Breaking Ties (15 page)

Chapter Seventeen

Spencer

December 20, 8:18 am

Being kidnapped sucks.

If you couldn't tell, I'm aiming for the Understatement of the Year Award. I hear the winner gets a toaster.

I'm currently in a small ten-by-ten room, cinder-block walls, no windows, one door, a small air vent near the ceiling and a bare light bulb above the door. I'm not tied up, just sitting in a corner. The air is cold. I was put in here a few hours ago, maybe more. I slept a little. I'm starting to lose track of time, wondering what the sun looks like, stuff like that.

My throat's also sore, but that happens when you run through the entire Tenacious D catalog three times. I was hoping to annoy them into something, but it would seem I don't have a guard outside the door, which is a little insulting. I figure that someone like me would at least rate adult supervision.

Considering all the info I promised them, I have to guess this is part of the interrogation process before they put the electrodes to my nipples, or whatever else Fae think up. If fairy tales are any indicator, they can come up with some plenty sick shit.

The process of getting here was standard, at least as far as TV goes. I was stuffed in the trunk of the car, driven around enough that I had no idea where we ended up, and had a bag yanked over my head when I was taken out. The only glimpse I got was of a parking garage, so at least I'm still in the City. We weren't on the road long enough to have made it to the Capital.

After that, I was stripped and thrown back in here with my clothes soon afterward. My pockets are empty, my cards are gone, but thankfully they're just standard playing cards. A couple bucks at a c-store would easily replace them. Times like this I wish I'd had the foresight to stash some cards or something in the lining of my coat, but thinking ahead isn't really the strong suit of Coyotes. All I can do is tell myself to have that ready for next time and hope it sticks.

Also to hope there will be a next time.

And I mean a next time to be prepared, not that I hope I'm kidnapped again.

Nobody's looking at me, so I could just as easily turn myself into a coyote, but then I'd just be a coyote in a closed room. I don't see the advantage, other than having a different method of pissing on the wall.

Which gets old after the first time.

Since singing off-key and marking my territory haven't had any effect, I try banging on the door repeatedly.

Nothing.

Apparently they're trying to bore me to death. I've seen this on TV too. They let me sit and stew until I reach the point where I'm willing to talk about anything, so long as it means social interaction.

But they made a fatal error.

I've seen enough movies, enough times to know them line for line.

Sure,
The Princess Bride
as performed with sock puppets may seem ridiculous, but us 'Yotes don't mind embarrassing ourselves so long as it was our idea to begin with.

The sword-fight scenes are a pain in the ass, though.

“Would you be
quiet
?” The voice doesn't come from outside. Rather, it echoes through the vent, but sounds like a refined gentleman. “If you are a means of torture, I would dare say you're quite effective.”

“All right!” I whoop with joy, I'll admit it. “There's someone to talk to? This is awesome.”

“I'm beginning to regret starting this conversation.”

“No, you don't get it. We can talk and get to know each other and plan a breakout. We're halfway home now.” I consider things a moment. “Wait, are you attractive? Because this would totally count as a meet-cute.”

“Even if I understood what that meant, my affections belong to another. Still, it would seem that conversing with you will cease your infernal prattling.”

“Are you locked up too?”

“And bound. The Cobalt Order holds my prowess in high esteem, it would seem. And you?”

“They apparently do not, as far as I'm concerned. What're you in for?”

There's a sigh of exasperation, followed by “It is embarrassing. And yourself?”

“Implying that I could give them information on the Riordan. Oh, and tips on insider trading at Victory Financial.” I chuckle nervously. “Neither of which I can really deliver on.”

“Implied? You led them to the conclusion, or told them outright?”

Ah, he's asking whether I'm Fae, considering that they can't lie, not even the Phouka. But they're damned good at leading you to your own false conclusions while remaining squeaky clean. Assholes.

“I'm not Fae, no.”

“Twin-blooded, then. I see no other reason for the Cobalt Order to give you a second thought. Was your mother or father of the noble race?”

