Magic Bleeds

CHAPTER 14

I WOKE UP EARLY AND LAY IN BED FOR ABOUT TEN minutes, thinking of various ways I could kill Curran. Unfortunately, I still had the Steel Mary to catch, so I dragged myself out of bed and got dressed.

Outside the world had turned completely white. The snow must’ve started shortly after I got in and at least three inches of powder covered the asphalt. Thick gray clouds smothered the sky. Cold burned my face. Winter had taken Atlanta into its mouth and bit hard.

I looked at the attack poodle. “Are you cold?”

He wiggled his shaved butt at me.

I went back inside and added a T-shirt under my turtleneck and a green sweatshirt on top of it. Together with my old cloak, the layers would keep me warm. Next, I retrieved an old torn-up black sweater from the closet, cut off the sleeves, and stuffed the poodle into it. Since I’d shaved him, I now had to provide the artificial fur. He looked . . . cute. Some people got vicious Dobermans. I got a shaved attack poodle in a black sweater. His tough, spawn-of-hell image had taken a fatal blow, but at least he would be warm.

We headed to the Order. The snow crunched under my feet. Saiman would love it. Being a frost giant, he lived for winter. For me, the winter meant high heating bills, eating lean, and freezing as I tried to conquer snowdrifts. The colder the weather, the more poor people would die of exposure.

We turned a corner onto a narrow path between two rows of decrepit office buildings. The magic hit hard here. Some offices had crumbled and spilled onto the street in huge piles of bricks and mortar. Some teetered on the brink of collapse, looking over the edge but not quite willing to take a plunge. Once the entire street crumbled, the city would clear the rubble out and rebuild—the location was too close to the Capitol to remain vacant for long.

A male voice floated from behind the bend. “. . . just walk right on. Gotta pay.”

A shakedown. I picked up speed and circled the pile of debris.

Two men and a woman crowded an older woman toward a concrete building, all three with a familiar hungry look in their eyes. Not professional thugs, just opportunists—saw an easy mark and took a chance. Bad idea.

The older woman saw me. Short, stocky, she was swaddled in a dark garment. An indigo mesh veil covered her dark hair and forehead. Two deep-set eyes looked at me from a face the color of walnut. She showed no expression. No fear. No anxiety.

I headed toward them. The attack poodle trotted next to me, amused.

“It’s our turf,” the younger woman barked.

“Actually it’s my turf.”

The thugs spun to me.

“Let’s see . . . You’re hassling people in my territory, so you owe me a fee. A couple of fingers ought to do it. Do we have a volunteer?”

The small thug pulled a bowie knife from a sheath on his waist.

I kept coming. “That’s a mistake.”

The thug crouched down. He clenched his knife, like he was drowning and it was a straw that would pull him out. A little crazy light danced in his eyes. “Come on, whore. Come on.”

The oldest bluff in the book: get a crazy glimmer in your eyes, look like you’re ready to fight, and the other guy might back off. Heh.

“That might work better for you if you held the knife properly. You were doing okay until you pulled the blade. Now I know that you have no clue how to use it and I’ll have to chop your hand off and shove that knife up your ass just to teach you a lesson. Nothing personal. I have a reputation to uphold.”

I pulled Slayer out. I had years of practice to back me up and I made the draw fast.

The two bravos behind the knife-wielding thug backed away.

I looked at Slayer’s blade. “Well, check this out. Mine is bigger. Let’s go, knife-master. I don’t have all day.”

The knife thug took a small step back, spun on his heel, and peeled out like his life depended on it. His friends chased him down the alley.

I sheathed Slayer. Their would-be victim didn’t move. Her eyes stared straight at me, unblinking, the irises so dark, I couldn’t tell where her pupils were. She smiled, wide lips stretching, her mouth opened, and she laughed. It was a throaty, genuine laugh, deep for a woman.

She wasn’t laughing at the thugs. She was laughing at me.

“Are you alright, ma’am?”

She gave no indication of having heard me.

I shook my head and kept going. The attack poodle followed. The woman’s laughter floated after me. Even after we turned off onto the side path, I could still hear it.

“It doesn’t matter if she’s a creepy old lady,” I told the attack poodle. “We still had to do our job.”

