Breaking Ties (13 page)

“Well, you go by Ra'saar, right?”

“That is my title, not my name, and it is not for this form, my…” Disappointment creeps into his voice. “My true form.”

“Well, dragons seem to just shorten their names for the human guises, how about we do that? Like, Ras or something.”

He furrows his brow. “What would make you say that?”

“Well, Coda's short for Codacintha, Parivian was shortened to Parry, Davinicus cut down to Dave…”

“No, no. The name you suggested.”

“What, Ras?” I spell it out. “R-a-s?”

A small, though genuine smile. “It is similar to a word, old when I was young, from one of the first dialects of magic.
Rasj.
It requires a skilled tongue to link the hard
S
and the sibilant
J
.”

“What does it mean?”

The smile remains as he speaks the word in Sigil, whispers echoing in undercurrents to carry it to my ears, working it into a word I'll understand. “
Teacher.
”

“I'd say that had an air of destiny, but since we don't have destinies, it's likely coincidence. Besides, you said you wouldn't teach me.”

He shakes his head. “I won't teach you
my
magic, but I can guide you toward finding your own, if you are amenable to that.”

I chew on my lip because, let's face it, I'm not nearly as competent as I'd like. I'm an apprentice, and apprentices aren't supposed to learn alone. “Why are you helping me?”

“Despite my protests, I now remember myself, what I lost. And you, you remind me of one of my students.”

“One of? So you had a lot of them?”

“Four, at one point. We were not always hated. Even during the wars among the Ra'keth, there were children being born into magic every day. Keth blood needed little reason to manifest then, so there were always new apprentices in search of teachers.”

I work through that. “Is that why dragons are so protective of sorcerers now? Maybe some part of you remembered?”

He shows me an open palm.

Confusedly, I stare at it. “Are you asking for payment?”

He blinks and looks at his hand, then me. “No, it is a simple gesture. It loosely means ‘I have nothing for you', or ‘I do not have an answer to give'. This is no longer done?”

I shrug. “I dunno.” I grin. “That's how we do it now.”

He tilts his head and awkwardly moves his shoulders. “I…don no?”

“It's ‘I don't know' said very quickly and with no respect for the Queen's English.” I wave him off before he can ask. “It would appear we can teach each other.”

“Indeed.” He nods. “But first, we must work on your pronunciation.” He sighs discontentedly. “You speak Sigil like a Dwarf.”

Chapter Thirteen

Spencer

December 19, 11:50 pm

“
Find.
” No change in direction. “Seriously? Do I have to swear at you every time?” I grumble, smack the brick with my open palm as I turn in a complete circle, the arrow never changing direction. We're on the North Bridge, and it's
cold
. The North River has frozen over already, thanks to an early cold snap, and since the ice is pristine, I'd guess James didn't fall over the side.

And yes, I tried looking up.

“This bit of railing's newer than the rest.” Ozzie's been inspecting it for the last minute or so, the Benz pulled over with its four-ways on.

“I told it to find the Lightning Rod, why would it stop on a bridge? Maybe the running water's messing it up?”

Ozzie gives me a look, and I give him one back.

“What? I occasionally read fantasy novels.” The Dwarf folds his arms.

“It has nothing to do with James. It's to better understand adorkable girls so I can get them in bed.” Oh damn it, have I subconsciously been reading Mercedes Lackey because it's the kind of stuff he reads?

And James
still
hasn't read
Hitchhiker's
, the smug bastard. Doesn't even watch
Doctor Who
. Some half-Brit he is.

Ozzie in the meantime has moved on and is for some reason still examining the railing. “Jesus, would you quit with the railing? I doubt he transmuted himself into several lengths of steel.” I think on that a couple seconds… Nah, he wouldn't do something like that.

“No, I think something went
through
this a while ago. Like something went over the bridge. I don't remember any accidents here in the last couple years though.” He peers at it.

“Ozzie, who cares if there was an…” Wait wait wait. “Ozzie, how old would you say the railing is? I mean, how long ago would you say it was put in?”

