After dressing and loading his weapons, Hart handed her a vial of viscous black liquid. Faint specks of gold floated in it, like Goldschläger. “Drink this.”
“What is it?” It smelled like cinnamon and . . . iron? She took a sip and choked. Fire raced up her tongue and down the back of her throat. Immediate. All-consuming. She cried out.
Hart caught the vial before she dropped it. “Careful. It's all I have.”
The fire burned brightest in her injured ankle. She could almost feel the tendons and bones melting and being reforged in the flame.
“Breathe,” he ordered. “It helps.”
After a few agonizing minutes, the fire died. She stretched experimentally. Her ankle moved as if it had never been broken. She gently searched for cuts and bruises, but they had disappeared.
Hart took a swig of the black vial. He scrunched his nose, but stoically let the fire heal him. The bullet wound knit together before her eyes. The muscle stretched and closed; skin regrew in seconds. She blinked, and there was nothing left to show that he had ever been injured. It was a miracle drug. Scientifically impossible, but what she wouldn't give for a bottle of that in the emergency room. Magic. “What is it?”
“Dragon's blood.” He corked the vial and stowed it. “Highly valued for its healing qualities. In the Middle Ages dragons were almost hunted to extinction for it. One reason they went into hiding from the humans.”
“Why didn't you use it yesterday when the Kivati injured you?”
“Wouldn't waste it on a little scratch like that. This shit's hard to come by.”
“How did you getâ”
He silenced her with his lips. His kiss was hard and hot, stealing the thoughts right out of her head. Her legs melted, and he swept them out from under her. She clung to him. His mouth tasted of cinnamon and passion, blatant sin and carnal delights. His arousal pressed insistently against her belly, and she wanted to climb higher to settle it where it belonged.
He pulled back an inch and smiled, a real, broad grin full of masculine satisfaction. It lit up his face.
Her breath caught. “So why didâ”
He kissed her again.
Â
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Hart forced himself to set Kayla down and take a step back. Lady be, he wanted her. He'd never wanted anything so badly. Wanted to nuzzle into that soft skin where her neck met her shoulder. Wanted to bend her over the hood of the car, push down her pants, and bury himself inside her. Over and over, until the world melted away.
Even the beast wanted her, but its hunger was sharper and feral. It wanted to dominate, to dig its teeth into her shoulder and mark her as his. It wanted to hold her down and knock her up. It wanted to taste her blood on his tongue.
If that wasn't enough to scare him shitless, nothing was. Sure, she might give in to his advances, but it was only momentary insanity. After all she'd been through, the poor girl was twisted around so bad she didn't know which way was up. Kayla deserved far better than a dangerous, broken thing like him.
He'd kissed her to shut her up, plain and simple. He didn't need her asking questions about Norgard. She still thought Hart would hand the necklace to Rudrick in exchange for sparing his life. Yeah, right.
She looked at him with those huge golden-chocolate eyes as if he could slay dragons for her.
So naïve. He was more likely to feed her to them.
“So.” He cleared his scratchy throat. “K-9881. Sounds like a location.”
Her lips parted. Comprehension lit her face. “Of course. The obituary. My mother's plot. Desi wrote that number on the newspaper clipping.”
“Get in the car.” She grimaced at the order, probably hurt by his abrupt change from kissing, but she climbed dutifully in the passenger seat. Maybe she understood the danger she was in. He could only hope.
“Where is Mount Pleasant Cemetery?” she asked.
“Queen Anne. The Kivati own everything on the hill, from the Space Needle on up. I wonder why she was buried there. Humans usually aren't.”
They crossed the Ship Canal and drove up the hill. Gables and elegant front porches replaced the split-levels and ramblers of lower Queen Anne. The century-old Victorian houses gave the hill its name. Gingerbread and ornamental spindles made the houses seem delicate, but Hart knew inside each one was enough firepower to level a city block. The chimneys spouted steam to power the complex inner workings of the electricity-free, yet incredibly advanced, mechanized house systems. Crows perched in every tree, watching.
“I hate crows,” Kayla murmured. “Why are there so many here?”
“The Kivati own them. They're smart birds. Good spies. Not as sharp as ravens, but easier to control.”
She shivered. He liked seeing Kayla in his car. Liked it far too much. Her scent filled the enclosed space. He rolled down the window and focused on the road.
