Breaking Ties (9 page)

In simple terms? Bad things.

“Just give me the CliffsNotes, I'll settle for that. Who they are, who's in charge, who they target, what I should watch out for, maybe a little relevant history. Anything to let me guess why they'd so brazenly attack a commoner bar.”

The King of the Phouka closes his eyes. “What do you plan to do, Spencer?”

“Stop them.”

He looks at me now, worry in his eyes. “How?” He doesn't let me answer. “Because what this might require is something you've sworn you'll never do. For a Coyote to involve himself in an internal Fae matter, if it were to draw the attention of Her Majesty…” He takes a breath. “Spencer, the Feud is the Feud, and that is all it must be, no matter your opinion of it. Even if you are no longer counted among your clan, you are still a Coyote, and you could invite war. Is that what you are willing to risk? For Fate?”

I wish I could be firm about this. Well, part of me is, but that's the consort in me. Being the hero is having to stand at the cliff's edge and make these kinds of decisions. A fool does the same while whistling a happy tune, and there's a dog there if the Tarot card is anything to go by. A Coyote, well, we're the worst kind of heroes and the best kind of fools, it's how Fate made us.

But if I'm reading Rourke correctly, he's telling me that people are going to die. That I might have to kill someone to make this stop. Right now, all this is, is an isolated shooting at a bar in Beckettsville. When Rourke tells me what I need to know, it's going to get bigger, I know that. It's something I'll need help for, I can tell that already, something I'll have to drag James into and, knowing Fate, my father.

I don't want to kill anyone.

Hell, I've got issues with killing zombies, and those aren't even people.

But just because Rourke can't lie, it doesn't mean it's the truth. I'm not required to take a life just because he says it's a possibility. We may be guided by Fate, but we're not slaves to it, and a con man never has to kill anyone if he does the job right.

So I'll figure it out.

“Okay. Tell me.”

Chapter Nine

James

December 19, 6:32 pm

I awaken to music, acoustic guitar with an easy melody, a song you listen to while luxuriating in a clawfoot bathtub, possibly by candlelight. I'm in a comfortable bed, the kind that's so soft you know your back will pay the price, but you can't be arsed to care. Warm hands gently stroke my temples, sensual, relaxing. Putting me in the mood, to be perfectly honest.

“Oz, I just had the worst dream. But if this is how I'll be waking up from them, I say bring on the nightmares.”

What follows is increased pressure on my temples, which quickly departs pleasurable and shoots right across the pain divide. I open my eyes to a man's face with ruddy skin, deep-red hair. He's wearing a crimson T-shirt and nothing else.

“My liege.” His tone doesn't imply deference at all.

“Fluffy.” I get up, or try to, but he holds me down firmly. “My apologies. Stuffington.” I believe I've mentioned that I once named a dragon. This would be him. “Let me go. And tell me where the hell I am. Now.”

He removes his hands, and I get off the bed. Aside from the bed, which has cherry headboards and vermillion satin sheets, there are a pair of matching night tables, a small mahogany dresser, the floor a darker wood, the walls painted deep red. I'm sensing a theme here. The room doesn't have any windows, so I could be a mile underground or a hundred floors up. There's no telling with dragons.

“Why am I in your apartment?” I make sure to put distance between him and me. “And you damned well better not have done anything while I was asleep.” Just because my clothes are still on doesn't mean anything.

“I am hardly a satyr, my liege.” He shimmers and is wearing the crimson suit from when I first met him in his human form. “And you are here at the request of the Ra'saar. I am to look after you and tend to your needs.”

“Tend to my needs?” I crack a smile. “Don't you hate me?”

His jaw sets. “You have humiliated me not once but
twice
before the assembled court.”

“Twice?”

“You chose an
Azure
over a Crimson. That alone was an insult to me, but one I could hope to bear had you not branded me with…” he growls, “…Stuffington Fluffypants the Third.”

“Esquire. I made you an esquire as well.”

“I
despise
you.”

I shrug. “Tough shit. I've faced down two psychotic Ra'keth, you think you or your king make me nervous? I haven't chosen a protector, I'm not choosing you. Now open that door, let me out, or I start blowing out walls. And then I kick your ass.”

He grins, showing teeth. “I welcome the opportunity.”

“Salondine.” A new voice, behind me, and I turn to find a man in his forties, an inch taller than me, chestnut-brown hair, no facial hair, blue eyes, wearing simple gray robes. He waves Sal off, his hand adorned with two simple rings, one on the ring finger, one on the index. “Leave us.”