Ten minutes later we stepped through the door of the Order’s building. Andrea exploded out of the staircase, her eyes huge.

“Someone broke into Curran’s private quarters in the Keep and welded his weight bench together. They also melted the lock on the room where he entertains his women. Was it you?”

“He’s making a big deal about never expecting me to behave like a shapeshifter. So I did.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

It’s not polite to lie to your best friend. “It’s a possibility.”

“You challenged him. The whole Keep is talking about it. He’ll have to retaliate. He’s a cat, Kate, which means he’s weird, and he never courted anyone that way. There is no telling what he’ll do. He doesn’t operate in the same world you do. He might blow up your house because he thinks it’s funny.”

I waved my arm. “It doesn’t matter. He didn’t get it.”

Andrea shook her blond head. “Oh no. He got it.”

“How do you know?”

“Your office smells like him.”

Oh crap.

“Can you sniff out what he did?”

Andrea grimaced. “I can try. But no promises.”

THE OFFICE LOOKED PERFECTLY NORMAL.

Andrea wrinkled her nose and surveyed my working space. “Well, he definitely was here. I’d say about two hours ago.”

She closed her eyes and moved to my desk. “He stood here for a while.” She turned, eyes still closed, and paused by my bookshelves. “Yep, here, too.” She opened her eyes and pulled a book from the far end. The cover showed a drawing of a lion sprawled on a rock outcropping. “You’re reading about lions?”

“Research,” I told her. “In self-defense.”

“Well, he flipped through it.”

Probably chuckled to himself, too.

“I’m not sure how he came in . . .” Andrea frowned.

“Through the window,” I told her.

Her blond eyebrows came together. “How do you figure?”

“The bars are missing.” He must’ve disabled the alarm, too. If the magic had been up, he wouldn’t have gotten through the wards in a million years.

She stared at the window, where the fastenings of a once mighty metal grate jutted sadly into the empty space. “Good call.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I’m a trained investigator—that’s just the way we roll.”

Andrea rolled her eyes. “If he did anything, I don’t see it. Sorry.”

“Thanks anyway.”

She left. I trudged down to the rec room and got a small doughnut and a cup of coffee. On my return, the office didn’t look any different. Nothing out of place. Nothing jumping out at me. What the hell did he do? Maybe he did something to my desk. I sat into my chair and checked the drawers. Nope, all my magic crap was still where it was supposed to be.

The phone rang. I picked it up.

“Are you sitting down?” Curran’s voice asked.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Click.

I listened to the disconnect signal. If he wanted me to sit, then I’d stand. I got up. The chair got up with me and I ended up bent over my desk, with the chair stuck to my butt. I grabbed the edge of the chair and tried to pull it off. It remained stuck.

I would murder him. Slowly. And I’d enjoy every second of it.

I sat back down and tried to push from the chair. No dice. I clamped the sides of the table and tried to twist myself off. The chair legs screeched, scraping across the carpet.

Okay.

I picked up the phone and dialed Andrea’s extension.

“Yes?”

“He glued the chair to my ass.”

Silence.

“Is it still . . . attached?”

“I can’t get it off.”

Andrea made some choking noises that sounded suspiciously like laughter. “Does it hurt?”

“No. But I can’t get up.”

Choking turned into moans.

“Visitor,” Maxine murmured in my head.

That’s just perfect. I hung up and crossed my arms over my chest. When your butt is permanently attached to a chair, the only thing you can do is sit and hope to look professional.

A familiar man stepped into my office. Of average height and average build, he had a pleasantly unremarkable face, well formed, but neither handsome, nor affected by any strong emotion. If you passed him on a street, you might overlook him the same way you would overlook a familiar building. He was a perfect blank slate, except for the eyes and his black overcoat. Elegant and soft, it was made of some wool I’d never seen before.

“Hello, Saiman.”

“Good morning.”

He paused, probably hoping I’d get up to greet him. Fat chance.

“What can I do for you?”

Saiman sat in my client chair and surveyed my office. “So this is where you work?”

“This is my secret HQ.”

“Your Batcave?”

I nodded. “Complete with Robin.”

The attack poodle showed Saiman his teeth.

“He’s delightful.”

“What is your coat made out of?”