A funeral was in progress at the Mount Pleasant Cemetery, giving them light cover to slip in among the guests. It was packed with out-of-towners, obvious from their more liberal dress, so he and Kayla didn't stick out. They listened to the Spirit Seeker's eulogy, some poetic shit about the deceased's good deeds and safe passage through the Gate. Hart picked out the man's widow from her straitlaced black gown and her high-pitched wails. She wept next to the pyre, at times drowning the Seeker's words, surrounded by her grown children, also in black.
No one would mourn at Hart's grave. Oscar would show up, but only to empty his pockets. Maybe the Reaper would say a few words over his body. “Hart was a damn fine shot,” or something equally complimentary and uplifting.
He wondered if Kayla would shed a tear for him. She seemed the sentimental type, but they'd only known each other a day or two. Funny, he felt like it'd been longer. They got on well, and then there was that inconvenient attraction.
“The plot is this way,” Kayla whispered in his ear. She had located a map and was pointing to a section on the far side of the cemetery. “Let's go.”
Then again, maybe not. She had a no-nonsense streak a mile wide. She probably thought funerals were a waste of precious time.
The cemetery was divided into four sections, one for each sacred Kivati House. Four large totem poles marked the center of each section. Kayla's mother was buried at the western edge behind a patch of huckleberry bushes. It was a ragged, forgotten corner of an otherwise pristine park.
Kayla searched the small gravestones. “I don't see it.”
“There.” Hart pointed to a short totem pole topped with the Watchmenâthree men in tall hats who warned the village of danger. At its foot, hidden in the grass, was the door to a small crypt. He pulled out his sword and cut away the sod from the marble.
Kayla rubbed her nose with the back of her hand, but she was doing her damnedest to keep it together. He should give her a moment or something. This was her mother's grave, after all. His mother didn't even have a grave. He'd burned the body, like she'd taught him, and then he'd run like hell. Her ashes were probably still fluttering around that sad little apartment.
He kicked a huckleberry bush.
“Now what?” Kayla asked.
“How should I know?” He sniffed around, but all he found was salt air, wet grass, and mud. “You still got that Deadglass?” She pulled it from her pocket, and he showed her how to turn the gears to focus the lens. “What do you see?” He held his breath. Wraiths didn't scare him, but he avoided them if possible. He didn't like the thought of being stuck in limbo, neither alive here nor free in the Land beyond. Cursed worse than he was now.
“Nothing,” Kayla said.
“What do you mean, nothing? It's a fucking graveyard.” He grabbed the Deadglass back and took a look. She was right. No ghosts. He watched the shimmering Aether, stronger than he'd seen it in years, swirl around the totem pole like a small tornado.
“So, big guy, see anything interesting?” Kayla leaned against the totem pole and crossed her arms over her chest. It stretched the fabric of her T-shirt taut across her breasts, giving him a fine view.
“Yup.”
She scowled. “Give me your sword.”
Like hell.
He raised an eyebrow at her.
She cocked her hips at an angle, planted her right fist, and held out her left hand. “Stretch it out.”
Bossy. He kind of liked it.
He held out the sword, point first. She grabbed the blade with her bare hand. The smell of blood was sharp and sweet. Blood.
Her
blood. His head was dizzy with it. He breathed short and fast through his mouth. The beast clawed at the inside of his skin. “Little girls should stay away from weapons for exactly that reason,” he bit out.
“I'll keep that in mind next time I see a little girl.” She cradled her bloody hand and knelt by the crypt door. He saw where she was going with this idea. Smart woman. He liked that about her. She might have started the game behind the eight ball, but she was catching up fast.
Blood dripped from her fist and splattered on the cool white marble. Around them, the Aether heated. He could feel it singeing the air, filling his nose with ozone like an approaching storm. Sweat broke on his brow with the effort of controlling the Change.
She opened her fist and smacked her bloody hand to the stone, palm down. She waited a beat. Nothing happened. “I thought it would open, or something.” A worry line creased her forehead. “Open sesame?” she tried. Still nothing. “It's got to be in the crypt, right?”
Hart raised the Deadglass to his eyes and watched the flow of Aether again. It circled the totem pole. He had a weird, itchy feeling that he was missing something. They probably taught this shit in Kivati high school. He'd know how to read the Aether, how to manipulate it, how to weave weather patterns and put the dead to rest if he'd stayed. If he hadn't been kicked out. His mother had taught him just enough to know what he was looking at, but she didn't like to talk about the Kivati. Not after what they'd done. He shook his head, trying to keep his mind clear. The blood made his canines descend.
“Weren't totem poles sometimes used for burial purposes?” Kayla asked. She had risen from the crypt door and was examining the carvings on the short cedar pole. Her hand still dripped.
