Ilona Andrews - Magic Binds

“Retaliate,” Curran said, his face grim.

“He can’t retaliate,” I said.

“I can’t answer questions,” Robert said. “But I can listen to advice. He didn’t forbid me to listen.”

“Is there proof that Jezebel acted on Roland’s orders?” Curran asked.

Robert didn’t answer.

“Probably not,” Andrea said. “If there is, that information hasn’t been shared with us.”

“In the absence of proof,” Curran said, “to outsiders this looks like one member of the Pack attacked another. It’s a Pack matter.”

“If Jim retaliated in force against my father, it would mean a declaration of war,” I said. “He and the Pack are within the land I protect. Roland wants war, but he doesn’t want to break the treaty. He will seize any opportunity. Jim’s actions will be viewed as an unprovoked attack.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Curran said, watching Robert. “He’s made up his mind.”

“What would you do if your mate was stabbed in the heart with a silver blade?” Robert asked.

“I would wait until I was absolutely sure that I could destroy my enemy,” Curran said. “I wouldn’t throw my people away. He can’t kill Roland, Robert. He doesn’t have the resources. All he can do is kill some of Roland’s people and a lot of his own. Roland’s forces are disposable. Our people, the Pack, are not.”

“The future is a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

They looked at me.

“We worked so hard not to provoke him and it doesn’t matter in the end,” I said. “The battle will happen. We can’t stop it.”

Curran looked at Robert. “Tell him that after he goes through with it, Roland will retaliate in force. Tell Jim he knows where we live. We’ll be here.”

“Tell him that he is endangering every person in the city limits,” I said.

“Hypothetically speaking,” Robert said, “if the attack happens, and Roland retaliates, what will you do about it?”

“She is a princess of Shinar.” My aunt burst into existence in the middle of the kitchen. “It is by the grace of her mercy you are still breathing.”

Robert stumbled back. Raphael’s hands went to his knives. Andrea bared her teeth, cradling Baby B. You could hear a pin drop.

“I have family in town for the wedding,” I said into the silence. “My aunt, Eahrratim, the Rose of Tigris.”

Curran covered his face with his hand.

“Your pathetic castle is in her domain,” Erra said. “She can level it with a thought. If your Beast Lord picks a fight with my brother, how will you survive without her to shield you?”

“We’ll fight,” Robert said, his body tense, ready to leap and tear.

“And when fire rains from the sky and the earth opens to swallow you, who will you fight then? How much damage will your claws do to a flood? Tell that to your king, half-breed.”

My aunt vanished.

Andrea pivoted to me, her mouth open, and shook her finger at the spot where Erra had stood.

“Long story,” I told her.

“Tell Jim that after he has his fun, we’ll be here,” Curran said to Robert. “Tell him that help is here. All he needs to do is ask.”

THERE WERE CARS in the parking lot of Cutting Edge.

“We’re agreed?” I asked.

“Fine,” my aunt said into my ear.

“Please do not manifest. Please.”

“I’m not hard of hearing.”

“It scares people,” Curran said. “And we want to keep the element of surprise. If Roland finds out that you’re here, helping Kate, we’ll lose it.”

“He won’t find out unless your people talk,” Erra said. “He can’t feel me unless I want him to. That’s one of the privileges of being dead—and if the two of you don’t shut up, I will let you experience it for yourselves.”

I bumped my forehead against the dashboard.

“I’ll park,” Curran said.

I checked that her dagger was securely in the sheath, exited the car, and walked through the door into the office. All of our desks had been moved aside and put by the wall. Ascanio sat on my desk. He’d called me from Cutting Edge before I left the house asking me if he should let Saiman in. I told him to do it.

A large young woman with a mane of dark curly hair pulled back from her face sat on a chair. She turned when I walked in. Her lips were blue and the traditional ta moko covered her chin. Maori. It didn’t look smooth either. Someone had used a uni chisel instead of modern tattoo needles.

In the center of the now-empty office, a small raised platform stood. Several full-length mirrors waited stacked against the far wall. Saiman turned as I walked in. I had expected him to be back in his neutral shape. He wasn’t. He was six feet tall, gaunt, and frail, leaning on a cane, and the black bodysuit he wore showed off every rib. His face was still that of a frost giant. He’d humanized it enough for people not to stare at him on the streets and that was it. His sunken cheeks made the cheekbones in his face even more prominent. Eyes made of winter ice looked at me from under shaggy eyebrows. Two small night tables and a large wooden chest stood on the floor by him.

“Have you eaten?” I asked.

“Yes. I need you to strip and stand on the platform.”

Everybody wanted to take my clothes off today. I pulled off my boots and began to strip.

Curran decided this was a good time to walk in. He looked at me, looked at Saiman, and parked himself by the wall with his arms crossed.

I stripped to my underwear and a sports bra and climbed onto the platform.

“Zoe, if you please.”

The Maori woman picked up a large drawing pad and walked over.

“This is Zoe. She is able to see an image for an instant and perfectly reproduce it. Given the impact seeing the writing had on me, we have to take certain precautions.”

Saiman nodded and Zoe went to stand behind me.

Saiman waved at Ascanio. The bouda jumped off the table and came over.

“Take a mirror and set it so Zoe can see her reflection.”

Ascanio picked up one of the mirrors and set it in front of me.

“A little more to the left,” Zoe said.

He moved the mirror and kicked the stand with his foot, opening it. I saw my reflection in the mirror. The bruises were fading.

“And the mirror is supposed to help?”

“Yes. The writing loses potency with reflection.”

“How do you know this?”

“Because when I looked directly at you in the Mercenary Guild as you were absorbing a power word, my head wanted to explode. When I looked away and accidentally caught your reflection in the glass, it hurt significantly less.”

Saiman took one of the night tables, walked to the right front corner of the platform, and walked exactly six steps diagonally. “Do you remember David Miller?”

“Yes.” David Miller was a magical idiot savant. Nobody ever managed to teach him how to use his enormous reserve of magic, but after he died it was discovered that the objects he had handled gained strange powers. His descendants had sold them off to different buyers, deliberately trying to scatter them, but Saiman collected all of them over the years. He’d used Miller’s bowling ball to produce a vision of my aunt when we were trying to identify her as she rampaged through Atlanta.

Saiman took one step to the right and placed the night table. He came back, picked up the second night table, walked back to the first night table exactly the same way, turned, and walked to the left for eight steps.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to measure?” Curran asked.

“Measuring doesn’t work,” Saiman said.

“Why?” Curran asked.

“Nobody knows. Counting the steps is a part of the ritual.”

Saiman opened the wooden trunk and took out a pink vase with three fake pink roses in it. He walked directly to the first night table and set the vase on it. A lava lamp with pink and blue wax was the next to come out of the trunk. He set it on the second table. The third item was a bright pink fake fur rug. Saiman carefully placed it in front of the platform and turned to me.