The Borderkind

CHAPTER 9

T he castle of Otranto stood on a hillside above a broad lake whose calm, silvery surface reflected back the image of the castle. It was a grim, practical structure built for the glory of war rather than pride. Round towers marked each corner and the outer walls were windowless. Near the top they were lined with iron spikes to prevent climbing. Even in peacetime, there were soldiers on the battlements and sentries on the tops of the towers and at the gate.

Hunyadi’s flag waved in the breeze from a post atop the gatehouse.

The king was in residence.

Oliver rode alone toward the castle on a road that curved northward through fertile farmland. Men and women worked the fields, harvesting everything from berries to barley. In the distance, the span of two entire hills displayed an orchard full of fruit trees. Pickers carried barrels to wagons drawn by horses, and children ran amongst the trees. Despite the distance, Oliver fancied that he could hear their laughter.

Small rowboats drifted on the lake, each carrying fishermen who had poles and nets. On the far side of the lake there grazed herds of sheep and cattle. Beyond that, near the forest, he saw several farmhouses spaced quite far apart, complete with barns and pens. There would be chickens and pigs and the like, he presumed. Oliver had the strangest thought-that this thriving community existed only when the king was in residence. Absurd, of course, that these people would simply disappear when Hunyadi was back in Perinthia.

In truth, it was alive with more vigor and honest effort than any place he had seen on this side of the Veil. Rather than a step into another world, it felt to Oliver like a step back in time, to a simpler era. To a man willing to put in a hard day’s work, Otranto might have been paradise.

Oliver rode on, toward the gatehouse. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the land, and stretched the dark silhouette of horse and rider so that they were unrecognizable. The Sword of Hunyadi hung in its scabbard at his side. The letters for the king were in the saddlebag. He rode now toward a castle full of soldiers who had orders to execute him on sight. Oliver no longer bore any real resemblance to the man he once had been, but he wondered if that was because he had changed so dramatically, or because his true self had at last been given free rein.

A lawyer who buried himself in paperwork and lived in the shadow and the grasp of his father-that had been the way the world knew him. But this was a different world. The concerns that had governed his old life were no longer valid. He was desperate to save his sister, and to find his way back to Julianna. But all of the yearnings that had made a New England attorney seek out the freedom of the stage, to indulge fantasy as an actor no matter how foolish his father deemed it, had formed the basis for his survival here.

Now, once again, the actor in him had to take the stage. In order to get in to see the king, he would have to create a character, and his performance would have to be perfect. But Oliver had always felt most confident on the stage. As an actor, he could be anyone and do anything. There was freedom in that.

Kitsune had ridden behind him on the horse and had been as good as her word, guiding him along the path to Otranto. They had passed farms and residences, ridden through two small villages, and no one had attempted to question them-or even stop them-about their identity or destination. At a river crossing they had stopped at a grist mill and gratefully accepted bread that the miller’s wife had made with her own grain.

When at last they had come over a hill and seen the towers of the castle in the distance, Kitsune had tugged his sleeve and told him to stop. She had dismounted and instructed him to wait half an hour, to give her that time to slip into the castle if she could. He’d rather not have had to ride up to the castle alone, but if he had any hope of going unrecognized, he could not approach the king’s men accompanied by a Borderkind, and by Kitsune in particular.

Diminishing instantly to the shape of a fox, she gazed up at him with those jade eyes and then dashed down the hill and into a small copse of trees. She would work her way toward the castle and within its walls, if possible. Oliver would not know if she had succeeded until he saw her.

He rode toward the main gates. The shadows grew longer and the horse snorted with exertion.

On the shore of the lake, Oliver saw several fishermen pause in their work to watch him ride to the gate. One of them had waded up to his waist in the water and held his fishing pole with a singular nonchalance, as though catching fish was entirely beside the point and the simple act of fishing was enough.

Oliver tore his gaze away from the lake, and he slowed the horse so as not to unduly alarm the guards. As he rode toward the gatehouse-the front gates open and the portcullis within already raised-the two guards in front were joined by two more. All four wore a heavy brown leather armor adorned with the insignia of the king, and helmets of leather and iron that were unlike any he had seen before. The iron was both cap and frame, and the leather hung down on either side and buckled at the throat for protection.

The soldiers put their hands upon their swords but left them undrawn.

“Dismount!” one of them said, stepping forward.