The beast yanked at the flow of Aether and almost forced the Change. She had to cover that thing. Hart pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and grabbed her hand. Her skin was soft and smooth beneath his calloused palm. He forced himself to be quick, holding his breath as he bound the cut. “Now stay there.” He dropped her hand before he could give in to the urge to lick it.
Following the flow of Aether was easy. It wound around the pole and slipped in through a knot in the wood of one of the Watchmen. He pushed his finger through the knot, and a chunk of wood slipped out. A secret door. He slipped his fingers inside and found a cold piece of carved rock. “Got it.” He pulled out a green crescent stone mottled with swirls of white and speckles of black. A leather thong wrapped around both ends allowed it to be worn as a necklace. It smelled sharply of brimstone.
“We did it. Can I see it?” Kayla gave him a grin that lit up her face.
He was suddenly struck dumb, and he handed over the stone.
“How do we know this is it?”
“Smells like the Gate, but I don't know for sure. I know someone who will.”
She turned her face to him, hope brimming in those big eyes. Something tightened in his chest. A guy could get used to that look. “So now that we have this thing, you're free, right?” she asked.
The Lady damn him. He'd almost forgotten the point of this little exercise. Kayla didn't know anything. His expression must have scared her, because she took a fortifying breath. “I mean, Rudrick and his Kivati goons will leave you alone,” she clarified. “They promised.”
“You can't trustâ”
“Anyone, yeah, so you've said.”
“Well, you don't seem to be listening.” He turned his back on her and stormed out of the cemetery.
Behind him, she panted, trying to catch up. “Where are we going?”
“Time to see the Reaper.”
“Who isâ?”
“Another operative. She knows stuff. Get in the car.” Why did she have to do that to him? She made him forget himself. Why couldn't she have been ugly, or slow, or a man? Smart. Capable. Hot as a siren. He never thought he'd go for a smart chickâtoo dangerousâbut Kayla was something else. And he couldn't have her.
Chapter 8
They drove back around Lake Union, through downtown to Pioneer Square. The landscape changed to brick and stone. Nothing that could burn, not since the Great Fire. A predominance of arches and circular towers gave the streetscape a romantic feel. High limestone blocks edged the sidewalks and gas lamps lined the streets. Antique shops sold mechanized appliances from an older era. Humans claimed they were eco-friendly by using hand cranks and washing boards, but they were nothing but practical. Non-electric tools would always work in Seattle's rarified environment.
Near the clock tower of King Street Station, Hart turned onto a seedier side street where the Aether was fecund with magic. It was almost thick enough to touch, and it made him sneeze. Flesh Alley had, at one time, been all brothels, but these days it hosted a wider variety of shops that catered to the supernatural. Wooden dowels protruded from the brick lintels announcing the wares of each store: two apothecaries, a spellbook store, a small armory in a converted stable, an antique shop specializing in dark materials, and an alchemist. The sign for the Drekar brothel advertised “seamstresses.” A banner hanging beneath the sign proclaimed HAPPY NISANNU! SEE OUR SPECIALS! In the upper turret windows, two golden-haired Ishtar's Maidens sat in spindle chairs. They gossiped as they watched the comings and goings in the street below.
Two crows perched on the weathervane above them, squawking to each other. They quieted when Hart's beat-up car turned down the alley and parked in front of Thor's Hammer. Hart got out. Their beady black eyes focused on him. One flapped its wings and rose into the air. Damn spies. He drew a pistol and aimed, but Kayla made a noise on his other side, and he didn't fire. When he glanced at her, her eyebrows were pulled together and she was chewing the inside of her cheek. “Hey, I didn't shoot it.”
“Why not?”
He didn't think she would like it, that's why. And what kind of response was that anyway? He didn't care what she thought. Damn woman. He was losing his edge.
“So who is this other operative? Why's he called the Reaper?”
“It's a girl. She hunts aptrgangr and sends the wraiths back where they came from. Someone joked that she harvests souls for hell, just like the Grim Reaper, and the name stuck.”
“And she's Kivati, like you?”
“Naw. She's human, but she's got a gift for it. Maybe it's something supernatural, don't ask me. She's a little obsessed.” Grace always ran straight into trouble like her ass was on fire, like she had a death wish or something. He knew she didn't, just the same blinding drive for freedom he did. He didn't imagine Norgard would let her ghost go that easily.
“Why?”