Saiman gave me a blank look. “Cashmere.”

I didn’t know they made coats out of cashmere. “Is it warm?”

“Very.” He sat back.

“So why do you need it?” I’d seen him dance naked in the snow before, with snowflakes chasing him like happy puppies.

He shrugged. “Appearances are everything. Speaking of appearances, your Batcave looks . . . what is the word I’m looking for?”

“Sparse, functional . . .”

“Shabby.”

I hit him with my hard stare. “Shabby?”

“Shopworn. Which brings me to my point.” He reached into his spiffy coat and pulled out the petition report I’d given him the day before. My summary of the case so far, listing facts, research, and theories. “I’ve read your summary.”

“And?”

“It’s not incompetent.”

Be still, my heart, so I don’t faint from such faint praise. “Did you expect it to be written in crayon?”

Saiman grimaced and raised his hand. “Hear me out. You’ve surprised me. This analysis is mercifully free of the amateurish enthusiasm and faulty reasoning I expected from you. If you can forgive a colloquialism, you do project the image of brawn over brains. Which isn’t to say that your native intelligence isn’t evident; on the contrary, but there is a great deal of difference between a naturally agile mind and a mind trained in logical deduction.”

I rubbed my face. “For a man trained in logical deduction, you should be able to deduce the consequences of insulting a person of brawn in her shabby office.”

He shook his head. “You know what you could be, Kate? An expert. You have the potential to become a true professional. All you need are the proper tools and freedom to use them. Here is my offer to you: I will lease and furnish a space, providing starting capital for, let us say, six months to a year. The main expense will come in the form of equipment. You’ll need a quality m-scanner.” He counted off on his fingers. “A working computer with a printer station, and a well-stocked herbal and chemical supply room, and an arsenal, all of which I’ll obtain for you. We’ll set up a relaxed repayment schedule. You can be completely independent. You can pick and choose your clients, provided that, when needed, my professional needs take precedence over the rest of your client list. You have a solid reputation, and with my backing, you can capitalize on it and be very successful. This is a professional offer, Kate. Strictly business, with no personal strings attached.”

“Why, thank you, that lovely beachside property in Kansas you’re selling sounds wonderful.”

“Your abilities complement my own. I can use you, and I would much rather rely on you than on the people I employ now, because you can do it better and you’re chained by a code of ethics, which, while bewildering, would prevent you from betraying me. My offer makes more sense than working long hours for an organization that is refusing to provide you with the resources and authority to adequately do your job.”

A small part of me actually sat up and thought, This sounds good. Ted must’ve gotten deeper under my skin than I’d realized.

At the core, Saiman was right. I was paid a fraction of what a knight made, my professional designation was precarious at best, and my half-assed status barred me from most of the resources available to a full-fledged member of the Order. If I took a cynical view, and it was probably right on the money, Ted had placed me into this position of “neither here nor there” on purpose. It was a bait-and-wait. Show me things I could have, give me a taste, and wait until I got frustrated enough to demand the whole enchilada and agree to joining the Order permanently. Except that he decided I betrayed the human race in the Midnight Games.

I looked at Saiman. “How do you decide if someone is human?”

He braided his long, slender fingers on his bent knee. “I don’t. It’s not up to me to assess someone’s humanity. Being human in our world is synonymous with being included into the framework of society. Humanity entitles one to certain rights and privileges, but also implies voluntary acceptance of laws and rules of conduct. It transcends mere biology. It’s a choice and therefore belongs solely to the individual. In essence, if a person feels they are human, then they are.”

“Do you feel you’re human?”

He frowned. “It’s a complex question.”

Considering that he was part Norse god, part frost giant, and part human, his hesitation was understandable.

“In a philosophical sense of the concept, I view myself as a person, a being conscious of its sentience. In the biological sense, I possess the ability to procreate with a human and produce a viable offspring. So yes, I consider myself a type of human. A different species of human perhaps, but human nonetheless.”

I considered myself human. I knew Andrea did, too. Derek was human to me. So were Jim and Dali. And Curran. Ted Moynohan did not see them as humans. He wasn’t alone. I’d glimpsed similar views within the Order during my time at the Academy. That, more than anything else, made me want to leave.

