Breaking Ties (3 page)

Jutte's the Broodmother of the Crimson Flight or, put simply, the head honcho for the Red Dragons. She's also the mother of my loftmate and former boss, Davinicus, though he prefers Dave. Dave's father is Argentus the Opulent, head of the Silver Dragons, and Dave takes after him in appearance.

Grumbling as I get dressed, I eye the Dwarf a second. Quite a hairy chest on that one. “Not that I don't appreciate the view, but you might want to put some pants on, Oz.”

Once he complies I open the door, where I do in fact find a man holding a gun. Well, not technically a man. Dragons, once they're powerful (i.e., rich enough), have the ability to take a humanoid form, which more often than not resembles an elf.

This one is tall, slender, has alabaster skin and snow-white hair, light-gray eyes, is wearing a milky-white suit with no tie and holding a forty-five with a pearl handle, though the gun is at his side currently. Upon seeing me, he pushes past me into the room, sniffing the air (and growling softly at Ozzie), and once he finds it sufficiently safe, drops to one knee in front of me, bowing his head.

“My apologies, my liege, I was not informed of the circumstances of your staying here. If I had known you were…” he sneers in disgust as he regards the Dwarf again, “…
occupied
…”

I roll my eyes at him. I don't know if it's because Oz is a guy or a Dwarf, but I don't much feel like getting into it. “Yes, yes, whatever. Who are you and why are you breaking down doors?” When he looks up at me, I glare down. “You are paying for that, you do realize.”

It's always weird, meeting dragons. To them, sorcerers rank (only slightly) beneath their god, and the Sorcerer King, me, well…I've had…differing experiences with them. I'll just leave it at that.

“I am known as Parivian the Algid, my liege, though you may address
this
form as Parry.” He smirks slightly, and there is a reason. As a sorcerer I can do just about anything with someone's name, but I can do even
more
if a being lacks a name at all and I give them one. It's because of this that a once well-regarded member of the Crimson Flight can't take his humanoid form without being referred to as Stuffington Fluffypants the Third, Esquire. Unfortunately all of dragonkind caught on to that oversight, hence the smirking. “I am here because the council requests a meeting.”

“A meeting? You broke down my door over a
meeting
?” Ozzie is yet to put down the shotgun, and I look to him pleadingly. With a snort, he lays the gun on the bed and sets to finding a shirt.

“Tell them I'm not interested, Parry. You may go.” I wave him off and take a seat on the bed, rubbing my face.

“I'm afraid I can't convey a refusal, my liege. You will have to address them yourself. I am not nearly so worthy as to carry a missive from the Lightning Rod.”

“Well, I don't care. Deliver the message anyway.”

The dragon shakes his head. “My apologies, sir, but I am not wor—”

“Then I
deem
you worthy. Deliver the message.”

He lowers his gaze at that. “You honor me, Your Majesty, but unfortunately that privilege can only be granted by the council itself.”

I have to blink at that, but the wheels are turning in my head. “Let me guess, that's likely the reason you were sent, right? Because if you can't carry my refusal, I have to refuse them in person and they'll get what they want anyway?”

The dragon shrugs meekly, even when I curse under my breath.

“Where?”

Parry rises to his feet. “I am to take you there personally, sir—”

“The hell you are.” Ozzie comes around the bed. “I'm not letting you take him anywhere he doesn't want to go.”

I place my hand on Ozzie's shoulder, squeezing affectionately. “I'll be all right. Dragons are the least of my worries. Just another fun job perk of being the Lightning Rod. Besides, you'll likely want to get that front door fixed before your dad shows up, right?” I lean down enough to kiss him. “Thanks for having my back, though.”

The dragon scoffs slightly at that, but otherwise remains silent. Ozzie eventually nods and gives quite a warning glare to Parry before walking the two of us to the front doorway. After receiving another glower from the Dwarf, the dragon grumbles, taking out a wallet and handing Ozzie a credit card. “Pay with that, I'll return later to retrieve it.”

Ozzie takes the card, inspecting it. “Not worried I'll run it up for my trouble?”

The dragon snorts, a white, cold mist issuing from his nostrils. “Dwarves may be many things, but not a one of them is a cheat when it comes to wealth.” He narrows his eyes at Ozzie. “You'll uphold that reputation, of course?”

I step between them to break the mutual glares. “Can we just get this over with, please?”

With that, Parry and I leave, and descend the stairs to the street, where I find a new-looking Saab parked in front of the building. I glance at him after we both get in and buckle up. “You drive?”

He nods. “I only recently became powerful enough to take this form, but I figured it wise to study your methods of transportation, especially in a city. Flying is no longer as effective as it was.” The dragon looks pensive before saying, “Is it true, my liege, that you chose the Snow Clan?”