He snorts. “You better not be asking that because I'm a…”

“A Dwarf. Yes. I'm a racist asshole. You can hit me again after you answer the question because I know you can.”

Now it's a glare. “Three years, maybe four. Five on the outside. I'd be more accurate but my mother is human.”

He starts ranting about stereotypes, but I've tuned him out because I think I know what this chunk of new railing has to do with the brick telling me that this is where the Lightning Rod is.

I met James for the first time the night he left his boyfriend, I've covered that. I gave him a bus ticket to go to the Capital, and that bus's route went over the North Bridge. And James told me himself that he never got off the bus in the Capital, and that night is within Ozzie's time frame, and…

“Oh God.” I stare at the railing. “That bus was on the news. I was still in high school when that happened.”

The Dwarf looks askance a second and then catches up. “The bus that went over the…” He stares at the railing. “I forgot that happened here.”

“I think James was on that bus.” I look over the side, down to the ice. “I think this is where James became the Lightning Rod, or at least it's an important place that has, um, what's that word he uses? Recognizance?”

“Resonance.” He places his hands on the metal, not really able to look over the side like my taller self. “It's like the sanctum, there's a bit of him here that rubbed off, and since it's such a rudimentary enchantment, it got confused, seems like. If he was on the bus, it'd be a traumatic enough experience to leave this…residue for the enchantment to get fooled by.”

“So it won't find James?”

He seems frustrated now. “It
will
find James. We might have to find a few more of these places, though.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “He didn't tell me about this.”

“If it's any consolation he didn't tell me either. If this happened to him, Ozzie, it was a near-death experience. I could understand being tight-lipped about that. I mean, I almost got chased down by a horde of zombies once. I'm not too crazy about reliving that.” I wonder if I should pat his shoulder or something, but before I have the chance, he heads toward the car, pointing at the passenger-side door.

After I get back in, he pulls away and finishes crossing the bridge and looks for a place to turn around. The car is quiet. “I take it you two have some relationship thing where you tell each other everything?”

He nods, doesn't answer.

“Ozzie, he was probably going to tell you. Like I said, he hasn't told anyone, I think. And we don't even know for sure if it happen—”

“It happened.” He sets his jaw. “He has nightmares sometimes, always takes a few minutes where he's breathing heavy, like he'd been suffocating. Never wants to talk about it. He only takes the el. Never the bus. It all fits. He nearly died in a bus crash, he had a boyfriend who beat him, another who was murdered. He didn't tell me about this. What else hasn't he—”

I cut him off there. “Talk to him about it. I mean, stuff like this shouldn't fester. It always wrecks the relationship.”

He perks a brow at me. “How exactly are you a relationship expert?” The Dwarf appears to have given up, working a U-turn.

“Eleven seasons of
Cheers
, seven seasons of
Buffy
, everything written by Chuck Lorre, sitcoms, dramas, procedurals with subplots for the shippers, and countless romcoms where simple communication would've saved the romantic leads about forty minutes of screen time.” I think on that. “Wow, I would be
awesome
in a relationship.” I chuckle nervously. “No offense meant, of—”

The seat belt loses all slack as the air bags go off to the front and side, accompanied by a loud crash, crunch, I don't know how to describe the sound. I feel pulled in varying directions as the crunching sounds continue, tires screeching somewhere ahead of us, behind us, to the side. My ears are ringing. My first thought is that the shotgun went off. Something's pressing hard against my chest when everything finally stops moving.

Movies handle it with shaky cameras, sound effects like someone emptied a Dumpster filled with scrap metal. TV usually just cuts to black with the crashing sound and either comes back from commercial with the aftermath, or goes to credits to keep you guessing. But crashes always mean one thing, depending on the kind of movie you're in.

In a detective movie or a procedural, someone hitting your car means you're getting close to the culprit and you're on the right trail. In a comedy, an accident is a risky play for laughs, but everyone will be okay, and my getting cut off midsentence by the crash is a good sign. Personally, I'm hoping we're in a controversial Mercedes-Benz commercial where they justify their five-star safety rating.

