Breaking Ties (20 page)

He whips the sidhe with the butt of the gun. “Right? C'mon, Knife Ear, you can tell the truth or I can pull the trigger.”

“Dad, stop it!”

“Yes.” The Fae spits out some blue blood. “We would've killed him once we had the Riordan.”

Dad snickers at the reply, even as I feel my knees go weak. He lowers the gun, but that fact is still obscured to the Fae. “And you know what, sidhe? I'll lay good money Spence would
still
spare you because, to him, killing you wouldn't solve anything.”

Dad looks at me, meeting my gaze. “My son, the child of the only woman I ever really loved. He wouldn't kill you because, at the end of the day, he wouldn't want to be you.” He smiles warmly at me, proudly. “And my son wouldn't
dare
sink to your level.”

Both the sidhe and I breathe a sigh of relief.

The Coyote levels the gun back on the sidhe. Pulls the hammer back.

“But I will.”

I close my eyes.

He pulls the trigger.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Ozzie

December 20, 1:10 pm

The Palace of Wisdom is probably one of the better-known hotspots in Allora. Built in an old movie palace, it's a nightclub run by a god, Pan, to be particular, and staffed largely by satyrs and nymphs. The line (jokingly referred to as the “Path of Excess”) is interminable, to say the least, and I'm hardly special enough to skip ahead and wait for judgment by the bouncers.

The place is pretty popular with the mythics and supernaturals, as a place to both let off steam and network. Case in point, I'm pretty sure that a fellow twin-blood, likely a half-troll woman, is chatting up a werewolf male as we all wait to get in. I don't follow the Gryphons but apparently they're both in firm agreement that they need a good fullback or at least a better tight end.

Hey, just because we're not technically human doesn't mean we don't enjoy the pastimes. We're still American. I just prefer college ball. Hook 'em Horns.

The half-troll and wolf get waved in. Figures. So I end up face-to-crotch with a satyr nearly seven feet tall that's built like a brick shithouse and is not wearing a whit of attire.

Yes sir, I'm definitely bi.

“What're you lookin' for, Dwarf?” He waggles himself as he talks, of course. No one, by the way, ever scores with either of the bouncers. Yep, twins. Identical in every foot-long throbbing way. They apparently just love teasing the ones who see them as they are. Fae, even twin-bloods, are supposed to be welcome here.

“Just lookin' for someone to talk to, is all.” I shrug, try to keep my eyes off his pecker, but when it's at eye level that's a pretty damned tall order.

“You'll have to check the piece.” He points at the collapsed staff. “You know the rules.” No combat in the club, you take it outside. Everyone's usually too stoned, drunk or horny to bother with fighting in there, though.

The twin sneers at me. “And next time wash the damned Keth stink off ya.” The satyr rolls his eyes and jerks with his thumb toward the door.

I probably should mention that sorcerers are particularly hated by satyrs, considering, as the story goes, a Ra'keth cursed their
god
,
who is still cursed to this day. They're hardly going to fault me for my “lapse in judgment”. That would go against their code.

The coat check is in the ticket booth in the lobby, run by a rather stunning young woman with pale skin, blonde hair (this year, at least) and visible fangs. I don't have a coat, but I unclip the staff from my belt and pass it through the window. She takes it without comment, and hands me a card with a number and a silhouette of a sword on it. Yep, that casual about checking weapons. Stone only knows what kind of arsenal's back there.

“You see a girl with blue hair go in there?” I ask the coat-check girl, figuring she'd probably have seen something. Dragons aren't known for noticing the little people, but that doesn't mean they're forgettable themselves. I take out my wallet, put down a twenty.

She takes the bill and drops it in the tip jar with the other bills, business cards and scraps of paper with numbers. “You think I'm going to tell a Dwarf whether I've seen a dragon?”

I blink. How would she know that a girl with blue hair is a dragon? “Didn't you just do that?”

She points to the main doors leading to the club floor. “At least you're not stupid.”

“Any hints where to start looking?”

She grins, showing her fangs. “Not for a Jackson, no. Maybe if you introduced me to his brothers. Two or three of them.”

“Sorry, darlin', I don't think Andy's into threesomes.” I drop another bill down in front of her. “But I read that Benny here was quite a tomcat in his day.”

She smirks. “There is something about a dirty old man…” She takes the bill and puts it in the jar. “She came in three hours ago, smelled pretty pissed off. Probably at the bar. Go ask Darren, he's on the Arcadian side tonight, his info's cheaper than mine.”

