Magic Strikes(32)

isn't registered as a part of the Reaper team or their crew. Nobody recognizes him. The fact that a

member of the Reaper team watched the incident doesn't indicate the team's complicity in the

assault. He's under no obligation to assist you and he may have simply enjoyed the spectacle. Third,

the entire Reaper crew and team, with the exception of Mart and two crew members, left the

premises as soon as the first bout began, nearly three hours ago . . .»

A shot of cold pulsed through me. «Is that normal?»

Rene started at the interruption.

«Is that normal?» I insisted.

«No,» she said slowly. «Typically they stay to watch.»

Derek never did anything without preparation. He would arrive at the rendezvous point hours in

advance. The Reapers would have had a three-hour window to interact with him, while I was busy

playing scorekeeper for Saiman's amusement. I spun to him. «I need that horse now.»

Saiman hesitated.

«A horse, Saiman! Or I swear I'll finish what he started.»

THE RED ROOF INN LOOMED ON THE EDGE OF A ruined plaza, flanked on both sides by

heaps of rubble that had been buildings in their previous life. Two stories tall, its top floor sagging

to the side under a crooked roof painted a garish crimson, the inn resembled a stooped old man in a

red ball cap huddling under a blanket of kudzu.

I stopped on the edge of the plaza. Under me a pale gelding snorted, breathing hard after the

fifteen-minute canter through the dark streets.

Blood smears stained the crumbling asphalt. In the silver gauze of moonlight, they looked thick,

black, and glossy, like molten tar.

I dismounted and walked into the plaza. The magic had fallen while I rode. Technology once

again gained an upper hand and I sensed nothing. No residual magic, no trace of a spell, no

enchanted observer. Just dusty asphalt and blood. So much blood. It was everywhere, spread in

long, feathered smudges and cast about in a fine spray of splatter.

I crouched by one of the puddles and dipped my fingers into it. Cooled. Whatever happened here

had finished a while ago.

A fist clamped my heart and squeezed it tight into a painful ball. Dread choked me. Suddenly

there wasn't enough air. I should have read the note sooner.

I took the ball of guilt and fear that threatened to engulf me and stuffed it away, deep into the

recesses of my mind. The task at hand required only my brain. I would deal with the pain later, but

now I had to concentrate on the scene and think.

Violence had occurred here, but the plaza didn't look as though combat with a werewolf had

taken place. All shapeshifters had two forms: human and animal. Gifted shapeshifters could

maintain a warrior form, an in-between beast man, huge, humanoid, and armed with a monster's

claws and nightmarish fangs. Most had trouble maintaining it, and few could speak in it, but despite

these drawbacks, the warrior form was the most effective weapon in a werewolf's arsenal. Derek's

was one of the best. He would have assumed it the moment the fight began.

If Derek had fought in this plaza, there would be scratches on the asphalt. A few clumps of wolf

fur here and there. Shredded flesh-he tended to rip into his targets. I saw none. Maybe he didn't

fight here after all. Maybe he came upon it and took off . . . I stuffed the hope into the same place I

had packed the guilt. Later.

A fine spray of pale, smooth droplets stained the asphalt to the left. I moved over, carefully

stepping between the blood smears, and knelt. What meager hope I had shattered. I would've

recognized the color of those pale patches anywhere. They were drops of melted silver, cooled into

globules by the night. I pried a couple from the asphalt and slid them into my pocket. There was no

way to melt silver in the middle of the parking lot without some sorcerous means. Either the

Reapers had a strong magic user with them or . . .

A sharp growl made me turn. Two wolves hovered on the edge of the plaza, their eyes glowing

pale yellow like twin fiery moons. George and Brenna.

George's muzzle wrinkled. He planted his legs wide apart. His black lips parted, revealing a

huge maw and pale fangs. A snarl ripped from his mouth.

I rose very slowly and held my hands up. «I'm not a threat.»

Brenna snapped at the air, flinging spit. Her shackles rose like a dense coat of needles.

«I didn't cause the bloodbath. You know me. I'm a Friend of the Pack. Take me to Jim.» As long

as I didn't touch Slayer, I had a chance at a peaceful resolution. If they jumped me while I held my

saber, I would damage them. I was trained to kill, I was good at it, and in the adrenaline rush of a

fight with two 200-pound animals, I would kill and then regret it for the rest of my life.

Two growls drowned out my voice. They leaned forward, emanating bloodlust, exuding it like a