RENE’S EYES WERE CLEAR AND COLD LIKE THE crystalline depths of a mountain lake. Saiman’s indignant outbursts shattered against her glacial composure.
“How long does it take to retrieve one corpse?”
“The body will be here in a moment.”
I perched against a desk. We stood in one of security’s rooms. Precious seconds ticked by. There was nothing I could do about it. Rene was doing her job and I had to let her do it.
Rene glanced at me. “Did you cut out the heart?”
I shook my head. “Didn’t see the need. I scrambled the brain and cut his head off. I never had one regenerate a head on me.”
“True.” Rene nodded in agreement.
Saiman picked up a coffee mug, stared at it, and hurled it against the wall. It shattered into a dozen pieces. We looked at him.
“Your date appears to be hysterical,” Rene told me.
“You think I should slap some man into him?”
Saiman stared at me, speechless. I had to give it to Rene—she didn’t laugh. But she really wanted to.
A squad of Red Guards came through, carrying the snake man on a stretcher. Two guards and an older man followed. The man handed Rene a large book bound in leather and spoke softly. She gave him a crisp nod.
“We take the safety of our guests and especially of our House members very seriously. However.” She raised her hand and counted off on her fingers. “First, this incident took place outside of our jurisdiction. Our responsibility for you ends at the white line. Second, this creature isn’t registered as a part of the Reaper team or their crew. Nobody recognizes him. The fact that a member of the Reaper team watched the incident doesn’t indicate the team’s complicity in the assault. He’s under no obligation to assist you and he may have simply enjoyed the spectacle. Third, the entire Reaper crew and team, with the exception of Mart and two crew members, left the premises as soon as the first bout began, nearly three hours ago . . .”
A shot of cold pulsed through me. “Is that normal?”
Rene started at the interruption.
“Is that normal?” I insisted.
“No,” she said slowly. “Typically they stay to watch.”
Derek never did anything without preparation. He would arrive at the rendezvous point hours in advance. The Reapers would have had a three-hour window to interact with him, while I was busy playing scorekeeper for Saiman’s amusement. I spun to him. “I need that horse
Saiman hesitated.
“A horse, Saiman! Or I swear I’ll finish what he started.”
THE RED ROOF INN LOOMED ON THE EDGE OF A ruined plaza, flanked on both sides by heaps of rubble that had been buildings in their previous life. Two stories tall, its top floor sagging to the side under a crooked roof painted a garish crimson, the inn resembled a stooped old man in a red ball cap huddling under a blanket of kudzu.
I stopped on the edge of the plaza. Under me a pale gelding snorted, breathing hard after the fifteen-minute canter through the dark streets.
Blood smears stained the crumbling asphalt. In the silver gauze of moonlight, they looked thick, black, and glossy, like molten tar.
I dismounted and walked into the plaza. The magic had fallen while I rode. Technology once again gained an upper hand and I sensed nothing. No residual magic, no trace of a spell, no enchanted observer. Just dusty asphalt and blood. So much blood. It was everywhere, spread in long, feathered smudges and cast about in a fine spray of splatter.
I crouched by one of the puddles and dipped my fingers into it. Cooled. Whatever happened here had finished a while ago.
A fist clamped my heart and squeezed it tight into a painful ball. Dread choked me. Suddenly there wasn’t enough air. I should have read the note sooner.
I took the ball of guilt and fear that threatened to engulf me and stuffed it away, deep into the recesses of my mind. The task at hand required only my brain. I would deal with the pain later, but now I had to concentrate on the scene and think.
Violence had occurred here, but the plaza didn’t look as though combat with a werewolf had taken place. All shapeshifters had two forms: human and animal. Gifted shapeshifters could maintain a warrior form, an in-between beast man, huge, humanoid, and armed with a monster’s claws and nightmarish fangs. Most had trouble maintaining it, and few could speak in it, but despite these drawbacks, the warrior form was the most effective weapon in a werewolf’s arsenal. Derek’s was one of the best. He would have assumed it the moment the fight began.
If Derek had fought in this plaza, there would be scratches on the asphalt. A few clumps of wolf fur here and there. Shredded flesh—he tended to rip into his targets. I saw none. Maybe he didn’t fight here after all. Maybe he came upon it and took off . . . I stuffed the hope into the same place I had packed the guilt.
A fine spray of pale, smooth droplets stained the asphalt to the left. I moved over, carefully stepping between the blood smears, and knelt. What meager hope I had shattered. I would’ve recognized the color of those pale patches anywhere. They were drops of melted silver, cooled into globules by the night. I pried a couple from the asphalt and slid them into my pocket. There was no way to melt silver in the middle of the parking lot without some sorcerous means. Either the Reapers had a strong magic user with them or . . .
A sharp growl made me turn. Two wolves hovered on the edge of the plaza, their eyes glowing pale yellow like twin fiery moons. George and Brenna.
George’s muzzle wrinkled. He planted his legs wide apart. His black lips parted, revealing a huge maw and pale fangs. A snarl ripped from his mouth.
I rose very slowly and held my hands up. “I’m not a threat.”
Brenna snapped at the air, flinging spit. Her shackles rose like a dense coat of needles.
“I didn’t cause the bloodbath. You know me. I’m a Friend of the Pack. Take me to Jim.” As long as I didn’t touch Slayer, I had a chance at a peaceful resolution. If they jumped me while I held my saber, I would damage them. I was trained to kill, I was good at it, and in the adrenaline rush of a fight with two 200-pound animals, I would kill and then regret it for the rest of my life.
Two growls drowned out my voice. They leaned forward, emanating bloodlust, exuding it like a lethal perfume. My sword arm itched.
“Don’t do this. I don’t want to hurt you.”
A high-pitched coyote yowl cut through the snarls. The night parted and a lean shadow sailed over the wolves. A tall, shaggy body charged me—a shapeshifter in a warrior form, flying over the asphalt, tree-trunk legs pumping, huge, muscular arms spread wide. I caught a flash of grotesque jaws armed with two-inch fangs that would rip my face off my skull in a single bite.
The wolves charged. Shit.
I ducked under the swipe of the shapeshifter’s sickle claws and rammed my elbow into the monster’s solar plexus. He jerked forward from the force of the blow and I sank two silver needles into his neck, behind the ear. He screamed and clawed at his head.
Behind him the night belched two more nightmares.
The wolves were almost on me.
I rammed a quick kick to the shapeshifter’s knee. Bone crunched. Good-bye walking. I kicked him into George, popping another needle into my hand, spun about, and slammed right into Brenna. Damn. Teeth clamped onto my wrist guard, her mouth swallowing my arm, and I dropped a needle into her throat. Brenna dropped my arm and yelped, spinning in a circle, trying to spit out the silver burning her tongue.
Fire raked my back. I whirled, rammed the attacker’s furry orange arm, exposing the armpit, and forced a needle into the shoulder joint. The shapeshifter howled. The arm went limp.
They swarmed me. Claws clamped my shoulders. Teeth bit my left thigh. I kicked and punched and stabbed,
