Fury Rising (Fury Unbound Book 1) (20 page)

I shook off the memories and caught my breath. Once again I was standing outside the gated enclosure of the Junk Yard. But this time, I wasn’t after the Carver, I reminded myself. The sleet pounded down hard, the wind driving it sideways. Even though I was wearing a cape over my skirt, the drops were frozen pellets, stinging against my face. If this kept up, we’d have snowfall by morning. It was still early in the season—very early—for snow, but lately the weather had been getting colder. Gaia seemed to be funneling us toward a little ice age.

I gathered my courage and plunged in through the open gates of the Junk Yard. Tam and Jason were waiting in Jason’s car a block over, and Queet had stopped shortly outside the gates. He promised me he would be on alert and the moment I called for backup, he’d let Tam and Jason know. But the truth was—backup or not—until they got there, I was on my own.

Phoenix Rising was on Scissors Street, which ran along the side of the Junk Yard, near the southern wall. Over the past five years, the Junk Yard had only gotten creepier, and as I passed silent building after silent building, I could only wonder who was lurking behind the blacked-out windows now. Were the buildings truly empty, or had the UnderCult grown wide, conveniently leaving the city council unaware?

I walked down the center of the road. There wasn’t much traffic in the Junk Yard, but I’d have time to dart out of the way if I needed to, especially given my heightened speed. It was safer to keep away from doorways and burrow-lanes where somebody might try to grab me. Strange women made good targets.

I kept my hands beneath my cape, my left hand playing at the slit with my dagger, my right hand poised over the hilt of my whip. Out of curiosity, I called up my Trace to check whether there were any Aboms around. The Junk Yard seemed a good place for them to gather. As I searched while walking along, a few minor blips appeared and I wasn’t sure what to make of them. Abominations usually ran strong signals. These reminded me of echoes. Making a note to ask Hecate about them, I closed out the screen. Sometimes an Abomination could pick up on me as I searched for it, and that was the last thing I needed tonight.

I passed some stores—markets and grocers—and it seemed odd to see such mundane offerings in the heart of the UnderCult. But magicians and rogues and thieves all needed to eat as much as anybody else, though it left me wondering who in their right mind would open up a store here. I couldn’t imagine the owners escaping the grafters who sought out protection money every month.

Finally, I came to the intersection I was looking for. Rift Avenue branched off from Scissors Street, leading deeper into the Junk Yard. I headed north. Phoenix Rising was supposed to be a few blocks up ahead and sure enough, I saw the neon sign over the entrance from a block away. As I neared the nightclub, I could feel the energy spilling out into the streets.

The front door was steel, with the neon sign hanging over a black awning. But the energy oozing out from the nightclub was tangible—palpable and sickly sweet. Magicians who worked on the shadow side had a cloying feel to them, unless they chose to cloak up. But there was no need in the Junk Yard. The Devani never went past the gates.

My stomach lurched as I approached the door. I paused, closing my eyes.

“Queet? I’m at the bar and about ready to head in. Will you let Jason and Tam know?” My whisper-speak was strong, and I could tell that he had received my message. I didn’t expect one in return, so I headed toward the door, readying myself to enter the world of the UnderCult.

As I pushed through the heavy steel door, I was surprised to find there was no bouncer waiting to shake down guests. But then I thought about where I was. The Junk Yard was the UnderCult’s domain. They wouldn’t be expecting the Devani to sneak in, because the Devani would never come here, so why bother with guards on the doors. While the light warriors were ruthless, they wouldn’t chance creating a civil war, especially with the corporatocracy backing them.

I tried to blend in, suppressing a cough as clouds of smoke emanated from the side booths. I could smell Opish, Tommy-Tee’s drug of choice, along with several others that I couldn’t identify and didn’t want to breathe in. Opish addiction by the likes of Tommy-Tee was one thing. He wasn’t dangerous, just sad and slightly pathetic. But these men—and most of them
were
men by the looks of things—looked dangerous and volatile.

I paused, scanning the room. There were three exits in addition to the front door. Two of them seemed to lead to back rooms. The third had an exit sign prominently placed over it and I assumed that it led to the burrow-lane behind the club. A long counter ran against the back wall, with a plethora of liquor bottles lining row after row of shelves behind the bar. Both sides of the club were lined with booths, most of which were full. A scattering of tables covered the main floor, and a good number of those were taken as well.

I glanced around to see if anybody was looking at me, but only a few people seemed to be looking my way. The noise level was so high it almost hurt my ears, though it only took me a moment to regain my balance as I realized that it wasn’t the actual conversation making me wince, but the level of energy running slingshot through the room. Chaotic and feral, it ricocheted off the walls. The forces of the Arbortariam had been chaotic and clear. Here, the energy was murky and dank.

I tried to blend in and slowly worked my way through the crowd over to the bar, where I managed to find two empty stools. As I slid onto one of them and motioned to the barkeep, I pushed my hood back, shaking my hair out.

“What can I get for you?” The bartender looked to be a surly human, though by now I knew better than to assume.

“Brandy.” Brandy was a relatively safe drink, barely affecting me. Yet another trait I found handy. Theosians were born with an increased tolerance to alcohol and drugs, unless the drug was specifically formulated to affect our kind. Though I could drink the best of them under the table, I usually didn’t bother with alcohol. But here, in a rough-and-tumble bar? It wouldn’t look right to order water.

The bartender kept an eye on me as he poured my drink. “You’re new.” It was a statement, but I could hear the inferred question behind his words.

“You’re right about that. I’m new in town. I recently came in from Athens.” I had no clue why Athens sprang to my lips, but it would do as well as any city. “I’m looking for a well-stocked magic shop. Know of any?” I figured the best way to infiltrate the UnderCult and to discover whatever I could about the Thunderstrike would be to go where the action was, so to speak.