I don't want to be in a drama where a car crash means someone's getting cut from the cast. Only Ozzie and I are in the car, and I know I'm breathing.

And he's not.

Ozzie's not breathing.

That's when the gunfire starts.

Chapter Fourteen

Spencer

December 20, 12:02 am

“Oh shit. Oh shit shit shit
shit
!”

The car is right side up, and my seat belt comes loose with a bit of struggling as I duck down, working to get Ozzie free to pull him down as well. His face is covered in blood, the air bag having hit at a bad angle. I don't know how to tell whether his neck is broken.

The gunshots sound like a pistol, but that's all I've got. I don't know if I can…

I don't know what to…

Oh God, what do I do?

The shotgun's on the floor, loose from its silk covering. Maybe I could…

What, shoot it out with lightning bolts on a public road and probably hit someone or blow myself up? And what about Ozzie?

All I know about CPR is that when Ozzie did it to James he did it to “Another One Bites the Dust” and as a Coyote I
refus
e to throw Fate a softball like that. Also, I've only seen it done before, never done it myself.

What I do know from TV is that Ozzie doesn't have a lot of time if I want to bring him out of it, and the only thing I can think of is magic, and Coyotes really aren't “spec'd for that” as James would put it. If I had that diamond James keeps around his neck, I could cheat it and try a couple things, since apparently the energy doesn't care who's calling on it as long as it's in Sigil and…

And the “shells” in the shotgun were made based on that stone.

I keep low while another bullet takes out what's left of the window, and reach into the back to lift up the gun and open it, shaking one of the stones into my hand, the cylindrical diamond glowing in my palm. Now all I have to do is speak some Sigil.

Oh damn, I don't remember how to speak it. And I can hardly shake Ozzie awake and get him to hum a few bars so I can fake it.

No, god damn it, I am
not
going to have a death scene on my hands that turns me into a grizzled, angsty son of a bitch.

James has used magic around me, I just need to remember what he said. Okay, one time over the summer, Ozzie was putting in a pane of glass on the skylight and it fell and broke and James cut up his arm really bad and Ozzie was freaking out and James played through the pain and said…

Said…

I remember the word, imagine one of my cards, the Joker for Sora, as I let my Bard's tongue shape the syllables.

“
Heal.
” The cylinder in my hand has lost its glow, looking like cheap plastic now. The Dwarf's body starts to twitch as sickening sounds emanate from his chest and arms, bones shifting and setting and knitting back together, wet
schlorp
s as organs mend.

He's still not breathing.

The windshield shatters as I pull out the other “shell”. I won't come this far, I won't almost pull off a trick on Fate herself by taking away someone slated for death. Damn it, I'm going all the way. If she didn't want me doing this, she wouldn't have arranged for me to get kicked out of the clan.

Ozzie just needs a jolt to get his heart started, and lightning is under the element of air, but I don't want too much or I'll probably fry him. Definitely not an Ace, face cards would still be too strong. Something lower than a ten, stronger than a two. I envision the five of spades and the sparks that dance through a storm, one hand holding the last cylinder, the other on his chest, over his heart.

“
Kaze.
”

The Dwarf's body practically jumps a foot off the seat and lands, his skin smoking under my hand, a red blotch of a burn there.

But he gasps. He breathes. His eyes slowly open, and I shove him back down as he tries to get up. The next gunshot saves me having to explain why.

Unfortunately, the shotgun's shells look faded. Weird, since it could fire off a lightning bolt and be fine. I guess that's why it's magic, not logic. I load the shells back into the shotgun—probably best not to leave those lying around.

I also hope James will understand that I'm currently on top of his boyfriend. It's strange, the things that go through your mind when someone's shooting at you, like wondering what the best music for the scene would be.

“Any ideas who's shooting at us?”

Ozzie croaks, swallows, tries to get his breath. Can't blame him for that. “What happened?”