Oliver presumed him the captain, or at least the ranking officer. During their ride, Kitsune had familiarized him with some of the general protocol of the Two Kingdoms. When he had first crossed the Veil with Frost, he hadn’t any reason to need to know such things. Now, though, he was quite glad that he did. He summoned all of the arrogance he could muster, slipping into character just as he would have on the stage.

“I dislike your tone, sir,” Oliver declared, glaring at the soldiers from the superior position of his saddle. “My name is Gareth Terlaine and I ride from Perinthia with letters for the king. Letters that bear the royal seal. Matters of government are not for soldiers or couriers. We do our duty. Mine is to deliver letters. Yours is to stand aside and make way for one who bears them, as well as the colors of the king.”

The soldiers all glanced at the banner tied around his arm, just as the real courier had tied his own. Kitsune had stolen the armband and Oliver thought it was the only thing that gave them even the most remote chance of success.

“Those are the king’s colors,” said one of the men.

The officer sneered him into silence.

“You’re dressed oddly, courier. Like a peasant, more like, or a village merchant. Aside from the royal banner, you’ve no uniform to speak of.”

Oliver smiled. They weren’t entirely stupid. “Indeed, gentlemen, when your uniform is having horse shit cleaned from the breast and the seat of your pants is being stitched and you’re called up suddenly as the courier on duty has fallen ill, you wear the best you have to hand, and the colors of the king. No shame in that, I hope.”

Still the suspicion lingered in the officer’s eyes. He held out a hand. “The letters.”

“Not on your life or mine,” Oliver replied gravely.

No courier in service to the king would hand over letters bearing the royal seal to anyone but the king himself, or his servant in the presence of the king. Kitsune had spent several months at court-or rather, in bed with a king-though that had been a very long time ago. Oliver hoped that customs had not changed since, but he had faith in Kitsune. She was a trickster, after all. A cunning creature.

The officer drew his sword.

Metal singing, the other soldiers followed suit.

The officer barked an order and there was a ruckus above their heads. Oliver glanced up, pulse racing, to see half a dozen archers leaning over the battlement and drawing their bowstrings back. The arrows were all aimed at his chest.

“Now,” the officer commanded.

Oliver put one hand on the leather saddlebag, the courier’s pouch. “I cannot place letters to the king into the hands of one of his subordinates unless in his own presence. If you’d kill me for loyalty to Hunyadi, then I suppose I shall die.”

“You may at that, in a moment,” the officer said. He pointed to the bag with his sword. “Take out a letter, only one, and show me the seal. You will not have to surrender it to do so.”

For a moment Oliver was at a loss what to do next. If he complied, would that be a breach of protocol? Kitsune had learned some of the court customs, but hardly all. By doing so, he might well be revealing himself. But it did seem a way to follow custom and still prove the provenance of the letters he carried.

He took a breath and nodded. “Of course.”

The long shadows performed a hideous pantomime of the events playing out there at the castle gates. The breeze was cool, though dusk was still a couple of hours away, and hinted at a night that would be chilly indeed. The life of the community of Otranto continued to unfold all around the castle, but here in this one spot it had come to a halt, as taut as the bowstrings of the king’s archers.

Oliver unbuckled the pouch and reached in. When he withdrew a single letter, all of the soldiers tensed, prepared to fall upon him. At first only the face of the letter showed, but quickly he turned it over to show them the wax seal.

They visibly relaxed. The officer shook his head and gestured to the bowmen to withdraw. From below, Oliver could hear the strange twang of bowstrings slowly being released, arrows being returned to their quivers.

“You understand, courier, that these are strange times. Rumors are rampant of rebellion and some of the legendary conduct a crusade against their own kind. Nothing is to be taken for granted these days.”

Oliver let out a long breath. He nodded, reassured by the knowledge that the king and his soldiers had far more to worry about than a single Intruder.

“I do understand. Had I any other choice than to ride here without my uniform, trust that I would not have done so, if only to avoid such suspicion.”

The officer gestured to the others and they stood aside to allow Oliver to ride through the open gates and the arched passageway of the gatehouse. Two remained outside on guard, but the officer and one other, a stout, broad-chested fellow whose nose was flattened and scarred, walked alongside the horse, escorting him onto the grounds of the castle of Otranto.

A stable boy appeared, running to stand beside them, dutifully waiting for the horse to be turned over.

Oliver climbed down from his mount, then reached up and slid the saddlebags from the horse. He slung them over his shoulder and patted the horse on the side before handing the reins over to the stable boy.