“Huh? My dad wasn't all that noble. Still isn't. He's a Coyote.”

“Ah.” There's a slight pause. “You're one of the…others.”

“Do I detect a hint of bigotry in there?” I smirk to myself. “Because right now I'm all you've got.”

“Hardly,” he
hmph
s. “My lord will be along to free me, all in due time. And I do not take issue with those outside the court, I'm simply not as familiar as I'd like. I had heard rumor that the Riordan had taken an outsider as his consort. The individual was painted as a sort of trophy.”

“
Trophy?
I wasn't his damned…” My turn to grouch a bit. “Walked right into that.”

“At least it is now clear why you are still alive. The consort of the Riordan makes for an excellent bargaining chip.”

I roll my eyes. “To do what? Get him to step down? Tell a pretty story?”

“Exactly. Those are stories told to Her Majesty, and her alone. A story told with adequate skill can sway one's view of something, and the Riordan is the court's finest storyteller, and has told tales to our monarchs for centuries. It is a story told by the Riordan that is responsible for the formation of the Cobalt Order.”

“Wait, what?”
Rourke
is responsible for this? “Because of a story he told there's now an order of bigots out butchering half-bloods and Dwarves?”

“Indeed. His tale inspired Her Majesty to appoint a twin-blood as a liaison, and permitted the knighting of the same twin-blood to stand with her approval. The more conservative houses of the sidhe took it as a sign that her reign was faltering.”

“And they're killing Dwarves because so many of them have mixed heritage.”

“Because they supply Her Majesty's supporters with weapons, armor, artifacts. Their questionable heritage is simply additional satisfaction. I believe it to be an unwise action, however. There are rumors that the Lightning Rod himself shows favor to the Dwarven Clan. Nothing good comes of a Ra'keth involving himself in matters of the court.”

I slump against the wall. James dating Ozzie is going to have repercussions, as if that wasn't obvious from the beginning. Why can't he have something normal for a change? Then again, I doubt a relationship with me would be all sunshine and roses, considering the temptation would always be there to pull an Emerald on him, and God knows James is aware of that.

“So you don't have any escape plans, I take it?” Ugh, my voice sounds a bit hoarse, but that's to be expected, considering all the singing and sock-puppetry. “There has to be a way out of here. No place is impregnable.” That word's worth eighteen points in Scrabble, by the way. “Besides, I'm sort of counting on someone to bust me out too. Doesn't mean I'm going to sit around and wait for him to come, though. Besides, I doubt he knows I'm missing.”

I walk to the door, and while there is a doorknob, it's locked, and unlike my father, Fate feels that locks have every right to slow me down. The deadbolt doesn't help matters. I jiggle it, no luck. The vent's not nearly large enough for anything bigger than my hand.

“Damn it.” I kick the wall. “There has to be some way out of here. How are you bound, by the way, handcuffs?”

“Iron chain. It is very uncomfortable, though not having the effect they hoped it would. My wrists and ankles are also bound in manacles. As far as I can tell, they have me quite secured. You have been left unbound? Completely? I do not suppose that Coyotes possess the ability to open locks?”

“My father does. My half-brother's an escape artist. My other half-brother…I think he's just an asshole.”

“And you possess no knack in particular that might render aid?”

“Seriously, man, who talks like that?” I bump my head against the wall a couple times in frustration. “I'm a Bard, but I doubt that—”

“You are a
Bard
? And you have not freed us yet?”

“How, exactly, am I supposed to do that? I doubt that speaking in tongues will get the attention of the guards.”

He sighs loud enough to hear him through the vent. “Curse the locks, the walls, the doors, anything, to make them brittle enough to break with ease.”

I understandably blink. “Wait, I can? Would that work?”

“You believe curses are limited only to living beings? You've never once believed that an object of machinery could be cursed? A lock possesses many moving parts, a simple stroke of bad luck and—”

“The lock is broken and the door opens easily.” How the hell have I never considered that? Wow, I could steal so much stuff now. “How do you know so much about curses?”

