Magic Strikes(17)
my teeth in a little smile. There.
He laughed. «Cute. You ever get tired of pretending to be a hard-ass?»
Cute. I think I would prefer to be stabbed in the eye rather than be called cute. «To what do I owe
the pleasure of Your Majesty's company?» And the ruination of my lunch.
«I just wanted some peaches.» He smiled.
Since when did a death in the Pack result in such good cheer?
«Is there any particular reason you were asking about the Midnight Games?» he asked.
«I have a passing interest in history.» I was on shaky ground. I had no clue if he knew about
Derek or not. I needed to cut this conversation short. «Does the Pack require my services as an
employee of the Order?»
«Not at the moment.» He leaned back, picked up the plate with Andrea's peaches, and offered it
to me. «Peach?»
My smile got sharper. During the flare, Curran offered me some soup and I ate it. Later the
boudas' alpha, Aunt B, explained the facts of life to me: shapeshifters offered food to their
prospective mates. He was at once declaring himself my protector, implying that I was weaker than
him, and propositioning me. And I took it. It had amused him to no end. Had I known what the soup
meant, I would've eaten it anyway-I was half-dead at the time.
I crossed my arms on my chest. «No, thanks. I'm not accepting any more food from you.»
«Ah.» He took a slice, broke the fruit in half, and tossed it into his mouth. «Who clued you in?
Raphael?»
«Does it matter?»
His eyes flashed with gold sparks. «No.»
Liar. The last thing I wanted was to cause Raphael difficulties because he'd ruined Curran's
private joke. «I read it in Greg's notes.» I took a couple of bucks out of my pocket, folded them, and
stuck the bills between the salt and pepper shakers.
«Leaving?» he asked.
Your powers of deduction are truly marvelous, Mr. Holmes. «Since you have no need of my
professional persona, I'm going to return to my duties.»
«You're off today.»
And how did he know that?
He ate another peach. «The Order has a sixteen-hour shift limit when the magic is down. One of
our rats saw you late last night getting an old lady off of a telephone pole. Apparently it was a
hilarious affair all around.»
«I live to amuse.» I rose.
Curran struck at my wrist. His fingers were cat-quick, but I had spent my life honing my
reflexes, and he missed.
«Well, look at that.» I studied my free wrist. «Denied. Good-bye, Your Majesty. Please pass my
condolences to the family.»
I headed to the door.
«Kate?» His sudden change of tone made me turn. All humor had drained from Curran's face.
«Whose family?»
CHAPTER 6
BEFORE THE SHIFT, THE STREET OF PONCE DE LEON had channeled the massive flow
of traffic from Stone Mountain through Decatur and Druid Hills past City Hall East all the way to
the skyscrapers of Midtown. The Bell-South Tower, Bank of America, and the Renaissance Hotel
were little more than heaps of rubble now, but City Hall East still stood. It might have held on
because it wasn't all that tall-only nine stories high. Its age probably played a part. Steeped in
history, the building had evolved through the years, from the 1926 Sears depot to a government hub
to a community of condos, shops, and restaurants sheltering a couple of acres of green. But there
was a third, much more compelling reason for its continued existence. About twenty years ago
Atlanta's University of Arcane Arts had purchased the massive two-million-square-foot monster. It
now housed faculty, students, libraries, laboratories, research facilities . . . If anybody could keep a
building standing, four hundred mages ought to be it.
The presence of mages-and mage students who, like all college students, were rather impulsive
in their purchases– had revived Ponce de Leon. It was a bustling street now, full of shops, stalls,
and eateries.
Dead Cat Street was a sorry narrow affair by comparison. It wound its way between the newly
rebuilt two– and three-story apartment buildings to a small plaza containing a convenience store and
a grocery. Curran and I stood on the edge of the narrow sidewalk, looking at Dead Cat Street, as the
horse carts and passersby traversed Ponce de Leon to our right. The body had been found a couple
dozen yards from the corner. The scene was clean. No smudges of blood on the pavement. No signs
of struggle. No nothing. If I hadn't come through here last night, I wouldn't have known anything
untoward had taken place.
Curran stood very still, breathing deeply. Minutes stretched into the past. Suddenly his upper lip
rose, baring his teeth. A precursor of a growl shivered just beneath his teeth. His eyes flashed with