“We crashed, you crashed, people shooting, and I'm not peeking to see who because I'm not in the mood to catch a stray bullet.” Another shot, and the back window's out. “I really hope you have an understanding insurance company.”

That's right, Spencer, make jokes, it's the sidekick's job. It's either that or curl up in the fetal position and cry, and as appealing as that choice is, I want to live.

A break in the shooting, probably to reload. I peek over the dash and see three tall attractive men with soft-blue skin and long pointed ears and cobalt-blue field-plate armor. And pistols. And they
are
reloading.

“Three Fae, they look like sidhe.”

The Dwarf coughs. “Heraldry?”

Hanging around Rourke, and having degraded myself by playing Dungeons & Dragons with James, I at least know that asking about heraldry means checking the colors and symbols on their armor or cloaks, and that will give the identity of what house or noble they serve. I, however, know next to nothing about Fae heraldry in the City. Except…

“Nothing I can see, but considering they're all wearing dark-blue armor and they shot up a Benz with a half-Dwarf and a half-Coyote in it, I don't think it's much of stretch to guess, Oz.” I peek again and barely duck another shot. “I don't see a car though. What'd they hit us with?”

Almost on cue, there's a rush of wind, a beating of wings, and even from my angle, I can see a dragon with scales like burnished metal descending, landing likely beyond the road. Traffic is flowing slowly around the crash, human denial doing its thing. As far as humanity's concerned, we got run off the road by a semi and we're just waiting for AAA.

“Well, there's a dragon now.” I titter nervously.

“That doesn't make sense. Are they fighting?”

I glance over the dash again. “Nope, they're standing there looking at us in a menacing fashion.”

“
Together?
” He coughs again. “Dragons and Fae don't work together.”

“Coyote!” The voice is smooth, sibilant, eloquent. “Our quarrel is not with you. Send out the tainted one, and you will be spared.” A sudden snort follows. “Apologies. Our colleague prefers we also take you into custody, but you will not be harmed. The Cobalt Order sees no reward in antagonizing Fate's Chosen. I would refrain from any quips or attempts at humor that I'm told are common to your kind, however. Our colleague would relish the opportunity to discover the time it would take to roast the two of you alive. A pity we would not be able to stop him.”

Oh fuck. Well, I did want to find the Cobalt Order, and since Fate has a sick sense of humor, they found me. I glance at Ozzie. “Tainted one?”

“Human mother. They don't approve.” He rests his head against the seat. “I'll go with them, better one of us makes it than both of us dying.”

“I just brought you back from the dead, and you think I'm going to hand you over? I mean, props for the noble sacrifice, but shouldn't we come up with some crazy and ridiculous counterattack options first?”

Ozzie gives me a look. “Like what? You tell jokes and I bleed at them? That dragon won't hesitate. They hate Dwarves and they
really
hate Coyotes, as I'm sure you know.” He sighs. “They're going to take one of us, and one of us has to find James. As much as I hate to say this, you have a better shot at that than—”

I'm already outside, hands up. “Okay. I don't know where you're getting this tainted-one business, but that Dwarf in there is clean.” I keep my attention on the dragon. “He's also involved with the Ra'keth, and I seriously doubt you want to draw his ire. It'd be a better idea to take me. My mother was human, my grandfather's a god, my father's a Coyote, I was conceived with all the stars aligned and shit, that's some fucked-up heritage right there. Wouldn't I be a better prize than a Dwarf who's good at grabbing his ankles?” I wink at the dragon. “Not to mention I interned at Victory. I could give you all sorts of insider info about next quarter.”

To be honest, the scant insider info I have is about how the head of my department took his coffee. (Irish.
Very
Irish.) But, hey, they don't know that, and only the dragon has to buy it, and let's face it, he's a dragon, I'm a Coyote. He'll totally—

“All Coyotes lie.
All
of them.” Smoke is snorted from the dragon's nostrils, the wind carrying it toward my face, and I cough a fair bit. Okay, maybe he won't buy it right off, but…

“We do the quarterlies for eight conglomerates.” I smile beatifically. “Imagine how you could help your investments if you knew which one of them I had to spend four days shredding documents for.”