The bartender grunted. “That depends on what kind of spell components you’re looking for. I’d start with Price and Wax—five streets over, on Creighton Avenue.”

I grunted back as he shoved my drink in front of me, and discreetly pulled out my cash card from the liner attached to my dagger strap. The barkeep deducted the cost of my drink and handed it back to me, his gaze still locked on my face.

“What kind of magic do you work?” He glanced around the rest of the bar but nobody was motioning for his attention, so he leaned on the counter toward me. A tall, burly man, with hair flowing down his shoulders and the scruff of a beard, he probably didn’t shave often, or he was trying to grow out his whiskers. His biceps were huge, and he could probably break my neck with those massive hands of his. Now, I understood the lack of bouncers hanging around.

I decided to answer honestly, in case anybody had read my energy. “Fire and shadow magic. Flame is in my blood.”

“Why did you come to the Junk Yard? There are a lot of magical shops around Seattle, especially in Darktown.”

“They’re a little…
tame
…for my needs.” I lingered over the word, forcing as much innuendo into it as I could. I had watched him pour the brandy straight from the bottle, so I took a chance and sipped it. It was actually quite smooth and fiery on my throat. “Very nice. There’s always a question about quality when you go to a new bar.” I glanced at him over the rim of my glass, holding his gaze. It never hurt to flatter the bartender.

“I’m glad you approve. So, what’s your name?” He relaxed.

I was prepared for this question. “Fotia.” Fotia meant “fire” in Greek.

“Fotia, huh? That’s pretty.” Now he was turning flirty. “And where are you staying,
Fotia
?”

I took another sip of my drink, counting to ten before I answered. I knew all the games and I could play them with the best. “Oh, around. I’ll be around until I can find out if this city is good for me. It all depends on whether I can find others who share my passion for magic. Back in Athens, they didn’t take kindly to the games I like to play.”

“And what kind of games would those be?” The voice by my side startled me. I had been so intent on the bartender that I hadn’t noticed the man edging closer.

I turned and found myself facing a man in a gray-hooded cloak. He was slightly taller than I was, with sandy hair and startling gray eyes peeking out from within the folds of the hood.

The bartender had moved back a step and I was surprised to see a hint of caution in his eyes. That could mean several things, including the possibility that whoever had joined us could be a powerful magician. He definitely ran magic—I could feel it dancing in the air all around us.

I let my gaze linger on him for a moment before answering in a bored voice.

“I occasionally like to play with lightning.” I left it at that. It would be an amateur move to flat-out claim to practice weather magic. I’d seem far too eager and if he was with the Order of the Black Mist, he would immediately pick up on my ploy. I wasn’t dealing with stupid people and I knew it.

“A lightning witch, you say? You know, sparks can burn your fingers if you’re not careful.” The hooded man took a seat on the empty stool next to me. He motioned to the barkeep, who set a glass of a blue liqueur in front of him. I didn’t recognize the drink, but even from where I sat I could smell the strength of the alcohol and my nose wrinkled in response. Whatever it was, it was potent.

“Honey, I’ve burned my fingers so many times I’ve charred off my fingerprints.” I tipped up the corner of my lips in a faint smile. “You have to know how to control the element before you let it out of the cage.”

I stopped suddenly, realizing that I was talking myself into a potential corner. What if he wanted proof that I could control lightning? Oh, I had my fire magic—but that wasn’t the same thing. Theosian spells worked on a different level than those belonging to magicians and witches.

He leaned closer, a sleazy grin on his face as he slugged back the drink. “Another, barkeep.”

As the barkeeper poured the drink, he gave me a sideways glance and rolled his eyes, mouthing the words, “Fraternity brat.”

That
told me everything I needed to know. He hadn’t been polite because he feared the magician’s power. He had been polite because of the man’s connections. Chances were, I was sitting next to the son of an extremely influential politician or, possibly, the son of a powerful mage. Which might be useful in and of itself.

“I’ll have another, too.” I pointed to my glass.

The barkeeper grinned at me and filled my glass, then refilled the man’s drink as well. “On the house, you two.”

I winked at him, making certain my drinking companion didn’t see. Apparently, the bartender thought I was a scammer and he was obviously on my side.

“Tulf, tell her what an upstanding man I am.” Gray-hood slammed back his drink again and was starting to sound slurry.

I glanced at the barkeep. “That your name?”

He nodded. “That’s what I let them call me. Tulf. And yeah, he’s as upstanding as they come…in the Junk Yard.” Again, a guarded eye-roll, which felt more like a warning than a recommendation.

“Why don’ you come sit with me in a booth, pretty lady?” Slurry was rapidly descending into sloshed. He “accidentally” knocked my brandy over. “You pick a booth. I’ll bring you a drink.”

I thought quickly. I knew all too well what he was up to. “Tell you what.
You
tell me your name, and I’ll come sit in a booth with you. But
I’m
going to bring our drinks while you find us a place that’s nice and quiet.”

Apparently, he was too drunk to notice that I had circumnavigated whatever plan he had in mind. As he lurched off to find us a booth, I leaned over the counter, whispering to Tulf.

“Tell me, is he trouble?”

“Only if Lord Whinypants gets his feelings hurt. His name is Nat Crayburg and his father is one of the vice presidents for the World Regency Corporation. Nat likes to slum here. He dabbles in sorcery and oh, he desperately wants to be part of the crowd. If it weren’t for his father, he would have been dragged into a burrow-lane long ago and put out of everybody’s misery.”

Ding ding ding! We have a winner.
So Nat was tied into the WRC. If I was lucky, I had just found my first real clue in this whole mess. It was up to me to dangle the bait and hope that he took it.

Chapter 15