Inked Page 6

  I’d forgotten: just as the tat took a few seconds to start working, it also took a few to release the stored magic back into my system. The shields had been pulling from a dry well, but the fireball had had more than an hour of accumulated force behind it. I was lucky it hadn’t taken out the whole freaking drain.

  A push got me to my knees, a stagger got me to my feet, and a step took me to the wall. I fell against it, the cool cement heaven against my cheek and palms. I just stayed there for a minute, breathing hard.

  But only for a minute. Because those guys hadn’t been Clan, they’d been vargulf. It was obvious by how they looked, by the untrained way they fought and by the lack of any and all Clan insignia. And I didn’t think a bunch of outcasts had shown up to avenge the murder of a High Clan wolf—especially not after attacking a member of the group that had found the body.

  So they’d been looking for something.

  Something I’d missed.

  6

  I shoved off the wall, tripped on a spent shell casing and went down hard on one knee. I staggered up, wishing I had the breath to curse, and retraced my steps. My knee ached and almost gave out on me twice, and my left arm throbbed in time with my heartbeat. I checked myself out in the dim light of the cave.

  Gore matted my hair, slicked my coat, and stuck my shirt to my skin. My bum knee felt weak and rubbery, but probably more from the adrenaline afterburn than any real damage. But the arm was another matter. My shields had slowed the attack down, and my coat had provided an extra layer of protection. Yet it was still lacerated badly enough to need stitches.

  Great.

  I wrapped a handkerchief around the wound and tugged my sleeve back down. The coat had already started to heal the tears in the leather, with short brown filaments stretching across the gaps like threads in well-worn denim. Too bad flesh doesn’t heal as fast.

  I really hoped I didn’t have to beat up anyone else.

  The cave was still silent, smelly and frustratingly empty when I returned. Had those guys really been headed here? Or was there some other hidden space along the miles of drain ahead? I decided to do a check of the immediate area before sifting through the ashes again, and started for the door.

  And looked up to see myself lounging at a bar.

  Cyrus wasn’t looking, but she was hard to miss: with long, messy dark hair, clan-gray eyes and a red-stained mouth that stood out starkly from her pale skin. She was leaning back against the bar on her elbows, her mile-long, leather-clad legs in front of her, crossed at the ankles. Watching him.

  It seemed to Cyrus as if the volume of the room suddenly turned down, as if the colors dulled to shadows, except around her. Because even better than those stunning looks was the faint but unmistakable scent of Clan. It wreathed his head like the finest of drugs, cutting easily through the smoke and alcohol and cheap cologne of the bar. It caught him off guard, with no defenses up, and landed like a sledgehammer.

  It was hard to believe that it had only been two months since he found himself out on the street: a pack animal with no pack. He’d told Sebastian he could handle it—hell, this whole thing had been his idea. It would be hard, he’d assured his brother, he wasn’t kidding himself about that, but the goal was worth it. He’d been so certain he was right, so sure of himself, so cocky.

  He almost pitied that man now.

  Of course, that man had never had people he’d once called friends turn away in disgust at the sight of him. He’d never had his own family refuse to look him in the eye, their glances jumping over him as if he was an interruption, a glitch in their visual field. An error. He’d never lain awake at night with the gnawing, ever-present, sickening absence of something as vital to him as the air he breathed. That man had been Cyrus of Arnou, High Clan and wolf born, with the whole weight of a prestigious house behind his every word and action.

  This man was just Cyrus. And he’d been appalled at what he’d discovered about him.

  Just Cyrus avoided places where he was likely to meet Clan, dodging confrontations he knew he couldn’t win. Because he fought alone now, while even the feeblest member of the weakest clan had dozens of brothers behind him. Just Cyrus ducked his head and turned away when he saw family coming, before they could do it to him. Just Cyrus desperately wanted to slink back, tail between his legs, begging to be taken in, even knowing what it would cost his brother.

  Because Just Cyrus was weak.