“Huh?”

“That you honored us with your choice.”

I arch a brow. “Still not following, Parry.”

“Your draconic form.”

Oh that. One of the neat tricks I picked up from the dragons was the name of dragonkind itself. In a moment of desperation (I was thrown off the roof of a skyscraper), I traded my name for that of a dragon and subsequently wrecked a Starbucks. “I haven't done that in a while.”

Like six months because, the last time I did, I nearly forgot I was human. But the milky-white suit, the white hair, the cold breath, the title of “the Algid”—it's safe to say he's a White Dragon, snow, as opposed to fire breathers, which is the same kind of dragon I turn myself into.

“I didn't really choose that form, Parry, it's just what I became.”

“Oh.” He pulls the car into traffic, a hint of dejection on his face. “One of the recent hatchlings was named in your honor.”

“You named a dragon James?”

“Blitz.” He glances at me. “It is German, it means—”

“Lightning. You do know I was born in a country where Blitz has a
very
different connotation, right?”

“Your…American football?”

“I was born in
Oxford
, Parry.”

“Ah yes. England. Oh.” He blinks. “
Oh
.” The nervous energy in the car turns up a few notches. “I assure you, sir, we meant no disrespect. It was meant simply to thank you for your choosing our clan and…”

Huh. I never thought I'd see a dragon flustered.

“What I mean to say is that we prefer to focus on your accomplishments, my liege.”

I blink. “As opposed to?”

Dead silence.

I grumble, staring at him as he avoids eye contact. “As opposed to, Parry?”

“The rumors, sir. Of your…er…satyric tastes.”

Jesus, really? “Are you saying the Snow Clan has an issue with my being gay?”

The dragon furrows his brow and then quickly shakes his head. “No, Your Majesty, there is simply talk…about you…and your preference for nonhumans. I wanted to believe it false, myself, but after hearing about you and the Fae prince…”

“That was one time, and he wasn't a prince, just some guy I picked up in a bar because I was miserable.”

“And you and the Magnanimous?” Salondine, aka Fluffy.

“He was trying to use me to boost his status, and the
one
time we did anything it was thank-God-I'm-alive sex and nothing more.”

“What about the rumor about you and a Coyote—”

“No way, never. He just
tries
to get me in bed.”

He looks at me for the next one. “And the Dwarf, sir?”

“That's none of your business.” I fold my arms as we proceed on. “And really,
satyric
? Five guys in four
years
does not make me a slut.”

Chapter Three

Spencer

December 19, 7:15 am

Days like this, I wish I were a vampire.

Not for the bloodsucking immortality or anything like that. No, I want what every single vampire on TV has: a loaded bank account and the need to go in to work only to stave off boredom. Vampires on TV are always power-brokering, their decisions affecting global policy, and the only consequences are whether they end up really rich or
crazy
rich.

“Crain! Where's that coffee?”

Instead,
my
decisions largely influence which Starbucks I'll be getting my boss's cappuccino from.

I hand over the grande cup and am waved away from his “office”, which is better described as a cubicle equivalent of a double-wide. I stand at the entrance because I know what's coming as he takes a sip.

“This is
cold
. Christ, you can't even get
coffee
right?” The cup is dropped in his round file, upside down, resulting in a splash. “Empty that, and get me another coffee. Hot. Do it right, or find me someone who can.”

It sucks to be an intern.

Six months ago I managed to filch eight million fucking dollars from a charity-scamming soul-eating creature, and today I'm fetching caffeine for a parishioner of the Church of Red Tape. Even worse, the guy's a
bro
. Yelling at powerless subservients, using petty cash to pay for visits to strip clubs with other bros in the office so it'll be a business expense, and zero chance of any of that changing without outside intervention. He's the kind of mark that's handed to you on a silver platter with a card attached reading,
Have fun! Love, Fate
.

And I can't do a damned thing to the guy.

There's a cardinal rule to being a Coyote: don't rat out family. I broke it, got caught, and as a result my grandfather, Father Coyote
himself
, has put me on the outs with the clan. Cosmetically, all this means is that my eyes are a common blue instead of a golden brown. Jobwise, it means I'm no longer covered by the crazy luck granted by Fate, and that if the Kitsune and Phouka, the other two big players in the Feud, want to come after me, my fellow Coyotes will likely hand them my home address.

The first two are taking their time and setting me up. My own clan, on the other hand, has been playing kid pranks on me for the last six months. Popped tires, shoddy pool cues, shower dye, and I can't even eat anything sugary anymore because it's usually laced with a heavy helping of salt. I won't even mention what they did to my Facebook, much less my FarmVille.