“Take good care of the animal,” the officer told the lad. “It’s a long ride back to Perinthia.”

Within the outer curtain walls of the castle, several young men worked at swordplay, parrying and dodging with a grace hard to achieve amongst those actually trying to kill one another. An old woman sat on a stone stoop outside a heavy wooden door off to one side, peeling potatoes and rattling off profanity at a cluster of pigeons who paraded nearby, pretending to be aloof while obviously expecting her to provide them with some kind of treat.

The guards led him across the grounds toward a tall, arched doorway that showed a surprising hint of Moorish influence. The wall all around the door was covered with tiny tiles that created a mural image of a one-eyed warrior standing on the body of a fallen giant, and out of the giant’s flesh grew fruit trees. A naked, winged woman had plucked a yellow fruit from one of the trees and bit into it.

Oliver stared at it, trying to decipher its meaning or connect it to a specific legend, but it seemed a strange melange of mythical elements.

The scar-nosed guard went to the door and grasped an iron ring. He hauled the heavy door open, hinges shrieking. The officer nodded to Oliver to indicate that he should enter. Oliver glanced back across the grounds and saw that most of the archers on the battlements had vanished, though several still remained. Two stood talking to one another, but the others were watching him curiously.

“Thank you,” he said.

An old man dressed in midnight blue, with the seal of the king upon his breast, appeared suddenly in the doorway to block their entry. His face was so thin he looked inhuman, and adorned with a wisp of white beard.

“What is it?” the old man said, brows knitted in consternation, lips pursed in disapproval.

“Courier, Master Hy’Bor, with letters for the king.”

The old man arched an eyebrow. “Really?”

A tremor of dread passed through Oliver. The old man, some advisor to the king or court, had a stare that felt as if he could see right through him.

“Indeed,” Oliver said, inclining his head respectfully.

The old man pointed a long finger at Oliver’s side. “That’s a fascinating sword, courier. An antique, if I am not mistaken. Indeed, I’d venture to say it is one of a kind.”

Oliver held his breath, searching the man’s gaze. His eyes were the same midnight blue as his robes, but there was a luminescence there that was anything but human. What was he, if not a man?

“What are you talking about, Atlantean?” the officer said, his voice not quite a sneer. Soldiers never liked interference from politicians, and that was clearly the case here.

But… Atlantean?

They were advisors to the kings-sorcerers and scholars-and they were supposed to be neutral. In another age they had brokered the peace between the Two Kingdoms, a third, objective party. But the Falconer had told Frost that Ty’Lis, an Atlantean, had sent the Myth Hunters after the Borderkind. So he had to wonder about Master Hy’Bor’s true loyalties.

Later. If he lived.

“It is unique. You’re right about that,” Oliver replied. “A gift to me from an old man. A gift he received a long time ago from King Hunyadi himself.”

The Atlantean glanced at the officer. “You’ve made a dangerous mistake, Sergeant.”

Oliver saw the moment of confusion and hesitation in the captain and he used it. Cursing under his breath, he turned and fled, drawing his sword on the run. Shouts came from behind him.

“Intruder! Kill him, you fools!” the sergeant roared, boots pounding the earth in pursuit. “Kill the Intruder! He comes to assassinate the king!”

The words made Oliver wince. As if things hadn’t been bad enough already.

The third and last Keen Keeng froze in the midst of Lycaon’s Kitchen. It began to back away from them, moving out into the restaurant’s central courtyard…into the rain.

Cheval Bayard shifted back into the lovely facade she usually wore and advanced upon him.

Chorti licked blood from his metal claws and came at the bat-man from another angle.

Across the restaurant the Mazikeen stood and threw back their hoods, moving to surround the Keen Keeng.

The waiter, Grin, stripped off the long, black uniform jacket Lycaon made his staff wear and joined Cheval.

Blue Jay nodded in approval and moved in as well.

The rain began to swirl in a dark tornado, turning to ice, and then snow. The humans in the restaurant had scattered, retreating to safety as best they could. Now the tone of their mutterings changed as they watched Frost sculpt himself a body of jagged ice from the moisture in the air. There was awe there, and a different sort of alarm.

Even in the Latin Quarter, word had come of the conspiracy against the Borderkind and the rebellion against those killers. But only now, as they saw Frost, did these people realize that they were in the midst of that rebellion. Blue Jay heard some of them talking about Frost as the leader of the Borderkind, and he wondered how news traveled so quickly. How secrets were so easily revealed.