“Aptrgangr killed her folks.” Though something dark and nasty had killed his mom and you didn't see
him
trying to make revenge his life's work. He shook his head and approached Thor's Hammer, where Grace worked her magic. The specialized tattoo parlor occupied a narrow storefront. The top of the Dutch door stood open to the cold spring air. The Reaper didn't like to be shut in.
He yanked the tasseled bellpull, and a man's voice yelled, “Go away!”
“Open up, you fucker,” Hart called back, “or I'll huff and I'll puffâ”
Oscar emerged. “Hart, you bastard!” He rubbed soot off his hand with a handkerchief, then extended it to shake. His sleeves were rolled up, and his forearms marked with grease. People underestimated him, because his face was too pretty and his body lean. He sized up Kayla, with obvious interest.
“Oscar.” Hart jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “This is Kayla.”
“Aren't you cute?” Oscar gave her a once-over. He blinked at the ragged right leg of her pants, where Cortez had shredded them. “Ripped jeans went out of style decades ago. Or are we trying for neo-grunge?”
“Inside,” Hart snapped. The crow on the roof above listened intently.
“A story. Excellent.”
“Where's the Reaper?”
“Come in and see for yourself.” Oscar held the door open for them. “The boss has her making decorations for Nisannu, as if she didn't have better things to do.”
Hart's eyes adjusted quickly to the dark interior. It smelled like an apothecary, overlaid with a thick layer of iron. Shelves of ink and additives lined the walls. Tools of Grace's trade. He didn't know what liquids were housed in the ceramic jars, and he didn't want to. Grace kept close tabs on the Gate with seismographs and steam clocks. Her machines tracked the movements of the earth and measured the currents of Aether. Gears clicked steadily. Needles bounced with seismic readings. Barometers of mercury rose and fell. A metal duct connected each machine to the potbellied stove that powered them. Every so often, the stove belched thyme-scented steam.
Oscar picked up a discarded wrench and waved it menacingly at the stove. “Better part of a morning fixing that blasted thing. I don't know why you need it, Grace. Aren't there enough aptrgangr wandering the streets to make your quota?”
“Stuff it,” Grace said without heat. “At least I'll have warning when the whole thing blows. You'll just be a pile of bones under volcanic ash.” In her usual dour black, she blended into the shadows. Her blue-tinted hair was tucked behind her ear. Crouching in the center of a circle of salt, she carved runes into red ceramic beads with a silver needle and a small brass hammer. Her work produced a rhythmic
click-click-click
.
“You can't be sure,” Oscar said cheerily. “I might fall in a crevasse. Better to be buried alive than survive to be aptrgangr chow.”
Grace scowled. “I wouldn't let that happen to youâ”
“No, darling, you'd probably slit my throat yourself.” Oscar threw himself into a rusty old dentist's chair. It was the only piece of furniture not covered by machines or jars. Restraining straps hung off it like a torture rack. Propping his feet on the foot bars, he picked up his leather flask from the cup holder and lifted it with a theatrical flourish. “To loyalty! May I always have friends like these.”
Grace's black-and-white cat sat to her right. He lifted his head at Oscar's pronouncement, snorted disdainfully, and returned to washing one white-tipped paw. The cat ignored Hart.
“Hullo, Reaper,” Hart said. He squatted at the edge of the circle, careful not to upset any lines of power she might have drawn. Only the cat could cross threads of magic and not disrupt the balance.
“It's you,” Kayla said. She stared from Grace to the cat, questions dancing in her eyes.
“Who?” Grace asked.
“Short girl with a cat. You taught Desi Norse mythology.”
Grace paused with her hammer lifted. “Says who?”
“Some kids from the U. Adam and Caroline. Did you know my sister?”
Grace glared at Hart. “What the hell is she doing here?”
“She's cool,” Hart said. “She's with meâ”
“I can see that.” Grace waved her hand to cut him off. She finished chiseling the rune on the bead, threaded it on a leather thong, and tossed it carelessly on a pile of completed Nisannu necklaces behind her. She turned to Kayla. “Your sister's got a big mouth.”
Kayla turned white. She gave a tight smile. “Had.”
Hart had the sudden urge to grab her hand. The tight pinch of her shoulders made his fingers itch to rub them. Where the hell did that come from? He had to stop this before it got out of hand. The Reaper was prickly on a good day, and they needed her help. “Grace, we've got something for you to check out. Kayla?”
Kayla stepped forward and pulled the necklace out of her pocket. The cat jumped from his lounging position, hissing. The fur along his back bristled.
Grace winced. “That thing reeks.”