“Back to my offer—being your own boss has its advantages,” Saiman said. “Money doesn’t purchase happiness, but it does provide comfort, cashmere coats, and chocolate. Think about it.”

Thank you for that demonstration of your steel-trap memory. The only time he caught me drooling over chocolate was almost three years ago, when we first met. Saiman forgot nothing. “It’s a good offer. But I would be trading the Order’s leash for the chain of being in debt to you.”

His voice gained a soft velvet quality. “Being in debt to me wouldn’t be taxing.”

I matched his voice. “Oh, I think it would. A leash is a leash, whether it’s silk or chains.”

Saiman smiled. “It wouldn’t have to be silk, Kate.”

Full stop. Change of subject before we got to a place I didn’t want to go. “Were you able to crack my parchment?”

Saiman assumed a martyred expression. “I should be insulted that after all this time you still doubt me.”

I knew what was coming—the Saiman show. He’d cracked it and now he wanted to show off.

Saiman reached into his coat and produced a narrow lead box. “Are you familiar with the Blind Monk’s Scrolls?”

“No.”

“Twelve years ago, an Eastern Orthodox monk by the name of Voroviev attempted to exorcise what he perceived as a demon, which had taken over the local school. He sought to banish the deity. The creature had attacked him during the exorcism, blinding him, and he defended himself by means of an ancient religious scroll containing a prayer. When the exorcism was completed, the scroll went blank. It was placed into a glass case, and over the course of the next three years, the writing gradually reappeared.”

“What happened to the monk?”

“He died of his injuries. The question before us is why did the writing on the scroll vanish?”

I frowned. “I’d guess that the scroll’s enchantment was exhausted by coming into contact with the creature. If the writing itself was magic, it would vanish.”

“Precisely. The scroll slowly absorbed magic from the environment, and when it replenished its magic reservoir, the writing reappeared. Your parchment is of the same ilk. The writing is still there, it’s simply weakened beyond the level of our detection.” He snapped his fingers. A black oblong stone about the size of my middle finger popped into his hand. Saiman the magician. Oy.

He turned the stone. A rainbow danced across the smooth black surface. He wanted me to ask a question. I obliged. “What is it?”

“A tear of rainbow obsidian retrieved from under a ley line. Very rare. When properly positioned, it picks up residual magic, amplifies it, and emits it. I placed your parchment on one side of it and a piece of true vellum, calfskin, on the other. The vellum was cured with chanting over a period of two months. It’s extremely magic sensitive. A scroll of this vellum costs upward of five thousand. As I’ve mentioned, my fee is a mere pittance.”

“You’re making more on this job than I make in a year.”

“A disparity I have offered to remedy.”

Not in this lifetime. “So the obsidian picked up the weak magic from the parchment and radiated it onto the vellum. What was the result?”

Saiman opened the box and held up a small square of vellum. Blank. All except a corner, where eight tiny lines crossed each other: four vertical and four horizontal, forming a square sectioned off into nine smaller squares, like a tic-tac-toe field. Numbers filled the squares: 4, 9, 2, 3, 5, 7, 8, 1, 6.

I’d seen this before. The sum of each row, column, or diagonal would be equal. “Zahlenquadrat. Magic square.”

Saiman cleared his throat. He must’ve expected me to be baffled and I stole his thunder.

“Yes. The magic square is quite old. It was used by Greeks, Romans, Chinese, Hindus—”

The wheels in my head started turning. This was the area of magic I knew very well, because it related to my biological father. “It’s a nine square, three by three. Five in the middle, the sum is fifteen. The Jews employed Hebrew letters as numerals. The center number, five, corresponds to the Hebrew letter heh, which is a symbol for Tetragrammaton, YHWH, the holiest of the names of God. The sum, fifteen, is the Hebrew yah, which in itself is a name of God. This is a Jewish magic square.”

Saiman’s handsome face jerked. “I had no idea you’ve studied Jewish mysticism. How interesting . . .” He let his voice trail into silence.

Jewish scholars wrote down everything and hoarded their records as if they were made of gold. Half of what I knew about my family came from those scrolls and I had studied them since Voron taught me to read.

I looked at him. “Is there a way to restore the rest of the parchment now that we know to whom it belongs?”