  The only thing that still allowed him to look at himself in the mirror everyday was the knowledge that wanting and doing were two different things. He might not be the man he’d thought he was, but he wasn’t quite that sniveling creature that haunted his nightmares, either. Because he hadn’t done it. Not yet.

  And now he found himself by the bar, with no memory of how he got there, staring at an obviously High Clan woman like she was the last oasis in the desert. He expected to be ignored, rebuffed, cursed, although there was no way she could immediately know what he was. Lately, it had started to feel like he had his shame permanently tattooed across his forehead.

  She swung her legs around and tipped her head sideways to look at him. “Buy you a drink?”

  “I thought that was my line,” he said, not trying, because this wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Yeah, but I’m the pushy type. I like to get it out there early.”

  “You’re Clan. It goes with the territory.”

  “I’m not, actually.”

  He leaned in despite himself, the heady scent of a fertile female of his people flooding his senses. “Oh, you are,” he said, already half drunk with it. “You very definitely are. To whom do you belong?” The usual Clan courtesy slipped out before he could stop it.

  “Myself. How about you?”

  Her answer didn’t make sense, but the question did. It was almost the first thing two strange Weres asked each other, because the answer would influence everything that followed: who are you, where do you rank, who are your people?

  Where do you belong?

  “I’m vargulf,” he said shortly. “I don’t belong to anyone.”

  It came out sounding harsh, even to him. He waited for it, the look of disgust, the hastily mumbled excuse, the rapid retreat. And didn’t get it. “Good,” she said, leaned over, cupped the back of his head, and kissed him.

  And she was right, he thought vaguely, his hands on her waist, sliding over silk and skin-tight leather. She was the pushy type, at least until he got on board. Then the practiced tricks gave way to something soft and startled. It went through him in a rush, a tidal wave of emotions carrying him along with it, even as part of him wondered what the hell he thought he was doing.

  “Got someplace to be?” she asked as she broke it off.

  “I’m all yours,” he told her hoarsely, already sliding off the seat.

  The bar dissolved into a dank, smoke-blackened room. I fell back against the wall, eyes stinging hot and watering. I remembered that night, but it was a little different seen through Cyrus’s eyes.

  I’d kept getting saddled by the Corps with any and all cases involving Weres, supposedly because of my “special insight.” But the fact was that Mom rarely spoke about her other life, and she’d been so ill those last years that I’d hated to constantly bother her with my problems. I’d decided I needed an outside source, someone I could pay for insights into the Were world. And as luck would have it, a few days later a patrol logged a report about a brutal beating behind a bar involving an “unaffiliated Were” and members of a local clan. I’d gone to check it out.

  It had been a night of surprises, starting with how I’d reacted. Cyrus was handsome enough to turn heads, but I’d met plenty of attractive men before. And none of them had made my stomach tighten at one glimpse, had need crawling over my skin, had my fingers itching with the urge to stroke. And when we kissed, heat and power, hunger and desire thrust into me in a wave of sensation that had left me reeling. I’d spent the entire evening—at a restaurant, because I didn’t dare take him home�
��quietly freaking out about my sudden lack of self-control.

  It had also been a surprise to learn that he was vargulf. The report had seemed to suggest it, but most outcast wolves look like the guys I’d met in the drain. They weren’t hard-muscled types with thick dark hair and assessing brown eyes. And although the few I’d come across still smelled like Clan, there had always been a faintly sour undertone to it. Cyrus had smelled good, rich and male and musky-sweet.

  I looked around and wondered what surprise I was supposed to find here.

  I decided to start with the couch, because it was the most disgusting thing in the room and I wanted to get it out of the way. I’d already been over it once and had found nothing under the dust and ash except a few hundred cigarette butts shoved between the seats. The fire had eaten away one side, but given up halfway, probably because of the soggy state of the moldy cushions.