I take the info and go, opening the doors and descending the stairs to the dance floor. Plenty of people down here, mythics too. I'm thankful my nose isn't too sensitive, otherwise one whiff would probably knock me on my ass and get me stoned as a Deadhead. The club has two bars on the right and left of the central dance floor, the stage of the theater having a concert space that's currently filled by a DJ, another satyr, with glowsticks hanging from his horns.

I stay on the periphery for the vantage point, checking the right side, also called the Arcadian side (the left is called the Grove). I would think that blue hair would stand out, but with all the lights, music and smoke, it's a pain in the ass seeing anyone's hair color for sure.

“Anyone seen a girl with blue hair?” At least I can bellow. Time's a wastin' here. I am loud enough to be heard over the music, and while I get more than a few dirty looks for interrupting their delicately crafted mysterious moods, a weretiger with a French-Canadian accent jabs his finger toward a booth a few yards away and punctuates it with a comment in French that I'm guessing isn't all that neighborly.

At least I didn't have to pay anyone.

The crowd isn't as thick as I move away from the bar, though I do have to navigate between newly minted couples, trios and quartets to find my way to the booth.

She's alone, her hair remaining a deep cerulean despite the constantly shifting color of the lights. At first glance, had I not known her nature, I'd have pegged her as being from the university and recently having discovered retro-punk chic, what with the torn jeans, spiked bracelets and distressed Ramones T-shirt. Her gun belt is empty, likely checked, and she's taking a long pull from a bottle of Glen McKenna when I come into view.

Her reaction is muted, for a dragon, when she smashes the bottle and points the broken remnant at me. “
Fuck off
, Dreamblood.”

At least she didn't break any doors. Still, busting a bottle of expensive scotch does draw attention. I immediately put up my hands, palms open. “Relax, darlin', I just want to ask a couple questions.”

“And then what, you'll cut off my head to temper your freshly forged blade?” Yeah, us Dwarves used to do that. Not me, at any time, and we haven't done it in ages. But dragons have long memories and short tempers, according to the stories and the advice from Dave.

“Here? In the middle of the Palace, you think I managed to sneak in a Fae-steel blade?” I snort at that. “Besides, it'd only work if you were in your true form. Plus now we temper blades with
water
. Lot cheaper. All I want to know is where the Ra'keth is, and how to get there.”

Security at the Palace comprises a seven-foot satyr with a leather harness, a scourge with silver tips and a cigar he hand-rolls. “There a problem?”

“No, sir, none at all. Just askin' the lady a couple questions.” I keep my hands up, tone even and respectful. Respect goes a long way.

“This fucking dreamblood is bothering me and I've told him to leave.” She tics her head toward the door. “Toss him out.”

The satyr folds his arms and grumbles lowly. “I was going to. Then you presumed to command
me
. We also don't appreciate language such as that in this establishment.” He motions to me, the scourge gently tapping my shoulder. “Given our relationship with the Tolon Duchy, slurs against the Fae, or any mythic for that matter, are not tolerated. Twin-bloods are also offered sanctuary, given they treat our establishment with the proper respect.” The satyr lightly taps my shoulder again. “This one has followed the rules and shown respect, and you have not. Answer his question, or the Ra'saar will be informed that dragons will not be welcome here for two seasons.”

“I
asked
him to leave, Goat Horn.”

“
Four
seasons. Say that word again, and it extends to permanency.”

Understandably, I take a step away, but I only find my back against his furry thigh. “Stay there, Dwarf.”

“Yes, sir.” The Stone never told anyone to be stupid.

Clearly, the dragon is fuming, though in her case sparks fly from her nostrils, as she's the lightning-breathing type. Deliberately, she sets down the broken bottle and takes a long, deep breath. “I offer apologies for my offense and would…” she grits her teeth, “…
respectfully
request that punishment only be levied against me. I will accept a ban if necessary.”

“And the Dwarf's question?”

She folds her arms. “You understand that I do not wish to share a Ra'keth's location with one whose liege bears a grudge against my race's protectorate?”

“My Lord has no quarrel with the Lightning Rod, only the Recluse. He prefers to let sorcerers dig their own graves. They rarely need help doing so.” The satyr taps my shoulder to put the attention back on me. “Now answer his question. Where is the Lightning Rod?”

The dragon smiles wickedly at me. “Another realm, where none but the Keth and the dragons may go.”

The satyr
hmmph
s at that. “Good. Now I trust you can find your way out. You may return in four seasons.” I'm nudged forward, and I turn around to look up at him as the dragon makes her exit. “She'll likely run straight back to her masters. Perhaps you could follow.”

I nod quickly. “Thank you, sir.”