Not that it mattered. It was true enough.

“How many others are there?” Frost demanded, moving toward the Keen Keeng. Blue Jay and the others did likewise, closing in around him. “You are no Hunter, so I want to know which Hunters are here in Perinthia. How close? And what other foot soldiers have they conscripted?”

The Keen Keeng spat at Frost.

With a gesture, the winter man froze the yellow spittle in the air and it fell to the marble floor to shatter into brittle shards.

“If they are here,” a voice said, “there will be other spies. You know this without being told.”

The words came from the little man with the flaming eyes. He strode now toward the circle they had made around the Keen Keeng. Pursing his lips, he whistled, and from the kitchen there came a roar. Everyone within the walls of the restaurant flinched and let out a gasp of surprise as a huge orange-and-black tiger bounded out from the back. It stalked across the restaurant, even the harpies scrambling out of its way, and brushed against the little man.

He mounted it as though climbing onto the back of a horse.

“There really is nowhere to hide, is there, Frost?” the little man said, the tiger moving beneath him, muscles taut beneath its fur. The fire flickered in the man’s eyes like candle flames.

The winter man stared at the Keen Keeng, not looking at him. “Nowhere, Li.”

“Then I am with you.”

Frost tilted his head, icicle hair clinking together. “That is very good to know. We may have a difficult time leaving the city.”

Blue Jay knew the name. Li, Guardian of Fire.

“If you’ll allow me,” Li said, gesturing toward the Keen Keeng.

Frost nodded. “By all means.”

The tiger-rider raised his hand and fire rushed up from it, forging itself into a flaming blade. Li spurred the tiger forward. The great cat bounded toward the Keen Keeng and Li swung the fire-sword, decapitating it in a single, searing stroke.

The Keen Keeng’s head fell to the ground.

Silence ensued. For a long moment those gathered in the courtyard only looked at one another, ignoring the restaurant’s patrons completely. The two Mazikeen stroked their braided beards. Grin stood with Cheval and Chorti, who were checking one another over for injuries. Li stood beside Blue Jay, across from Frost.

Word had traveled faster than reality. Frost had been planning to begin a rebellion, to gather up those who would fight back, who would hunt the Hunters. But now it had begun in earnest.

A soft clapping broke the silence.

Lycaon continued the derisive, almost mocking applause as he approached the circle.

“Well done. Now leave. Begone from here, valiant idiots.”

Frost glared at him, blue-white ice eyes narrowed. “You are Borderkind, wolf. They will come for you, in time.”

“Not if you stop them first,” Lycaon said.

“But you will not help us, even to help yourself?”

“Some of us still live here,” the werewolf growled, and his cruel features became darker, more bestial, as though he might transform at any moment. “Most of you Borderkind are nomads, but I’m no wanderer. I have a home. And I want you out of it, before they destroy it to reach you.”

Blue Jay chuckled softly. Rocking gently from side to side he stepped toward Lycaon. The rain spattered his face and the feathers in his hair danced in the breeze.

“Coward,” the trickster said. “You’ll regret this. If not at the hands of the Hunters, then at my hands, when this is over.”

“As it may be,” Lycaon said, and he raised his hand and gestured to the door.

One by one, they walked out of Lycaon’s Kitchen and into the street, half a block from the Latin Quarter’s marketplace.

Blue Jay glanced up immediately, scanning the rooftops and dark windows again. A pair of huge black birds took flight, streaking toward the city center. But they were not alone. At least half a dozen others perched on various ledges and rooftops, watching them.

“Strigae,” Cheval said, coming up beside him.

Blue Jay nodded.

“Watching for the Keen Keengs to emerge,” Li said.

“Or for us,” Blue Jay replied. “They may have been tracking us from the moment we passed the watchtowers.”

The two Mazikeen raised their hoods, hiding their gray faces and haunting eyes.

“There are Hunters in the city. Jezi-Baba and the Manticore. We have sensed Perytons as well.”

Frost shook his head. “Ty’Lis grows bold, sending out Hunters that can only be commanded by Atlanteans.”

“We haven’t the numbers to face them,” Cheval said, shifting her feet nervously, her equine nature coming to the fore.