At least they haven't screwed with my job. My half-brother Thornton has espoused the notion that the best trick you can play on anyone is to get them fired, and since he's the Coyote I narced on (and trashed one of his aliases), it wouldn't surprise me if that is the flavor retribution comes in.

As I ride the elevator down to Victory Station, where there is a Starbucks, I have to consider the simple fact that keeping me in this job is likely a better revenge. After all, I have a demanding idiot boss who has no authority or sway in the company, other than over me. The work itself is running errands and occasional data entry, the dress code is strict, and it's nine hours a day under soul-sucking fluorescent lights. And I'm paid in
experience
.

I'm tempted to say screw it and just wash dishes at the diner where I'm still crashing after six months. Shit pay's better than no pay. But this can lead to something better, I have to keep telling myself that. Have to be responsible and all, don't want to end up a career criminal.

Just pisses me off that the Fae I hustled last night ran out before paying that ninety bucks he owed.

Victory Station is built underneath Victory Tower, and is the major hub for the United Transit Authority, as well as a hub for Greyhound and Amtrak, with shuttles out to MacArthur Airport. It's a proving ground for pickpockets and short-conners, as it's busy, has people from all walks of life, and cops here and there. It's also where I first met James.

He was leaving his boyfriend who was hitting him, so I gave him my bus ticket out of town, thinking he'd end up in the Capital and able to have a happily ever after. Didn't quite work out that way.

“Grande cappuccino, piping hot, please.” I flash a Coyote smile to the barista, a college-age girl with a nice smile. “Feel free to make it scalding, it's for my boss.” That earns a giggle and a wider smile. She writes
Boss
on the cup and motions for me to wait off to the side, which I do, occasionally grinning over at her. She's apparently new, as I haven't seen her here before, which is good because for once my reputation isn't preceding me.

Of course my cell has to go off at that moment. So much for setting up a quickie with a barista. I answer it, expecting to hear my boss chewing me out for taking so long with his damned coffee.

“Crain.” I've learned to be curt.

“Six months, Spencer.” If my body didn't recognize the voice, the accent would be a dead giveaway.

“I've been working, Rourke. I know I owe you an introduction but my schedule hasn't really meshed with James's in a while.” I'd made a deal with my friend with benefits and former roommate for information, and in return, I'd agreed to introduce him to the Ra'keth. It's kind of a big deal, seeing as he's the King of the Phouka and meeting the Mark of All Marks is a top priority.

“A Coyote producing excuses why he's late with payment. If I were human, I'd be making several sardonic remarks regarding that.” Because Fae can't knowingly lie. “I have grown tired of waiting while a Coyote further ingratiates himself to the Ra'keth and the Kitsune continue their surveillance.”

We also haven't been on the best of terms since he tossed me out, and our relationship has largely run on negotiation and mixed signals.

“Jesus, fine. Do I
have
to introduce you personally? Can't I just tell you where he'll be and you can introduce yourself? He shouldn't be too hard to pick out, with that stripe in his hair.”

There's a bit of Gaelic swearing on the other side of the line, more frustrated than angry. “It would appear I have no choice unless I wish to fall further behind. Where will the Ra'keth be?” A short pause. “And no riddles. I want a direct answer, Consort.”

Essentially meaning my ass quite literally belongs to him, or at least that it's royal property. One of the reasons no one should sleep with a Fae unless they know exactly what they're getting into. “He works at the library. It's maybe a five-minute drive from your place, about a block from that burger place that overdoes it on the French fries.” I hang up on him after that because I'd rather focus my attention on the smiling girl with the cup of coffee and the nice ra—

“Spencer Crain?”

Well, aren't I popular this morning?

I turn around to the source of the voice and see a fist flying at my—

Contrary to TV, being knocked out doesn't mean you're out for hours at a time. You're not asleep, you're just unconscious, and you're down as long as it takes your brain to bring everything back online and take stock. If you're down longer than five minutes, I've learned, you might have suffered brain damage.

So when I come to in the backseat of a car with a bag that smells like ball sweat over my head and hear Victory Station outside the window, I can be grateful that I won't come out of this any dumber. Considering that police officers aren't chasing down the car and my abductors don't seem to be in any hurry, I have to assume that supernaturals have taken me.

A big bitch of seeing the world the way it is? Sometimes you forget that the vast majority of the population doesn't. When you're confident that things like vampires and dragons and magic are the stuff of stories and gods live on clouds instead of running nightclubs and law firms, you're going to ignore it when such things appear in front of you. Sure, I got abducted in front of a Starbucks and a few hundred witnesses, but what did those witnesses likely see? Me collapsing from low blood sugar and some “friends” helping me get to a hospital.

The car remains in motion, only the sound of the engine in the car now. I've seen this movie before, and if I was smart I'd remember the turns taken so I could map out the route later and figure out where exactly I'm being taken. Unfortunately, I only saw
Sneakers
once and I don't have a crew who can work this stuff out for me.