“You do realize it never ends well for one of us when we chase a sorcerer? Love sours all too quickly with them.”

I blink, not knowing how to take that. “Were…were you?”

“My Lord. Even the gods can fall victim to human emotion. He is reminded of his mistake every day. Now go.”

I don't need any more encouragement, and luckily getting out of the club is far easier than getting in. Just a matter of collecting my staff and chasing the dragon outside. She's heading down the street, toward a parked car, an electric-blue Camaro from the eighties.

“Hey!” Despite my short legs, it's not that hard to catch up with her.

“I answered your question, Dreamblood, and out here you are not under anyone's protection.” She faces me. “Out here I could change, bite you in half, and those ignorant sheep would see nothing more than you being crushed by an out-of-control truck.”

“You really don't like humans, do you?”

“Only the Keth are worthy among them, and His Majesty has granted my kind a favor by only allowing one member of the human race to be worthy of our respect.”

James's decree that there can be only one Ra'keth at a time.

“Take me to him.”

“Or what? I owe you nothing and you have nothing to give me. And do not presume your…
dalliance
with His Majesty engenders any consideration. You are not worthy of him.”

“I'll believe that when he tells me personally.” Despite what that recurring nightmare says. But I have to think fast. She's right, at least about not owing me anything. Dave is either on the outs with his family or isn't wealthy enough to matter, so I can hardly ask him to take me to wherever the hell she was talking about in the Palace. The only thing I have to offer is something I won't give her, because the staff is for James and…

The staff is for the Ra'keth.

“Besides, Dragon, I must be taken to see the Lightning Rod immediately. Protocol demands it.”

She snorts sparks, which splash against the car's hood. “And what protocol would that be?”

“As you've pointed out so repeatedly, I'm a Dwarf.” I return the same smile she gave me in the club. “And my people were created by the Ra'keth for…what purpose?”

As a dragon, and allegedly an expert on all things Keth, she'd have the answer, and considering her face scrunched up like she ate a bad pickle, she knows what I'm talking about. “The Stonekin were created as personal smiths to the Keth.” Anger flushes her face. “To present their masterworks for use by the Sorcerer Kings.”

I grin now, tapping the staff that's clipped again to my belt. “And as the Lightning Rod is currently without a proper focus, the House of Bremenschmeid humbly requests to offer our liege our latest, finest creation.”

What follows is a long stream of draconic cursing and a rain of sparks that subsequently sets off every car alarm within a two-block radius. Considering we're not too far from the Palace, and near a lot of high-end automobiles, the police will likely be on their way soon.

She disarms the alarm on her own car and points severely at the passenger door. “Get in.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Spencer

December 20, 4:46 pm

Oh shit.

Oh shit shit shit.

Oh shit.

“Spencer, keep 'em closed.”

I do, because I don't want to open my eyes and confirmed that what just happened…just happened. I don't want to believe that Dad killed someone right in front of me.

“C'mon, walk along with me.” He takes me by the arm. “Keep 'em closed.” I'm led somewhere. I stumble a couple of times from not knowing where to step. My knees feel like I left them somewhere else, in another reality that a gunshot pushed me out of. “Stay there.”

I hear a door close.

“Eyes shut, Spencer. Now take off your shirt.”

It's enough to finally break the lock on my tongue. “Wh-what?”

“Let's just say there's something on your shirt that I'd rather you didn't see, okay?”

“Dad? What did you do?” He pulls the shirt off me. It's a little cold in this room. I don't hear any traffic, so I'd have to guess we're still inside wherever we are and that there isn't an open window anywhere near. “God, please say you didn't kill that guy.”

“I didn't kill that guy. Eyes shut.”

I know he's lying.

Something's put in my hands—fabric, I can make out sleeves. I start to put it on. “Not yet.”

Something wet rubs my cheek, my forehead, just under my right eye, my chin. “Okay, now you can put it on.”

The process is slow, methodical. I actually have to stop and remember how to put on a shirt, work buttons. The fabric is smooth, maybe silk. I have to wonder where he got it. “Dad…”

“Not yet.” He takes me by the arm again, leading me. I hear more doors shut, and the path isn't straight; we wobble and curve and swerve our way through rooms. He doesn't speak as we move, other than occasional instructions of direction changes, or asking me to step high.

“Dad, what did you do?”