  The remaining fabric was coming apart and a hole gnawed in one end raised the possibility of rats. I pushed my useless flashlight in there and rattled it around. Nothing ran out, so I formed a shield around my hand and poked it through the hole. And immediately felt something weird.

  I pulled out a small velvet pouch that looked pretty new—no mold, no smoke damage, no bite marks—and opened it. Inside were three gold charms, each in the form of a miniscule wolf. All were different, all were beautifully made, and all were powerful. I could feel the hum of their energy even through the shield, a thrumming beat, almost like the pulse of tiny hearts.

  Despite working with Caleb and Jamie for two weeks, I wasn’t an expert on wards. But I knew quality when I saw it. These had to be worth a small fortune, especially now, with prices inflated due to the war. So what the hell were they doing here? And what, if anything, did they have to do with Cyrus?

  I wrapped them in one of my socks, having run out of handkerchiefs, and stuffed them in an inner pocket of my coat. I tagged the body on the way out, to let patrol know it was mine, and picked up the slug ward—now extra slimy—off the floor. I stuck it back on my skin without looking at it.

  Calling in had to wait until I made it back to the mouth of the drain, where I was able to get decent reception. Caleb must have still been at lunch, because I actually got through.

  “Sedgewick’s frothing at the mouth,” he told me, without so much as a hello. “The man is pissed.”

  “He’s always pissed.”

  “Yeah. Not like this. You need to get back here.”

  “I’m working on that. By the way, have any licensed wardsmiths reported a robbery lately? A big one?”

  “The Black Circle’s hit a few places,” he said slowly. “What are we talking about here?”

  “Wolves. Powerful. Expensive. Three of them. I don’t know what they do yet.”

  “I thought you were looking for your boyfriend?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “I’ve noticed that with you. But no, no wolves.” And that settled that. Because Caleb would know. He didn’t usually work in the Dungeon, but he’d been there for three months since his injury. And he was the kind who paid attention.

  “Thanks. Uh, and can you let patrol know that there’s a body in that drain off 91?”

  “Another one?”

  “Yeah. Tell them to bring a baggie.”

  “Lia…” He sighed. “Just be careful, all right?”

  “Aren’t I always?” I hung up before he could answer that, and went to collect my guide.

  He was taking photos for a family, but dropped the camera when he saw me emerge from the wash. I waited until the tourists drove off, then crossed the street. He looked a little pale. In retrospect, I probably should have used the handkerchief on my face before making it into a bandage. Oh, well, too late now.

  “What…what…”

  “You were right. Those kappas are a bitch. Any other mysterious new monsters suddenly turn up anywhere?” He shook his head, wide-eyed. “How about wardsmiths? You know any of them?”

  He blinked. “Like personally?”

  “Like any way.”

  “There’s lots in the tunnels. Everybody’s making wards now.”

  Yeah, like the idiot who had done the protection ward on the cave. But the charlatans getting rich off people’s wartime paranoia weren’t who I needed. Becoming a master or even a journeyman wardsmith took decades of training. No fly-by-night con man had made those wolves.

  “I’m talking about someone good. Someone professional.”

  “If they were good, they wouldn’t be in the drains.”

  Normally, I’d have agreed, but I didn’t think the guys who attacked me had had the money to buy those wards. And no local, licensed wardsmiths had been robbed. So whoever had made the wolves either wasn’t from around here, or wasn’t licensed.

  “I guess we’ll just have to stay here, then,” I told him. “And clean out those kappas.”

  “There’s a guy who hangs out at Tilda’s Place, over by the Tropicana,” Dieter said quickly. “They say he’s pretty good.”

  I smiled. “Let’s go find out.”

  7

  I peered into the dark drain dubiously. “There’s a bar down there?”

  Dieter nodded. “Tilda’s. It’s been there forever. The dwarves like to drink at her place, so they cut her a deal on the rent.”

  “Dwarves?”

  He scowled. “Yeah. Nasty little fuckers. They run the market.”

