Gunmetal Magic(174)

“Hold on, let me grab the vamp head.” I went to the back and got my head.

When I came out, carrying the head in a plastic bag, Andrea and Curran were still in one piece and had been joined by a freshly washed Ascanio.

I waved at Andrea, and Curran and I went to the car. Ascanio tried to linger behind, but Curran looked at him, and the kid decided he’d better follow us.

We got into the car and pulled away.

“And how did your day go?” I asked Ascanio.

He turned to me, a dreamy look on his pretty face. “We killed things. There was blood. Fountains of blood. And then we had barbecue.”

Why me?



When we walked through the doors of the Keep, Doolittle was waiting for us. Roderick’s necklace had turned the color of white gold. He was having trouble breathing. The next magic wave could be his last.

Ten minutes later we rode out of the Keep in a Pack vehicle. Curran drove. I sat in the passenger seat, holding a bowl of jewelry and bullets for our offering. Doolittle and the boy sat in the back. Roderick whistled with every breath, and Curran drove like a maniac to the north leyline, his hands locked on the wheel, his face a grim mask. We reached the leypoint in record time and he didn’t slow down as he drove the Jeep off the ramp into the invisible magic current. The magic clutched the car and dragged it north to the mountains. Whether magic or technology was in ascendance, the leylines always flowed and I was damn grateful for their existence.

The current carried us to Franklin, spitting us out at a remote leypoint, and from there we drove up a winding road to the Highlands. It used to be a ritzy destination, beautiful lakes and waterfalls wrapped in emerald-green forests that spilled from the sheer cliffs. Million-dollar homes, leisure boats, play ranches with pampered horses…But the magic had wrecked the infrastructure and the residents quickly learned that the mountains in winter are much less fun without electricity and takeout. Now the homes lay abandoned or taken over by die-hard locals. Little villages sprang up here and there, small remote communities whose residents peered suspiciously at us as we drove by.

Cliffside Lake was beautiful, but we had no time for sightseeing. Eight hours after we had left the Keep, we stood by a mountain scoured with white lightning whip marks.

I had expected an altar, or some sort of mark to show the right spot, but there was nothing. Just a cliff.

I dumped a bowl full of jewelry and bullets onto the rocks. They scattered, clinking. “Ivar?”

Nothing happened.

Doolittle’s face fell.

“Ivar, let us in!”

The mountains were silent. Only Roderick’s hoarse breathing broke the quiet.

We should’ve gotten here sooner. Maybe the offering worked only during a magic wave, but as soon as magic hit, the necklace would snap Roderick’s neck.

“Let us in!” I yelled.

No answer.

“Let us in, you fucking sonovabitch.” I hit the mountain with the bowl. “Let us in!”

“Kate,” Curran said softly. “We’re out of time, baby.”

Doolittle sat down on a rock and smiled at Roderick, that patient calming smile. “Come sit with me.”

The boy walked over and scooted onto the rock.

I sagged against the mountain wall. It didn’t work. All this and it didn’t work.

“It’s pretty up here,” Roderick said.

It wasn’t fair. He was only a boy…I buried my face in Curran’s shoulder. He wrapped his arms around me.

“Can you hear the birds?” Doolittle asked.

“Yes,” Roderick said.

“Very peaceful,” Doolittle said.

I felt Curran tense and looked up.

A man walked up the path. Broad and muscular, built like he wrestled bears for a living, he had a wide face, lined with wrinkles and framed with a short dark beard and long brown hair. He wore a pair of soot-stained jeans and a tunic.

His gaze fell on Roderick and the necklace. Thick hairy eyebrows crept up above his pale blue eyes.

“What are you guys doing up here?” he asked.

“We’re looking for Ivar,” Curran said.

“I’ll take you.” The man looked at Roderick and held out his hand. “Come, little one.”

Roderick hopped off the rock and walked over. The dark-haired man took his hand. Together they walked up the steep mountain path. We followed.

The path turned behind the cliff, and I saw a narrow gap in the mountain, its walls completely sheer, as if someone had sliced through the rock with a colossal sword. We walked into it, stepping over gravel and rocks.

“Where are you folks from?” the man asked.

“Atlanta,” I said.

“Big city,” he said.

“Yes.” None of us mentioned the necklace choking the boy’s throat.