The dragon bows his head and exits the room swiftly, silently. The man gestures beyond me with his other hand, which has similar rings on the same fingers. When I turn, the bed is gone, replaced by two wooden chairs. “My apologies for him, the young are often…driven.”

The hairs on the back of my neck are prickling. I'd felt magic, and despite dragons being magical powerhouses in Dungeons & Dragons, I'd yet to meet one in real life who could manage it. This one was old.

“The Ra'saar, I take it?”

He smiles, and it's a genial, almost grandfatherly smile. “In a sense. I hardly go by that name in this form. As you can imagine, it has been some time since I've been this…small.” He takes a seat, and a table shimmers into existence. “Tea is still a customary activity, I hope?”

Carefully, I sit down in the opposing chair. “Last I checked, yeah. You understand I might be pissed, considering your errand girl knocked me out, stuffed me in her trunk and brought me here? That's kidnapping, so, no, I'm not in the mood for tea.”

“My apologies for Codacintha. All of them are eager to impress. They take the possibility of serving as your protector quite seriously. As do I.” He waves a hand again, a tea set appearing.

“How did you do that?”

“I follow the laws set for dragons and Ra'keth, of course.”

“No, I mean the tea. I barely felt you conjure that, and nothing in the room is gone, unless you're drinking the bed.”

The dragon shakes his head. “I am not. Conjuration is not nearly as complicated as it seems. How do you conjure, if I may ask?”

I shrug. “Like, tea?”

He nods, and I search my mind for a memory, the only one of note being of Cale creating some when we first met. One of the arms of the chair dissolves partially, the energy flowing into me, through the memory and then exiting my outstretched hand, a cup of tea appearing on the table, which I pick up and sip.

“It takes that long for you?” He seems concerned. “But…you are Ra'keth.”

“Well, how do you do it?”

“
Tea.
” Again, the feeling of magic is in the air, but it's subtle. There's no mistaking the Sigil, though. A steaming teacup, identical to mine, appears with a shimmer of light.

“It's really not fair when you're doing that better than I am.”

At that, he smiles. “I have centuries of practice, Miles.”

My blood goes cold.
No one
is supposed to know that name. Because of Cale's decree, everyone normal should have forgotten that name, my real name. Only one person other than me remembers it.

Static begins to jump along my skin, and noticing this, he holds up a hand. “The Frozen River was observed addressing you as Miles. As you were informed, the dragons endeavor to be aware of the dealings of the Ra'keth. We know what he called you, your history with him, and his plans for my dragons. I must thank you for preserving the name of dragonkind. I would suppose from your reaction you prefer James?”

I nod.

“My apologies for the offense then.” He sips his tea. “Would my intelligence be accurate that you served as apprentice to the Recluse?” To Cale.

“Yes, that'd be right. Why?”

Again, a grandfatherly smile. “It would explain your lack of skill in conjuration. The Recluse had no modern equal in divination and scrying, but his conjuration outside of small items was limited. I understand you're studying enchantment at the moment? Learning from a Dwarven dialect? I understand you've…bonded with a dreamblooded?”

“There's that term again. Why do you call them that?”

“What would you call them?” He leans forward, interested.

“Fae. I grew up calling them the Fair Folk. My mother told me some legends about dealing with them. Why call them dreamblooded?”

“They were crafted from dreams and nightmares, to be living embodiments of such. Every mythic was made for a purpose.”

I arch a brow. “Even the vampires?”

“A guardian that appears human, knows how to act human, is more than human, is easily subjugated to your will, never dies, and can easily be replaced and propagated? Every Ra'keth had good reason for creating the mythic races.”

“Like dragons being made as security guards?” I'll admit the question comes across a bit more huffy than I intended, but he smiles approvingly.

“Might I ask why you chose the Snow Clan?”

“I didn't even know there was such a thing as the Snow Clan. I just… I was falling off a building and I panicked. I turned into a dragon that happened to be a White. I play a lot of Dungeons & Dragons, okay?”

“There are dungeons where dragons are kept?” he asks quizzically.

“No, no, it's a game.”

“Entrapping dragons is a
game
to you?”

“No! It's all pretend. It's role-playing. With pencils and paper and dice and easily abused rule systems.”

He steeples his fingers. “And in this…game…you traverse dungeons and engage with dragons?”

Well, we usually kill them, or at least we used to. Dave isn't too keen on “pushing negative stereotypes”. Undead, thieves and swindlers that bear an uncanny resemblance to Coyotes are the standard fare. “We leave dragons out of it. What's with all the questions, anyway?”

“To determine.”

“Determine what?”