“I believe that was rudimentary information. A better question would be how you know so
little
about curses if you claim to be a Bard.”

“It's not a common job for Coyotes. Do you know any Sigil? I need to hear some to get the Bard thing going.” Granted, my curses rarely need help, but I don't want to misspeak, especially when it's the language of magic we're talking about. When it was called Lorus, it was generally stable and dependable. Now that it's Sigil, it's moody, which I guess could be a reflection on the guy who named it.

“If there were some Sigil in front of me, I could read it aloud. Speaking it from memory is not a strength of twin-bloods. Sidhe heritage only carries so far.”

Well, looks like I'll be counting on luck, then, and even though luck may follow me around like a lovesick puppy, a Coyote must never
count
on luck. It's like Murphy's Law, you know?

I tap the doorknob gently, reach back through my mind to remember the last time I heard Sigil. If it were TV, it'd be done through a flashback with a nifty sound effect to punctuate the beginning and end of it, maybe a hazy filter over the lens. These sorts of things have to be done properly, of course.

“
May your pins be as brittle as your maker's reputation.
”

I turn the doorknob with a hard and sudden jerk. There's resistance for a second, then a snapping sound from the mechanism and the knob turns partway. The door opens to reveal a dimly lit hallway and a musty smell that implies we're underground. The hallway is wide enough for three people to stand abreast (
abreast
, I'll admit I titter at that), but boxes and crates are stacked along the wall on both sides to make the path more serpentine (worth twelve points, by the way).

I could always turn into a coyote and get a whiff of the place, but to be honest, I have no idea what those smells would mean, and I doubt it'll aid the situation. Instead, I step lightly and make my way toward the “cell” my conversation partner occupies. The door is barred and latched, but no key is necessary, which is good since I don't want to push my luck with those curses. I slide the bar, lift the latch and pull open the door.

Which creaks and squeaks. Loudly.

Nothing can ever be easy, can it?

I wince and suck air through my teeth, regardless. There's a protocol to follow, after all.

It would seem that we've been left alone, which I know I should find suspicious, as no one down either end of the hall speaks up with “What was that?” or “Did you hear something?” or “Go check that out!” We can't be considered so low-rate we don't require any supervision, that's just insulting.

The room is identical to mine, except for the rings punched into the wall to secure the chain that binds the prisoner. He's tall and definitely would be attractive if his face weren't beat to hell; he has black hair, tanned skin. He's dressed in ratty sweats, has thick iron manacles around his ankles and wrists, heavy chain wrapping his torso from his waist up to his neck. Strangely, there aren't any locks securing the chain, only the rings on the wall. It'd be easy enough to take it off, even with his wrists and ankles bound.

He looks to be in a bit of pain, so I take the chains off him. I probably should've checked them first to see if they were electrified or something, but it's not really the sidekick's job to think things through. Plus, I think I've covered Coyotes and foresight. The chain is relatively heavy, but it comes loose with enough effort, and a couple of muttered curses get the manacles off.

Once freed from his bindings, he staggers outside and I hear heaving sounds that aren't difficult to figure out. I follow once he's done, since ralphing is kind of a private thing, and I assume we'll both act like it didn't happen. They probably wouldn't even admit that a table has legs. Fae are rather proper, after all, and given how attractive the guy is, with a pair of dark-brown eyes, it's not hard to peg him as half-sidhe. Hell, he doesn't look
half
-sidhe. Must be some good genetics.

“Feeling better?”

He straightens up. “Much. Thank you.”

“I thought only full Fae were hurt by iron.”

He takes a few deep breaths. “Normally, yes, but sidhe are especially weak to the touch of iron, and it is often passed down to those such as I…” He sighs, hands tightening into fists. “Of course. You're a Bard. I should stop speaking.”

“Is it that well-known, what I am?”