  I peered into the maybe eight-by-six tunnel again. I spotted cockroaches, spiders and a few creepy orange crawfish. But no people—of any kind. “There’s a market down there?”

  He shot me a pitying look. “You don’t know much, do you?”

  “Lately, it doesn’t feel like it.”

  “It’s one of the biggest in Tartarus. And they know it, too. You wouldn’t believe what they wanted to charge me for a booth. So I tried just walking around, hitting the entrances and stuff, you know? And they still wanted to charge me! Like, I wasn’t even sitting down and—” He stopped abruptly. “You know, come to think of it, there are probably other wardsmiths if I ask around.”

  I grabbed him by the back of the shirt as he started off. “Let me guess. The dwarves don’t like you, either.”

  “They might have said something about not coming back.”

  “For how long?”

  “Like, you know. Ever.”

  “Then we’ll do this quick.”

  The tunnel curved after half a dozen yards, blocking out the rectangle of light behind us. Smothering blackness came crushing in on all sides, and the ward hiding the market had no telltale light leaking through to help me zero in on its location. I could feel it, buzzing somewhere up ahead, but couldn’t quite—

  A skinny young guy with spiked red hair came barreling out of a wall on a wash of light, pushing an overloaded shopping cart. He skidded to a halt, the cart’s wheels making tracks in the muck. “Potion supplies?” he asked, not missing a beat.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s one of the main reasons your type comes down here,” Dieter said, as the vendor started pawing through his mobile shop. “It’s either buy contraband, hire an assassin or find a good time. And you look like you could do your own killing.”

  “What about the good time?”

  The vendor suddenly thrust something into my face—something brown and scaly, with a gaping maw of teeth. I put two bullets in it before I realized it wasn’t moving. It landed on the floor a few feet away, spinning slowly on its curved shell.

  “If you ask me, you could use one,” Dieter said, swallowing. “You’re real tense.”

  “You shot it, you bought it,” the vendor added, picking up the still-smoking carcass.

  “What the hell is it?”

  “Dried armadillo. Keeps evildoers out of your home.”

  “Too late.”

  I forked over a ten rather than waste time arguing, which turned out to be a mistake. As soon as the pale concrete wall rolled back, I found myself mobbed by a line of hawke
rs selling the magical equivalent of snake oil. I barely noticed. Because stretching out behind them was a sight designed to make anyone’s jaw drop.

  I’d expected something along the lines of the previous drain—gloomy, smelly, depressing, dangerous. I’d expected a bunch of little dirty caves filled with huddled, desperate people. I’d expected a low ceiling, bad air and vermin. I hadn’t expected an enchanted forest.

  But that’s what spread out in front of us in a dazzling expanse. Softly glowing branches shed a delicate white light over a huge cave. They draped the booths that filled the space, crisscrossed above footpaths and climbed up stone support pillars. Some people had even stuffed twigs into colored glass jars, making lanterns that spotted their booths with watery puddles of amethyst and plum, turquoise and jade, ruby and amber.

  My brain finally supplied the name—hawthorn. I recalled a few basics—originally from Faerie, burns brightly with the application of a simple spell—but that description left a lot to be desired. The branches threw gently waving shadows on the walls, ceiling and floor, shadows with leaves and berries, neither of which the dried branches had.

  “This way!” Dieter was tugging on me, obviously embarrassed to be seen with the gawking tourist.

  I followed him through a maze of cardboard and plywood shanties. Inside, medicine women, folk doctors, astrologers, fortune-tellers and cut-rate sorcerers plied their wares. Dogs and children ran underfoot. People laughed and bartered around the shops, or called to each other across the aisles. After the deadly quiet of the drains, it felt like a madhouse.

  Dieter skirted the main aisle, heading for a narrow path where animals bleated and squealed from cages on either side. Most were nothing out of the ordinary, but the same couldn’t be said for the smell. I stopped, gagging at the most offensive odor I’d ever encountered. “Is there another route?”