Magic Strikes(12)

one, but not without both. I put Slayer into the back sheath where it belonged, returned the throwing

knife to its sheath on my belt, and grabbed my bag. Andrea checked the two SIG-Sauer P226s she

carried in hip holsters, patted down her hunting knife and a smaller backup firearm on her ankle,

and we were ready to go.

I STARED AT THE HUGE PLATE OF GYROS. «I'VE died and gone to Heaven.»

«You have gone to Parthenon.» Andrea took a seat opposite me.

«True.» The only way I could get into Heaven would be by blowing up the pearly gates.

We sat on the second floor, in the garden section of a small Greek joint called Parthenon. The

garden consisted of an open-air patio, and from our table I could see the busy street beyond an iron

rail. The only drawback to this place was the furniture. The tables were wooden and decent enough,

but they were flanked by uncomfortable metal chairs bolted to the floor, which meant I couldn't

really watch the door.

I scooped the meat with my pita. My brain kept returning to Derek with a small smile in the

night-soaked parking lot. A big, heavy ball of worry had accreted in my stomach over the past few

hours.

I was stuck. Aside from Derek, who wasn't talking, the only people who could shed light onto

this situation were Pack members. There might have been a way to broach the subject with them

without giving away the facts of Derek's spectacular escapade, but I was too stupid to think of any.

And considering the recent death, they would want full disclosure. If I said anything about Saiman

or the Games, Derek would be punished. If I said nothing, he might risk his hide doing something

idiotic.

Combined with my headache, all this rumination put me into a foul mood. For all I knew,

Derek's little note said, «Meet me at the Knights Inn. I bought the rainbow-colored condoms.» Of

course, it could also say, «Tonight I kill your brother. Get the stew pot ready.»

I should have just read the damn note. Except I'd given my word I wouldn't. In the world of

magic, your word had weight. When I gave mine, I kept it.

Besides, going back on my word would betray Derek's trust. Actually, any action on my part

would betray Derek's trust: I couldn't read the note, I couldn't ask anybody about the note, and I

couldn't refuse to deliver the damn note. I would've really liked to kick him in the head right about

now.

To top it off, my calls to PAD cops produced no useful information whatsoever. A dismembered

body of a woman was found on the corner of Dead Cat and Ponce de Leon. She was identified as a

member of the Pack and the matter was turned over to the shapeshifters. End of story.

I looked at Andrea. «The Midnight Games.»

Andrea nodded. «One of my mentors was in it. The Games are held in the Arena, a bunker of

some kind. It's run by the House, which always consists of seven members. They make most of

their money off betting on fighters. There are individual bouts, but the big banana is their team

tournament. It's held once a year. Fourteen teams participate. Each team consists of seven fighters,

all with specific roles.»

«They enjoy the number seven, don't they?» I chewed my food. Seven had some mystic

significance. Not quite as much as the number three, but plenty: seven wise men of Greece, seven

wonders of the world, seven days of the week, seven-league boots, seven poets of Moallakat . . . No

clue as to what it meant, if anything. Perhaps the creators of the tournament simply wanted to

ground it in numerology.

«My mentor fought as a shoote . . .» Andrea glanced at the street and fell silent. Her eyes

narrowed. She looked completely focused, like a hawk sighting a plump pigeon. If she'd had a rifle

in her hands, I'd have been worried she was about to snipe somebody.

«Can you believe it?»

I looked in the direction of her stare and saw Raphael. The werehyena loitered across the street, a

tall man with coal-black hair, dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt. His hands were thrust in his

pockets and he shouldered a backpack. He saw us looking at him and froze. That's right-you're so

busted.

«I think he's stalking me.» Andrea glared.

I waved at Raphael and motioned him over.

«What are you doing?» Andrea ground out through clenched teeth. Her face went pale, and I

could almost see the faint outlines of spots on her arms.

Raphael attempted a weak smile and headed toward us, zeroing in on Parthenon's doors.

«I want to find out if he knows anything about the Midnight Games. He'll tell me anything if you

let him sit with us. I think he really likes you.»

An understatement of the year. Raphael carried a huge torch for Andrea. During the flare, when

she nearly died, he had bent over backward to take care of her.