Magic Strikes(22)
«The head of security.»
«Her sword-«
«Is enchanted, probably poison, and she is preternaturally fast with it.»
«Have you met her before?»
I grimaced. «The rapier is a duelist's weapon, best in a one-on-one fight. It relies on precision:
you're trying to puncture vital organs and blood vessels with an inch-wide blade. A normal rapier
wouldn't stop an enraged shapeshifter, for example. The damage area is simply too small, which
means for Rene to be effective, she has to bank on poison or magic and she has to strike very
quickly to give it a chance to work. I suspect poison, because Rene wears a left glove, which means
she doesn't want to touch the blade with bare skin, even though the tech is up. Am I correct?»
«Yes.» Saiman seemed a bit taken aback.
Rene's rapier probably functioned similarly to Slayer. My saber smoked in the presence of
undead and liquefied undead tissue. If I left it in the undead body, it also absorbed the liquefied
flesh. Unfortunately, I rarely had a chance to leave it in the body long enough, and as a result,
Slayer turned thin and brittle after too much fighting, and I had to feed it. I would bet a good portion
of my salary that Rene had to replenish her rapier as well.
We rounded the bend, climbed a narrow staircase, and stepped into a different world. The floor
was Italian tile, rust and sand, laid in an elaborate pattern of small and large checkers. Light peach
walls offered narrow niches on the right, filled with spires of bamboo in heavy ceramic pots. On the
left, tall arches cut the wall, each blocked by a heavy rust curtain. Ornate feylanterns, now dull in
the absence of magic, decorated the space between each arch. A dozen fans slowly rotated on the
ceiling, their lamps spilling soothing light onto the hallway.
The steady hum of a gathering crowd filtered through the curtains. We were on the third floor.
The magic hit, choking the electricity. The lamps died a blinking death. The fans slowed to a
lazy stop and the twisted glass tubes of feylanterns ignited along the wall, tinting the hallway with
their pale blue radiance.
A deep, throaty bellow ripped through the white noise of the crowd, a hoarse, inhuman sound of
fear, rage, and pain rolled into one. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck rose. Saiman watched me
for a reaction. His expression had a smug look to it.
I ignored the noise. «Where are we going?»
«To the VIP observation deck. If you recall, I mentioned my need for your professional opinion.
The members of the team you are to evaluate typically loiter there before the fight.»
«Which team would that be?» I asked, recalling Derek's note tucked away in my left wrist guard.
Give the note to Livie of the Reaper team . . .
«The Reapers.»
Figured.
CHAPTER 8
THE SEMICIRCULAR OBSERVATION DECK WAS BARELY a third full. Most of the light
came from the clusters of candles burning on the small, round tables. Beyond the tables, a crescent-
shaped floor-to-ceiling window offered a view of the parking lot and the city steeped in darkness.
As I strode next to Saiman to the table by the window, I catalogued the patrons. Sixteen people
total, three bodyguards, four women, two dark-haired, but none looked like a fighter.
My gaze slid to a man two tables over, and I felt a light jolt, like a live wire shocking my arm.
He was large, probably close to six feet, and dressed in supple gray leather, most of it hidden by a
coarse plain cloak. Long dark hair fell down his shoulders.
His gaze fastened on me and wouldn't let go. Power coursed through his light blue eyes. He sat
easy, his manner relaxed and cordial. If you accidentally stepped on his foot, he might be gracious
and apologize for getting in your way. But there was something about him that communicated
power and the potential for incredible violence. He knew with absolute certainty that he could kill
every person in the room in seconds, and that knowledge far surpassed the need to prove it.
The liquid in his glass was clear. Vodka or water? Water meant somebody who wished to remain
sober, and therefore posed a bigger threat.
Saiman held out a chair, expecting me to sit in it, which would put my back to the man. «The
other chair,» I murmured. The man still stared at me.
«I'm sorry?»
«The other chair.»
Saiman smoothly switched to the opposite side of the table and pulled out the other chair. I sat.
Saiman sat, too.
A waiter glided up, obscuring my view. Saiman ordered cognac. «And the lady?» the waiter
inquired. Saiman opened his mouth.
«Water, no ice,» I said.
Saiman clamped his mouth shut. The waiter flittered away, revealing the dark-haired man, who
had pivoted subtly so he could watch us. He looked at me as if he was searching for something in