He leaned back. “The Temple on Peachtree possesses a secret room. Within the room there is a magic circle. If you stand inside the circle, provided you’re strong enough, it will use your magic to restore the writing to its original form. The chances of success are much higher if the writing is of Hebrew origin.”

Finally. I’d get a fix on the Steel Mary. About time, too.

“Of course, you have to wait until the magic is up for the circle to work, and given that the wave ended early this morning, I’d say getting into the Temple today isn’t likely. A word of warning. First, the circle may drain you dry; second, there is a price for using the circle, and I won’t be able to help you. I’m afraid I’m a persona non grata in Jewish houses of worship. I do suspect that if I were to venture into Toco Hills or Dunwoody and were discovered, I may have to fight my way out.”

I blinked. “What did you do?”

Saiman shrugged. “Let’s just say that a certain young rabbi was rather zealous in his study of sin. He was happy to trade privileged information for that knowledge and I was happy to instruct him.”

Ugh. “You seduced a rabbi.”

Saiman smiled. “I seduced several. But the last affair was the only one to have exploded into the public eye. A pity, too. He was a proverbial font of sensitive information.”

I almost laughed. “So why not go as someone else?”

Saiman wrinkled his lip in disgust. “They have a golem. It sniffs the odor of your magic, and it is, alas, infallible. I’ve tried. Have I proven my usefulness to your satisfaction?”

“Yes. Don’t worry, I remember. Dress, tonight, your company.”

“Actually that’s not what I had in mind. I hope to receive an answer to a question.”

I arched my eyebrow at him.

“What is wrong with your chair?”

Perceptive bastard. “I’m sorry?”

Saiman leaned forward. “You move while you sit, Kate. You touch your sword to make sure it’s there, you change the angle of your body, and so on. You’re chronically unable to sit still. But you haven’t moved since we began our friendly chat.”

I raised my head. “My butt is glued to my chair.”

“Literally or figuratively?”

“Literally.” Say something. Make my day. I could still kick your ass even with the chair on my butt.

A little light danced in Saiman’s eyes. “How peculiar. Was it a practical joke?”

“Yes, it was.” And the joker would get a piece of my mind as soon as I managed to detach myself from the furniture.

“I found that, in cases like this, the easiest way out is to remove the trousers. Of course, it might be a soluble glue. Would you like me to take a look?”

“No, I would not.”

Saiman’s lips quivered a little. “If you’re positive.”

“I am.”

“It really is no trouble.”

“Examining my butt is not included in our agreement. My parchment, please.”

Saiman passed me the plastic bag and rose. “Do let me know how it turns out.”

“Go away.”

He chuckled to himself and departed. I took a gulp of my coffee. Cold. Eh. At least my blueberry doughnut would taste the same hot or cold. Except for one small problem—I’d left the doughnut on the outer side of the desk and getting to it would require me to get up.

My phone rang. I picked it up.

“Acetone,” Andrea’s voice said. “Dissolves everything. I found a gallon of it in the armory. We soak the chair and you’re good to . . . Oh shit. Incoming!”

I dropped the phone and grabbed my sword.

Curran stepped through the doorway.

“You!”

My attack poodle surged off the floor, teeth on display.

Gold sparked in Curran’s eyes. He looked at the poodle. The dog backed away, growling under his breath.

I ground the words through my teeth. “Leave my dog alone.”

Curran kept looking.

The dog backed into the wall and lay down.

Curran strolled in, carrying some sort of garment. “Nice dog. Love the sweater.”

I’d mince him into tiny, tiny, tiny pieces . . .

“I changed my mind about the catnip.” He held up the garment. A French maid outfit, complete with a lacy apron.

Slayer’s hilt was smooth in my fingers. Beast Lord or not, he did bleed.

The poodle growled.

Curran hung the outfit on the back of the door and approached my desk. That’s right, come closer. Closer. Closer . . .

He struck at the desk, preternaturally fast. Tiny hairs rose on the back of my neck. I barely saw it. One moment his hand was empty, the next it held my doughnut. He bit it. “Mmm, blueberry.”

In my mind, his head exploded.

“Hard to protect your food with your ass anchored.” He saluted me with the doughnut. “When you’re ready to talk, call me. You know the number.”

He walked out.