I’d turn my saber over to someone who knew what to do with it.

“MR. NATARAJA WOULD BE DELIGHTED TO SPEAK with you,” a cultured male voice informed me through the phone. “However, his schedule is extremely busy for the next month.”

I sighed, tapping my nails on Greg’s kitchen table. “I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name . . .”

“Charles Cole.”

“I tell you what, Charles, get Rowena on the line for me now, and I won’t tell Nataraja that you’ve tried to stonewall the Order-appointed investigator he’s been waiting for.”

There was silence and then Charles said in a slightly strained voice, “One moment, please.”

I waited by the phone, very pleased with myself. There was a click, and Rowena’s flawless voice said, “Kate, my deepest apologies. What an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

Score one for me. “No offense taken,” I told her. I could afford to be gracious. “I was notified that Nataraja would like to speak to me.”

“Indeed. Unfortunately, he’s in the field. If he knew of your intention to visit, he would have postponed. He will be back this evening and I would be indebted to you if you could meet with us later, let’s say at two tonight?”

Score one for Rowena. “No problem.”

“Thank you, Kate,” she said.

We said good-byes and hung up. She had a way of subtly turning every conversation personal, as if the matter discussed was vital to her and any refusal of her request would injure her. It worked both ways—when you agreed to something, she acted as if you did her a great personal favor. It was an art I would have loved to learn. Unfortunately I had neither time nor patience to spare.

Unsure what to do next, I tapped my fingernails on the table. Until I got my interview with Corwin, I could not eliminate him as a suspect and I had no other suspects so far. Maybe if I annoyed Nataraja enough, he would supply me with other leads, but it wouldn’t happen until tonight, which left twelve empty hours. I looked around the apartment. It had lost its immaculate air. There was dust on the windowsill, and several dishes sat in the sink. I pushed myself free of the chair and started looking for the broom, rags, and bleach. Come to think of it, a nap wouldn’t hurt either. I had a long night to look forward to.

When I woke up later in the now clean apartment, the light outside had turned the deep purple of late evening.

Crest hadn’t called. Too bad.

An interesting thought occurred to me while I lay for a few extra precious seconds in my bed, staring out the barred window at the encroaching twilight. I held on to it, padded to the kitchen, and called the Order, hoping Maxine was still there. The phone was turning into my weapon of choice.

Maxine answered.

“Good evening, Kate.”

“Do you always work late?”

“Sometimes.”

“If I asked you to check on something for me, would you do it?”

“That’s what I’m here for, dear.”

I told her about the missing women. “The cops are involved so there has to be a file on at least one of those women, Sandra Molot. I need to know if they did a general homing spell using one of her personal effects. And same for the other three.”

“Hold on, dear, I’ll try to find out.”

She put me on hold. I waited, listening to the small noises coming over the empty phone line. The night had fallen, and the apartment was dark, save for the kitchen, and eerily quiet.

Tap. Tap.

Something scratched at my kitchen window. It was a small sound, like a dry twig striking the glass.

I was on the third floor. No trees stood close to the building.

Tap.

Silently I backed into the hallway and picked up Slayer, cradling the phone between my cheek and my shoulder.

The line came alive and I almost jumped. “Jennifer Ying has no file,” Maxine said.

“Aha.” I turned the light off, drowning the kitchen in darkness.

Tap. Tap.

I moved to the window.

“They do have files on the other three women.”

I reached for the curtain and jerked it aside. Two amber eyes glared at me, full of longing and hunger. A face that was a meld of wolf and human leaned on the glass. Its misshapen horrid jaws did not fit together right and long strands of drool hung from its crooked yellowed teeth.

The skin around the lupine nose wrinkled. The nightmarish thing sniffed the glass, blowing air through its black nostrils and making a small opaque circle of condensation. It raised one deformed hand and tapped the glass with an inch-long claw.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Both standard and high-end locating spells were made in all three cases. They were blocked and produced no results. Kate?”

“Thank you very much, Maxine,” I said, unable to take my gaze off the monster at my window. “I have to go now.”

“Any time, dear. Play nice with the wolf.”

Carefully I put the phone aside. Slayer in hand, I murmured the spell dissolving the ward around the glass and unlocked the window.

The claws hooked the window’s edge and effortlessly slid it upward. The wolf-man stepped inside with marked slowness, one furry sinewy leg at a time, and stood seven feet tall in my kitchen. Dense gray fur sheathed its head, shoulders, back, and limbs, leaving the sickening face and the muscular chest bare. I could see round dark spots dot-ting the skin tightly stretched over his pectorals.

“Alright, pretty boy. What do you have for me?”

He reached toward me, holding a large envelope in his claws. A red wax seal with some sort of imprint secured the envelope.

“Open it,” I directed.

The wolf-man clumsily snapped the seal, pulled out a single piece of paper, holding it with his claws, and offered it to me. I took it. His claws left small tears in the paper.

Four lines written in beautiful calligraphy said

His Majesty Curran,

the chosen Lord of Free Beasts,

requests your presence at the meeting of his Pack

at 22:00 of this night.

The paper was signed with a scribble.

“My own fault, huh,” I said to the wolf-man. “I did tell him I wanted a formal invitation.”

The wolf stared at me. His drool made small sticky puddles on the kitchen linoleum. I thought of being alone with two hundred monsters just like him, each faster and stronger than me, ready to tear me apart at the whim of their leader, and a sinking feeling sucked at my stomach. I didn’t want to go.

“Are you supposed to escort me?”

The nightmare opened his mouth and produced a low guttural growl, the frustrated snarl of a mind gifted with the power of speech but locked in a body unable to produce the words. Only the most adept of the shapechangers could speak in a midform.

“Nod, if yes,” I said.

The wolf nodded slowly.

“Very well. I need to change. Stay here. Don’t move. This is a dangerous place for a wolf. Nod if you understand.”