“Whether you are even worth protecting, James.” He doesn't lose that smile. “If there can be only one Sorcerer King, should it not be the most skilled? Is that not the decree of the Lightning Rod?”

Damn it. “For starters, I never meant it to be only one Ra'keth, just only one to a city, that's all.”

“Then perhaps you will take better care in your decrees in the future? Keep them simple, limit the smallest, most insignificant things.” He takes another drink of his tea. “I myself decreed that roses could never possess more than one hundred petals. The possibility was stricken from the world, the tiniest nick on our existence excised.”

Oh shit. “You…you decreed? But you're a dragon.”

At that, he meets my eyes. “For centuries I believed as such, yes. I had forgotten my true nature. Your decree, however, and the challenge it issued to all remaining Ra'keth, caused me to remember. I was quite content to be king and caretaker of my dragons.” He sets the cup down. “That you have preserved their nature and call one of them friend is the only reason you are still alive, James.” He waves his hand, and the tea set vanishes, the abjuration on the borders of my senses. “Worry not, I do not see reason to kill you just yet. I am not so bloodthirsty as my forebears. If your decree forces us to fight to the death, I will ensure you are adequately prepared. In the meantime, please, enjoy the amenities.”

“The what, now?”

“You've demonstrated you enjoy the company of dragons.” There was a bit of accent on
enjoy
.

“One time, I had almost died, and he'd just saved my life. What would you have done?”

“Not that, but then, I prefer females. However, I supposed you would wish a more familiar comfort.”

“I hope you don't mean Fluffy.”

At that he chuckles, and it's a short, dry sound, like he hadn't done it in ages. “Ah yes. ‘Fluffy.' Giving him that name was an inspired way of bringing the issue to our attention. Now all dragons have names for their human forms, though none are as…interesting as Salondine's. He will seek to balance the scale, I must warn you.”

“And you would let him do that?”

“As you are now? Of course not. Should you show your favor to the Snow Clan again so brazenly, I would not be surprised if you found him roaring his challenge.”

So no turning into a dragon for a while. Like I needed another reason.

“Can I leave here?”

“I don't know.” He tilts his head. “Can you?”

I look around the room, and outside of the limited furniture, there's not a lot to power the working. Plus I'd need a circle to focus, a mirror to scry a location, and a lot of time if I was planning on going through the portal myself. Teleportation's a midlevel spell in the game, but in the real world it's a
bitch
. “There's not enough to work with in here.”

“Why not?” He rests his chin on his hands. “You are able to take the form of a dragon with little expenditure, and a transformation is as taxing as moving through space.”

“No it's not. It's just exchanging one name for another. Humanity for dragonkind, that's all. Names don't need anything to work. I don't even have to say anything.”

“Exactly. And you believe that Names only apply to a physical form? That we only used…” he furrows his brow, searching, “…Sigil? That is its name now?” I nod, and he continues. “Names are power, and to know and use them is a sorcerer's gift and curse. You will understand. Eventually.”

Which brings me to the big question. “So if you're not going to kill me, what happens now?”

“I agree with my original judgment. You are too weak and vulnerable to be allowed on your own. Until such a time as I deem you fit for independence, you will be under guard. Since you lack the appropriate skill, do you have any preferred foods or beverages?”

I fold my arms. “I can conjure food.”

He snorts in amusement. “You can conjure food-shaped plasm, yes. I assume you'd prefer something with more sustenance. I would take this time to practice that. Magic is more than memory, young sorcerer. It is the knowledge of Names. To know is to name. To name is to control. And to control is to have power.” He walks toward the door, opens it and pauses. “And for now, Lightning Rod, I am the one with control.” He closes the door, which promptly vanishes behind him.

I bang at the wall until my hands start to sting, kick it, prod about for a weakness, some suggestion of a door or window or crawl space. Nothing. All that remains are the chairs and the table. I'm trapped, and no one knows I'm here.

But I'm a sorcerer, and they've just given me the last thing a sorcerer should have: an empty room, free will and time.

I extend my hand at the furniture, claiming it with my will and letting it dissolve into energy. It's not much, but if I do it right, it should be enough. I call on a wispy memory from my childhood: standing in front of a chalkboard to do long division and being absolutely terrified I was going to look like a fool in front of my classmates. The smell of the chalk, the dusty feel of it on my fingers—the immersion in the memory deepens as I pass energy through the mental image. Closing my eyes, I feel a tingle in my fingers and then find a piece of chalk, large and thick in my hand. With a focused breath, I kneel down on the floor and begin drawing a circle, inscribing Sigil as I go.

He wants to know if I can leave?

It's not a question of can, it's a question of
will
.

And I will.