There's a flash of light, and the dragon is replaced by a tall, svelte individual in a crimson suit, with ruddy skin, blood-red hair, and still about as pretty as the sidhe who flank him. He takes a step toward me. “And which company would that be?”

“MWS.” I say it plainly, and he glances at the sidhe. They nod to him.

The one on the right of him says, “The half-breed speaks the truth.”

Of
course
it's the truth. I worked for a major accounting firm, we shredded sensitive information for
all
of our clients, but TV has taught us that shredding means you've got something illicit to hide.

“But this is a waste of our—”

At that, the dragon seethes at the speaker. “
Nothing
was promised in the way of compensation for working with dreambloods. A butchered twin-blood Dwarf means little to the council. A greater hoard will.”

The Fae glare at him, particularly wincing at the term
twin-blood
.
Twin-blood
tends to piss Fae off because it makes the insulting implication that human blood is equal to Fae blood.

“As for your Dwarf,” he continues. “Fate has spared his life, and only a Keth openly defies the will of Fate. A slave of Fate, as this one, will make a fine prize.”

Oh yes, they look pissed. I've heard of
saber rattling
as a term, I've just never actually seen it literally done. This is likely bigger than me, and I got tapped for getting to the bottom of this at Under the Bridge. I have to go with them, if only because, firstly, Fae can't lie, and secondly, they likely won't resist the urge to taunt me with their entire diabolical plan.

Monologuing. It's not just for Bond villains anymore.

“I'll go with you, willingly, if you all walk away and give your word that Ozzie won't be harmed.” I glance at the one Fae knight who spoke, his hand still gripping the hilt of his sword. “I'm also rather well-acquainted with the Riordan. I'm sure you guys would love some dirt on his liaisons outside of the court.”

That gets their attention. I'm not planning on selling out Rourke, but the more useful I seem, the less likely they are to kill me, and the more a promise to spare Ozzie will seem worth it. It's one of the few things you can count on with Fae.

“You have my word that the Dwarf will not come to harm.” The Fae has a cold smile, but I don't have to give a damn about reading him. Instead…

“That's fantastic.” I motion to the other Fae. “But I don't have
their
word on the matter yet. You aren't screwing me with some backdoor technicality.” I point to the dragon. “I want his word too. On his hoard.”

The dragon snorts a hard thick plume of smoke. I honestly have no idea if that's even an oath among dragons. But if there's one thing they care about, it's their money.

The Fae grumble, but each of them responds, “You have my word that the Dwarf will not come to harm.”

After nearly a minute, the dragon simply nods. “You have my oath.”

I smile widely. “And your oath is on your…what now?” Yes, this is not the time to be rubbing it in. But he's a dragon, I'm a Coyote, it's our job to mess with those bastards.

“On my
hoard
.” An actual gout of flame accompanies that. “The dreamblooded will not come to harm.”

So I walk over to them. That went a hell of a lot easier than expected. They could've just taken me and tortured me, in ways you only see in spy movies, to get all the information they want. They're likely just as surprised as I am that the two of us came out of that crash and a hail of gunfire alive.

It's not to say that they're gentle, however. I'm grabbed roughly by the forearm and practically dragged down the road toward a car that's parked on the side, unharmed. I'm guessing it's the dragon that hit us from behind. They don't test for
that
at the factory, I'm sure.

I know I should be worried, but I'm a little relieved, and not just because Ozzie's likely to make it through the night. I'm surprised that it took this long, considering the role that I chose once I gave up my hero gig (though James has a knack for forcing me back into the role, despite my best efforts to stay on the periphery). James is the hero. Actually, James has magic and can sling lightning bolts at zombies with his
mind
—James is a damned superhero.

And I'm a sidekick. I'm a superhero's sidekick. And superhero sidekicks get kidnapped by the bad guys and held hostage until the superhero fulfills some ridiculous demand. And now I'm kidnapped.

Like I said, it's a relief.