At least I wasn't stuffed in the trunk.

“Just so I can prepare for the possibility, are you guys going to kill me?”

No response. I'd sniff the air, but like I said, this bag smells like balls, and I'm not in the mind-set to find that hot. Mouth breathing all the way for me.

“You're going to have to talk anyway if you're planning on asking me questions.” Nothing. “C'mon, at least tell me who got me. A snatch-and-grab? That's impulsive, so obviously you're Coyotes. I can't imagine anyone else being pissed off at me.” Still nothing. “Fine.”

You'd think that being a Bard would get them to say
something
, but no dice. This leaves me with only one option.

I sing the theme to
My Little Pony
. Shut up, that show is awesome.

Luckily, I only have to keep it up for four run-throughs before an angry male voice shouts at me from the front passenger seat. “
Urusai!
”

Japanese.

“Great, Kitsune. Fantastic. Any reason there's a bag on my head?”

A woman, presumably the driver, giggles softly. “You tell me, your hands are not bound.”

Okay, that's a little embarrassing.

I pull the bag off my head, grumbling as my hair will be further mussed. “If you didn't tie my hands, why bother with a bag?”

The car comes to a halt at a red, and I get a look at the two of them. Like all Kitsune, they're humans with fur and fox's heads, and multiple tails, the male having russet-orange fur, the female black, both dressed business casual. The female looks back at me with a wink. “Because I figured you'd enjoy the opportunity to imagine yourself in an action movie.”

Shiko. A Kitsune I've worked with, made out with once, and owe a favor to. She's actually a guy, but she identifies as female, and I like to think of myself as progressive, you know? I comb my hair with my fingers while I check the doors. Locked.

“You do realize you abducted me from work, right? My boss is waiting on his coffee that he'll likely never get, or is that the trick? Get me fired? How very Coyote of you two.”

The male, whom I now recognize as Kazuhiro, growls at that remark. We have a friendly rivalry going, if you call grand theft of antiquities and getting stranded in fucking Japan friendly. I still need to get him back for that, honestly, but as I'm on the outs with the family, I fail to see how that's possible.

I turn my attention back to the driver. “So what's going on, Shiko? Cashing in that last favor?” I initially owed her three. One favor I tricked her out of, the other favor, well, there's a night in Japan I'm not allowed to talk about.

Her voice is curt as she replies, “You don't owe me a favor.”

I have to blink at that. “Wait, so we're even? That's it? Just like that? You're letting me off the hook? No more favors?”

I catch her eyes in the rearview. “
Spencer Crain
owes me a favor. You…” She gestures helplessly in my direction. “I don't even know who you're supposed to be.”

I chuff at that. “Really, Shiko? C'mon, you know I'm Spencer Crain.”

Again, she doesn't bother to look at me, only a reflection of her eyes in the rearview. “No. You're not. Maybe you were once, but not anymore, and I won't have my reputation tarnished by needing a favor from a
human
.”

Ouch.

“So why did you bother to pick me up, then?”

“I heard of your run-in last night. I want information.”

I shrug. “Oh, so now you need a human's help?” I lean back against the backseat, lounge a bit. “How embarrassing. You need the help of a
human
.”

Kazuhiro grins back at me, showing teeth. “And
humans
are not part of the Feud.”

Oh shit. The Feud is the ongoing game of one-upmanship between the Kitsune, the Coyotes and the Phouka. Mostly we nail prime marks and each other as practice for the grandest of all tricks, the Emerald in the Snow, which is conning a Ra'keth, a Sorcerer King, into realizing and accepting his humanity, but only if the Ra'keth truly needs it. We're supposed to be like safety valves for sorcerer egos. Granted, that need is often in the eye of the trickster, so James has a target on his back, and anonymity has been his greatest asset.

But the one big law of the Feud is that no matter how infuriating the other side is, never get physically violent with the opposing clans. We're tricksters after all, not thugs. We settle our issues with cunning and cons, nothing more. Humans, on the other hand… Tricks are tricks, but a prank, well, a prank gets someone hurt or killed, and the only issue is making sure you don't get caught by authorities.

And I'm more human than Coyote now.

“What're you going to do, Kaz, send me back to Japan if I don't talk? Hell, why does it matter to you guys anyway? It seems like nothing more than a Fae problem.”

Shiko's the one to respond. “Because we're interested. Now talk. What happened last night?” I catch a polite smile when I look at the side of her face. “Surely you were told some stories?”

Right…I
am
still a Bard. “Kazuhiro-kun?” He growls loudly at that, but I've got his attention, and there is one thing that Bards can do to people who piss them off. “
May you always stub your toe so I'll know you from your limp
.”