“Spencer.” He sighs. “Son, I know you don't really want the answer to that question. Let's just say the Cobalt Order probably isn't something to worry about anymore. Don't ask why, that's a story you don't want to carry, and it's taking every ounce of willpower I've got not to tell you.” His voice has the edge he had a few years ago, when Selah stole his mind, when he nearly killed me. “
Now stop asking.
”

I couldn't say how long we moved through corridors, rooms. If we were taking a direct route through the place or avoiding people or what. I know that I'm under no compulsion to keep my eyes closed and that I can have the truth if I just look and see.

But I don't want to see. Not this.

I can figure out what probably happened, but until I open my eyes, it's just a theory, a story I'd maybe tell later, with some boasts thrown in, because maybe, if it's a story, then it's not really happening to me. If I don't open my eyes, if I don't see the blood splattered on my face, on my clothes, then I can tell myself it didn't happen. I can come up with something improbable, but still possible, something to squeak through the cracks of reasonable doubt.

I won't have to accept that my father may very well have killed a lot of people to get me out of here. I should be okay with it, really. There are a bunch of movies about this very thing, though the badass action-hero father is rescuing his daughter or avenging her honor. That's what stories tell us now, that it's okay to take so many lives if you're protecting an innocent, if you're protecting your family. People would tell you that, you know?

But those people didn't feel their fathers wipe blood off their face and possibly brain matter from just under their eyes. And my father knows that. He's a violent asshole who walked out on me and my mother, but he knows that. And I don't know what to do.

We enter a garage. I can hear the echo of our steps, the openness of the air, the change in temperature. I hear him tap a car door, the locks instantly giving way to him, the alarm bleeping once, futilely, before his special, personal Coyote trick kills it off.

He helps me into the passenger seat, buckles my seat belt. I'm suddenly reminded of long drives to arcades that had Skee-Ball, where he'd run petty scams so I'd have money for the machines.

“Keep 'em closed.”

He gets in, starts the car by tapping the ignition, his knack of opening any lock applying to automobiles as well. The engine doesn't roar, it's quiet, thrumming, probably high-end, as the passenger seat is leather. The imposed darkness of my closed eyes takes a brighter tint a few seconds later, signaling we're outside.

“Dad?”

“You can open your eyes now.”

We're in a Jaguar, not Rourke's Jag, and we're definitely in Destry Bay, given the traffic. Dad is cloaked in a fine suit, to give the impression he didn't steal the car. Reflexively, I cloak in a similar fashion when he looks away, not for the same reason. He's taking streets that'll lead us into Grunstadt. His face is calm, but every now and then he glances at me and smiles.

I want to ask him. I should ask him. “Dad?”

“Yeah, son?” His voice is weary, like when he'd come home from work. I never knew if he had a real job or was running games in Tolon Park or around Allora. He gave up the Feud for Mom and me, as long as he could, at least. He looks at me, smiles. “Never thought I'd see Rachel's eyes again.” He gives my nose a playful tap.

“Dad, we need to talk about what happened.”

“Just…a couple more minutes, okay?” He takes a deep breath. “Just a couple more minutes where we're a father and son in an eighty-thousand-dollar Jag and, I don't know, on our way to a boardwalk down in Jersey for old times' sake. Sorry it's not the 'Vette. Got stolen again. Damn Foxes.”

I should worry about saving James, getting to him, but that doesn't feel like a priority. “Dad, we can't go to Jersey.”

“I
know
.” His grip on the steering wheel tightens for a few seconds. “Just let me have it, okay?” He sets his jaw, the cracks growing in this temporary facade. “I didn't have it with Hank, Thornton never wanted it, just…” He shows teeth while hitting the steering wheel. “Just let me have it with you a couple more minutes, okay?”

“Dad?”

Another long breath, a few more seconds of silence as we get on the expressway leading into Grunstadt and eventually the Benedict. “Yeah?”

I sag in the car seat, look at him—at me—catch my blue eyes, my mother's eyes in the side view. “Lie to me?”

My father glances at me, nods silently and proceeds to tell me everything. Everything. The sidhe he beat to a bloody pulp to get the manor's address, every look of fear, every thread cut for Fate, every bullet expended, the satisfaction taken in ending almost a thousand combined years of life. A Bard must hear the stories, after all, no matter their subject or violence, no matter how it'll change the way a son will view his father, no matter how damaged the old fractured, frayed, less-than-perfect image of my father will now become.

So I did him that service in my request. I gave him the gift of uncertainty, asked a Coyote to give a fabricated account, so for a little longer he's not some violent killer. There'll be the chance it was all a lie, that he just snuck his way into the Cobalt Order's house, got me out of there and knocked out the sidhe for his trouble, nothing more.

I know that's not the truth, but for saving my life, for my father's sake, I'll try to believe.