Blue Jay had seen a wounded spirit in her eyes-her heart had never healed after her husband’s murder. Much of the time she was the quiet, pensive widow, but all too often she wore the mask of a brittle, imperious bitch. He thought it might be best if she kept the facade up at all times; if Cheval drew too much attention or sympathy from the rest of them, it could endanger them all when the time came to fight. As it was, he wondered how effective Chorti would be in the midst of a real battle. If all he cared about was Cheval’s safety, he would be useless to them.

We’ll find out in time, Blue Jay thought. All too soon, I expect.

He studied the Strigae. “We’ll have to face them in time, numbers or not. But I’d prefer it not be today.” He looked at Frost. “We’ve got all the help I think we’re going to find in Perinthia. Could be we’ll find more on the road south. For now, let’s get the hell out of here.”

Frost nodded, starting northward. The other Borderkind followed, heading toward the edge of the city. It was the opposite direction from their destination, but for now the quickest route out of Perinthia was the smartest.

As they began to run, the Strigae took flight, pacing them.

“Pardon me, sirs,” Grin said, long arms at his sides as he loped along. “You know we’re never going to get away from the Hunters as long as those damned birds are watching us.”

Blue Jay smiled grimly. “Not in this world.”

The tiger trotted along the road with Li on its back. The little man had gained on the rest of them almost immediately, the tiger swift on its feet, even by the standards of myth. Now Li and his tiger turned together. Fire guttered from Li’s eyes.

“Trickster, you wish us to cross the border?”

Cheval laughed softly. “That is what we do, is it not?”

Troubled, Li frowned, and the flames in his eyes burned higher. “I have not been through the Veil in a great many years.”

The Grindylow shrugged. “Never done it, myself. Not once. My sort can do it, mind, but I never had the urge.”

The strange parade of creatures turned onto a side street, threaded beneath a half-toppled column and through what had once been a Roman bath. Several times they spotted figures in alleys or windows of the Latin Quarter, but the people were not going to trouble them. Only the Strigae pursued them. The eyes of the Hunters.

The Mazikeen moved in silence, hands together in front of them like monks. They seemed only to walk, but covered more ground in a single step than was possible.

Blue Jay caught up to Li. “You’ll love it, my friend. Their world is more corrupt than ever, but still beautiful, even so. Still stormy with love and lies and passion.”

The trickster glanced around and then faltered. He came to a halt, and one by one the other Borderkind did the same. Chorti snuffled at the ground and then the air, baring metal fangs at the Strigae that circled high above them. The Mazikeen had their heads together, nearly touching, communing silently in their sorcerous way.

“Where’s Frost?” Blue Jay asked.

Even as he did so there came a cry from above-a shriek that was not quite a bird’s scream. The trickster turned and looked up just in time to see a Strigae fall, end over end, toward the ground. It shattered upon impact, body splintering into fragments of black feathers and ice.

Up on the edge of the roof, Frost crouched. He shot out a hand and a spike of ice extended instantly from his fingertips and impaled a Strigae in mid-flight. It screamed, blood mixing with the rain, and then it glided lower and lower to crash to the street, dead.

Frost leaped from the roof and simply flowed down toward them, merging with the rain, becoming an avalanche of snow and ice, and then re-forming on the ground only inches away from Blue Jay.

“Beautiful,” Cheval Bayard said, sliding closer to Frost. She reached out to run her fingertips along the sharp edge of his shoulder in fascination.

The winter man pulled away and glared at her, then regarded the others. “There is no choice. We cross. Only long enough to escape the spies…”

He gestured skyward, where several other Strigae still circled, another joining them.

Blue Jay watched the sky. “Are you sure that’s wise? All of us in one place, in the mundane world, we’re sure to draw attention. You saw what happened the last time.”

“Perhaps we’ll be lucky,” Frost replied.

The two Mazikeen stared at him, eyes narrowed, pale flesh drawn over the bones of their skulls.

Some scent on the air alarmed Chorti. He ambled over to Cheval and grunted, crouching at her side. The wild man pointed a metal talon to the south, back the way they’d come.

“It’s decided, then,” Cheval said. “We cross. We’ll make our way to the ocean, then come back through the Veil on the bank of the Atlantic River.”

Blue Jay watched the way the kelpy stood, chin lifted regally, as though she led them. He glanced at Frost, but the winter man ignored her, glancing around at the others and then up at the Strigae.

“I wonder where it will bring us, crossing here,” Frost said.

Li and his tiger circled the group. “You do not know?”