Kayla lifted it to her nose. “Hart said it smells like the Gate, but I don't smellâ”
“You wouldn't. Give it here.” Grace stuck out her hand.
“Don't worry,” Oscar told Kayla. “I can't smell it either. Grace might be more human than our toothy friend here, but she's not without magic.”
Kayla squatted next to the circle and held out the necklace on her upturned palm. The cat retreated behind his mistress's back. Grace gingerly reached out to touch the jade, but snatched her hand back, burned. Fuck. If the Reaper didn't like touching it, what was it doing to Kayla? She didn't have any mental shields, and her emotional state was a mess. Prime picking for any wraith.
Hart wanted to snatch the damned thing from her fingers and hurl it across the room. He reminded himself that this was probably the safest place in the territory. Neither the Reaper nor her cat would let the dead darken their doorway.
Grace braced herself and reached her hand out again. She muttered under her breath as she picked up the necklace with her thumb and forefinger. “Be quiet.” She held the necklace to her ear. Her eyes widened. Her irises flashed silver. Hart had never asked her about her special curse. He didn't understand what she did, let alone how she did it, but he didn't envy her. Bad enough he turned into a half-mad Wolf. With Hart's unnaturally keen nose and tracker instincts, Norgard had his own personal hellhound. He mostly used Hart to find things or people. Hart didn't want to think about the power Norgard might wield through Grace. The Drekar Regent had taken the girl under his wing at the tender age of sixteen, and she wasn't just another operative to him. He taught her special skills. Kept her close. Took liberties he didn't ask from any of his other blood slaves. Thank the Lady.
Hart pushed the thought from his mind, because there was nothing he could do about it. He tried to throw new jobs at Grace when he could, help her earn her freedom a little faster, but he had no power to stop Norgard from taking what he wanted. None of them did.
His eyes fell on the necklace again with the full weight of his future and freedom hanging in the balance. He was so close.
Grace dropped the stone from her ear. She flipped the jade over and studied the carvings that ran in neat columns over its surface. “Where did you get this?”
After a nod from Hart, Kayla told the story. She was much more thorough than he would have been. The sound of her voice was soothing to his beast. Her words flowed over him like a caress. Warm and melodic.
Sitting next to her outside the circle, he was aware of her every movement. The shift of her cotton shirt over her skin. The swish of her ponytail against her nape. The tap of her fingernails against her leg. Rudrick could come in guns blazing, and he wouldn't notice. He'd just sit here quietly cataloging the little noises Kayla made, identifying the complex notes of her unique scent, basking in the melody of her voice.
Fuck him. He was a dead man. He needed to ditch the broad, and quickly.
“The aptrgangr called you âsister'?” Grace interrupted to ask. “You're sure?”
Kayla nodded. “It must be Desi, right? Since Cortez died, is she gone for good?”
“I wish,” Grace said. “Would save me a lot of trouble.”
“Will she try to find me again?”
“How the hell should I know? She left you a specific task. Her ghost might be freed when you accomplish it. If she's lucky.”
“But she hurt me. How would that accomplish the task she's left me?”
“Probably didn't mean to, but you ran. It takes wraiths a while to gain control of the body they inhabit.”
Kayla wiped her sleeve across her eyes, thinking of her dead sister again. As if Hart needed a reminder why emotions were a weakness. He tried to ignore her, but he couldn't stop his hand from reaching out and squeezing her foot. She gave him a trembling smile.
When he turned back to Grace, her eyes were flat. “Get on with it,” she said. “How did you fend off the attack?”
“Since I arrived in Seattle,” Kayla said, “I've become aware of something else. A light, I guess, inside people.”
“You didn't tell me that,” Hart said. So much for trust. She was keeping secrets from him. What happened to information sharing and teamwork? And why did he care so much? He expected people to lie to him.
She shrugged. “I didn't understand it. I still don't. Didn't believe in werewolves or wraiths or strange lights.”
Oscar offered Kayla his flask, which she refused. “Happens to the best of us, darling. We trust only what we can hear and see and touch.”
Kayla's eyes held gratitude to Oscar for his understanding. The beast inside Hart growled, even though he knew Oscar wasn't a threat. Hart couldn't offer understanding. He wasn't human. He'd been born knowing the spirit world existed. Grace tilted her head and studied Kayla. Her gaze was calculating. “Can you see shadows too?”
Kayla nodded shyly.
“You aren't using her,” Hart said. Grace ignored him. He wouldn't let her take Kayla into danger. He turned to Kayla and saw her frustration. “You aren't cut out to hunt aptrgangr.”