Twenty-Sided Sorceress 3 - Pack of Lies (9 page)

As my head cleared, rage replaced the guilt. I didn’t know where Mr. Kami had gone, but I was going to find him. I was going to end him.

I washed my face off, biting down a scream as the water hit freshly healing skin. My hair wasn’t as damaged as I’d feared, but it would take a true shower and a lot of conditioner to return it to some semblance of pretty. I left it as it was and went back downstairs.

Harper wasn’t a fox anymore. Her human skin was clean of burns, but she lay on the bed whimpering under her breath as Rosie covered her with a clean quilt. Her green eyes were open and clear. Relief dumped the rest of the adrenaline from my veins and weighed me down.

“Hey, furball,” I said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You okay?”

“I will be,” she said. She winced, as though it hurt to talk, and her voice was rough.

“I thought you told me that shifting healed you?” I said with narrowed eyes.

Her lips formed a faint smile. “It does, eventually. I still feel pain through the link though, am still weak. I didn’t want you worrying about us anymore than you already do though. So I kinda fudged the truth a bit, sorry.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t protect you,” I said.

“I ain’t dead yet,” Harper said. “’Sides, I totally got a chunk of that guy. Won’t be throwing ninja stars with that arm anytime soon.”

She was right about that, unless he knew spells that healed, which I supposed wasn’t unlikely. I’d seen similar things, though not in real life outside of shops where they weren’t truly imbued with magic. Ofuda, like you’d find at a Shinto shrine. Or Omamori, protective Japanese talismans. Nothing I’d seen outside of animated movies looked like what the assassin had managed. Spells inscribed on paper. Fire and ink. I suspected the sheets of paper stuck to his body were for physical enhancements. It sucked he was trying to kill me, because his kind of magical practice was fascinating. Maybe I’d ask him questions before I kicked his ass.

Chuckling at that, I imagined myself like a monologueing villain, giving the enemy the chance to recover and surprise me. Maybe I wouldn’t be holding another conversation with Mr. Kami. I wondered for a moment why I cast myself as the villain in my head, but shoved the rising tide of dark thoughts away for later examination.

“You promise you’ll be okay? And never do that again?” I asked.

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, her eyes slipping shut. “I learned my lesson. Fire bad. Tree pretty.” She closed her eyes and her breathing slowed, deepened.

If she was cognizant enough to make a
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
reference, I figured she just might live after all. I watched Harper sleep for a few minutes until I heard voices. Reluctantly, I rose and left the room. Levi, Ezee, Max, and Junebug all trooped back into the dining room, spent fire extinguishers in hand.

“Fire is out; don’t think we’re at risk of a wildfire,” Levi said.

I nodded, looking around the charred dining room. The table was a mess of burn scars and smashed dishes. The chairs were overturned. Next to one was a familiar bag. Mr. Kami’s camera bag.

I picked it up, reaching for my magic. The bag seemed normal at first, then that normalcy fell away and the alien touch of foreign magic brushed against my power as I tried to link this object to its own.

It wasn’t the smoke and ink power of the assassin that touched me, but another power, one I had once been very familiar with.

Cool sweetness flowed through the bag, a seductive song against my senses, like watching the ocean waves roll in and out. Deep, vast, a power that knew no limits and would take you into its embrace with hardly a ripple.

Samir.

I dropped the bag, my heart punching against my ribs. Without thinking I ripped into the magic there, the physical bag itself as well, smashing in, rending it piece by piece and turning the pieces to ash.

“Jade, Jade!” Ezee’s voice finally penetrated my fear, my hatred.

I looked up at him, amazed to find myself on my knees, a smoking pile of ashes at my feet.

“It was evil,” I said, aware I looked totally crazed.

“It’s dead now,” he said.

It was. And with it any chance I had of linking it to the assassin. I took tiny consolation in the fact that it was unlikely I could have anyway, not with Samir’s power all over it.

“What was it?” Max asked, poking at the ashes with his sneaker.

“A container,” I guessed. “For my heart.”

“Gross,” he said.

A search of the room that Rosie had rented to the assassin revealed nothing, not a stitch of clothing or a metaphysical trace. I had already half expected that.

Weary to the bone, I made my way back to the room where Harper still slept, and collapsed into a chair. Her steady breathing reassured me, but I still wanted to stay, to keep watch. I didn’t trust that the assassin wouldn’t come back.

Rosie sat on the other side of Harper for a while, knitting. I heard the others moving around out in the front rooms, cleaning up. I almost went to help them, but my body had decided that sitting was all I was going to be good for at the moment. Exhaustion crawled over me, and I found myself drifting off. At some point, Rosie put a blanket over me, and Harper’s soft breathing carried me into uneasy sleep.

Alek woke me with a kiss. The sun streamed through the window and I had a hell of a crick in my neck. The clock on the nightstand said it was after ten in the morning. I opened my eyes, half convinced I was dreaming.

He looked far too tired for this to be a dream, however. His ice-blue eyes were bloodshot and shadows had taken up residence below them. I looked from him over to where Harper still slept.

“Max told me what happened,” Alek said.

“Rosie promises she’ll be okay,” I said.

“She will. Come have breakfast.”

I sat in the kitchen and picked at my pancakes for a few minutes under Alek and Rosie’s watchful gazes, then pushed the plate away. I was too keyed up to eat much. I wanted to lay some hurt on someone, preferably a damned ninja assassin someone, but I’d settle for whoever killed the Lansings.

“You get anywhere?” I asked Alek, though I was guessing he hadn’t from his exhausted and frustrated expression.