Blue Jay considered the question. The entirety of Perinthia had been traversed by the Borderkind, back and forth across the Veil, for centuries. The corresponding locations in the human world were well mapped. But he had never bothered to memorize the parallels. Locations in the world of legend did not correspond with the maps on the other side of the Veil. Geography and distance meant almost nothing. There was some relationship, of course, but nothing quantifiable. Crossing the Veil from Perinthia might bring a Borderkind to Britain or to the Himalayas.

Outside of the city there was a more predictable corollary. But Perinthia was a patchwork of cultures and pieces of ancient, mythical places.

“Somewhere in Italy, I’d presume. Or Greece.”

One of the Mazikeen glanced at the other and nodded. “The Akrai,” it said.

“Yes. The Quarter is all the Akrai,” replied the other.

Chorti dug his metal talons into the street and tore it up, grunting furiously. He took a long look south, then turned to Frost.

“No more talk,” he said, his voice a primal growl. “Go now.”

“We go,” Frost replied.

He waved a hand before him and the air began to shimmer. Blue Jay followed suit and soon all of the Borderkind were doing the same. Grin stood beside Blue Jay, shuffling anxiously. There was fear in his eyes. Li and his tiger were the first to leap through, trailing sparks and drops of liquid fire. The enormous cat bounded through a ripple in the air and passed through the Veil into the world of man.

Blue Jay waited while all of the others went. Frost, then Cheval and Chorti. The two Mazikeen. At last, Blue Jay looked at Grin, who clapped him on the back, a grateful expression upon his hideous features.

“Right, then, mate,” Grin said. “On three, yeah? One, two-”

Blue Jay took his arm and the two of them stepped out of the world. The Veil was parted by the magic of the Borderkind, but still there was just the slightest resistance, like passing through a curtain of silk.

The first thing that came to Grin was the smell of the grass and the flowers around them, the trees and the earth. The sky was pale blue, and on the eastern horizon, the sun was just beginning to rise. The view was breathtaking.

“ ’S beautiful, this is,” Grin said.

The Borderkind stood in the midst of yet another ruin, this time of a Greek-style amphitheater, an outdoor theater on top of a mountain. It was the highest point in the area, as though whatever performances had been conducted here had wanted the gods for an audience.

Below, there stretched a city, though Blue Jay could not have said which. The theater was probably Greek, but the Greeks had influenced the world once upon a time, and the city below looked vaguely Italian, even from here.

Then he saw the volcano in the distance, gray smoke drifting heavenward from its peak.

“Where-” he began.

Frost was beside him. “Didn’t you hear the Mazikeen? Akrai. We’re in Sicily. The volcano there is Mt. Etna.”

The trickster tossed his hair, feathers dancing on the breeze. He stretched and stamped his feet, enjoying the soil beneath his boots. Whenever he crossed the Veil, he needed a moment to become acclimated.

“We’re on an island?” Blue Jay asked. He turned to look at the others. They were spread across the stones that had been laid down as a stage thousands of years before, as though they were the main attraction. “Sicily is an island. How are we going to make our way to the Atlantic coast from here?”

Frost arched an eyebrow, the ice of his face crackling. He turned his head, icicle hair tinkling musically.

Chorti threw his head back and howled.

“Somehow,” Cheval Bayard said, slipping sylphlike up behind them, her silver hair blowing across her face, “I think that is the least of our concerns.”

Blue Jay followed the line of her gaze, and there in the sky, he saw the terrible, angular figures with their antlers jutting from their heads and green-feathered wings spread out behind them.

“Perytons!” Li cried, fire erupting from his nostrils as he held out a hand, in which a ball of flame grew.

“At least seven,” the Grindylow said. He pried a massive, ancient stone up out of the stage and prepared to hurl it.

But that was not what Chorti had scented. He scraped his metal talons on the stones and spun around like a massive dog chasing its tail. Blue Jay glanced around and then he saw, coming over the top of the hill, above the stone rows of seats that surrounded one side of the amphitheater, a pair of dreadful figures.

A hideous crone, the dawn’s light illuminating her blue skin.

And a swift figure that slunk down toward them, its body as large as Li’s tiger, its face a grotesque parody of humanity, its mouth impossibly wide and lined with hundreds of ivory needle teeth, tipped with venom.

The Manticore.

“They were expecting us,” Frost said, icy mist drifting from his eyes. “They would not come into the Latin Quarter, but once they knew we were in Lycaon’s Kitchen, they gambled that we would cross the border here.”

Blue Jay sighed. “An ambush. Wonderful.”