“No,” he said, then switched to Russian as he glanced at Rosie. “I could find no trace of them. Their car is missing. But no unusual scents at their house, no sign of struggle. Nothing on the road between here and Bear Lake, or at their cabin.”

Rosie slipped out of the room with a murmur about looking in on Harper. I felt bad about talking in a language she didn’t speak in front of her, but Alek clearly wanted to keep the murders as quiet as possible.

“Bear Lake? You drive all night?” I asked. It was obvious he had. I sighed.

“Most of it,” he said. “I have Liam and a few of his pack he trusts, and who I vetted, out looking for the car. If they were taken anywhere near Wylde, the wolves should be able to pick up a trail.” He didn’t look as hopeful as his words sounded. He just looked tired.

“You need sleep,” I said. “Where is your trailer?”

“On the side, in the RV parking.” He drained the last of his cup of tea and started to rise.

“Rosie won’t begrudge you a room, you know.”

Alek shook his head. “Too much to do.”

“Too many ways to fuck up if you don’t sleep,” I said. “What about that other Justice? Shouldn’t she be helping?”

His expression soured, and he sighed. “Vivian told her about the murders, said Eva came and asked about Dorrie. She came to the Lansings’ house before I did—I smelled her presence there. She does not wish to work directly with me, I do not think. We do not get along.”

“What about the Council? They not giving you useful guidance? You’d think they’d want you two to work together since this Peace is so important.”

“Yes,” he said, his jaw clenching. “Perhaps.” He shook his head at my questioning look.

“Will a shower with me cheer you up?” I asked. It was a shameless move, but he needed rest, needed to relax. We both did.

We borrowed one of the empty guest rooms on the second floor. The shower cheered up both of us and we lost ourselves in skin and comfort and heat for a little while. He pulled on his underwear, then crawled into the bed when I pointed. I tugged on my borrowed teeshirt and jeans, then pulled a quilt over him, and lay down on top of it.

Alek’s arms came around me and he tucked my head under his chin.

“I fucked up,” I said softly. “I almost got everyone killed again.”

“Don’t blame the victim,” he said. “That assassin doesn’t care about collateral damage. He was here, in this place, for a reason. Perhaps Samir wishes for your friends to be killed, to be hurt, as well. This is very like him, yes?”

“Are you trying to be comforting?” I muttered. I shook my head, rubbing it against his chin, and took a deep breath, inhaling Alek’s vanilla and musk scent.

“I meant it in a more general way,” I added, trying to order my thoughts. “I have been so defensive. Yesterday, when he shot at me, I ducked. Then I threw up a shield. I didn’t blast his car off the road. I didn’t try to go after him. I just went for cover, went for minimizing damage. And last night, I did the same. I hesitated when I should have just struck for a kill. And then I used so much power shielding and none attacking.”

Somehow I knew that Alek might understand what I was thinking, what I was trying to say, that he, more than anyone in my life, would get my desire to stop reacting. To start acting.

“You think if you had acted more quickly, gone on the offensive, Harper would not be hurt?” he said softly.

“Yes.”

“You might be right.”

Okay, that stung a little. I mean, it was what I was thinking, but hearing someone else say it hurt.

“Ouch,” I said, pulling away and sitting up.

He tucked his arms behind his head and looked up at me.

“You are afraid of your power,” he said. It wasn’t phrased as a question.

“A little, yes,” I admitted. “There is so much of it, and it’s growing all the time. When I was younger I just stuck to little stuff until Samir came along, trying out spells I found in the DnD manual, but I didn’t do too much. I was afraid even then, afraid I would hurt people. I don’t feel like I have control, I don’t know what my limits are until I hit them, I don’t even know if those are real limits or if my brain is just imposing them to save some shred of my psyche. I’m terrified of hurting people around me.” The words flowed out of me in a rush, leaving behind a strange relief that I had finally said them aloud.

“With great power comes great responsibility,” he said, nodding sagely.

“Did you just quote
Spider-Man
at me?” I raised an eyebrow, impressed.

“
Spider-Man
? No. Voltaire. Or, technically, Jesus, if you believe the gospel of Luke. I believe he said, ‘To whom much is given, much is expected.’”

Oh. Right. That made more sense. Alek was still cute when he was smug and all full of the brains.

“Well, Uncle Ben said it, too,” I said, making a face at him.

He smiled but it didn’t last, his serious expression returning.

“You did what you felt was right, for you, for that moment,” he said. “There is no shame in that. Learn from it, from these doubts and feelings and fears. Next time, make a different decision. Just remember to always decide. Inaction is death.”

“I don’t know if I can be a killer,” I blurted, saying the words that had hovered in my mind since I watched, helpless, as my father died in front of me, torn apart because of my decisions. If I had killed Not Afraid. If I had killed Sky Heart. If I had never gone back. If if if. I was terrified that all the solutions I saw looked like death for someone.

I was terrified that part of me wanted that death. Killing Bernie hadn’t sucked. I didn’t like his slimy, psychotic memories living in my head, but I didn’t regret eating his heart and ending him for even a second.

And that scared me, too.

“Liar,” Alek murmured, his voice incredibly soft, almost a purr. Looking into his eyes felt like falling into the sky.

I sank back down, laying my head on his chest. His arms came back around me.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m tired of death, but I’m tired of worrying so much about it, about causing it when it seems like my enemies stack up and don’t give a shit. I’m tired of every problem looking like a nail. Does it get easier?”

“Does what get easier?” he asked.

“Killing,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, his voice deep and sad. “It does.”

After a while, we both slept.