Any Port in a Storm (30 page)

Ollie chuckles as if it's the best thing in the world, and I start wondering just how in all six and a half hells this domestic little old man knows anything at all about Gregor or hellkin or the Summit.

"If you'll pardon me, this old bladder ain't what it used to be." Ollie gets up and tugs his tattered jeans up by the belt loops, but they immediately sag back down on his frail frame.

Alamea nods at him, and he vanishes around the corner.

I take a bite of my grilled cheese. It's surprisingly good; no gummy white bread or plastic cheese to be found, but hearty cheddar and what seems to be a homemade loaf of multigrain. On the counter, I see a bread maker. Bless this old man's little heart.

The pickles are delicious, too.

"How do you think he got his info?" I ask Alamea. "If he's left the house in the last month, I'm a badger."

Far from being in the same state of disrepair as the outside, the inside of the house is quietly and neatly out of date. Everything is paneled with dark wood, and his television is still one of the large, monstrously heavy contraptions that have now been replaced everywhere else by sleek flat screens. Few knickknacks, no dust, and crocheted afghans — blue and not brown — are scattered around the living area. A basket of yarn and crochet hooks sits under the end table, hinting that Ollie made the afghans himself.

I hear the toilet flush down the hall, and nibble at the buttery crust on my grilled cheese.

There's no sound after that but the ticking of a large cuckoo clock.

A loud
twang
sounds through the house, and I fall to the floor reflexively, landing on Alamea just in time to see something whizz above our heads and plant in the wood paneled wall with a thunk. An arrow. A motherfucking arrow.

The shooter's pant leg is visible around the corner to the corridor, and it's not the tattered denim of Ollie's too-loose jeans, but black leather.
 

I draw my sword and edge to my knees. Alamea makes eye contact with me and scoots back against the kitchen wall under the window.

The glass shatters, raining shards all over her. A torso leans through the window, and Alamea grabs the person by the arms and yanks them through. A pair of handguns goes sliding across the floor, and I pick them up and shove them in my waistband, checking the safety.
 

Screw caution.

I leap to my feet and lunge toward the corner, my left hand throwing a hook punch to the spot where I expect the shooter's kneecap.
 

I guess right, and the shooter swears and grabs me by the hair, but I've pulled him off balance, and he topples over. My sword point presses against the bottom of his ribcage. "Let go of my hair."

The shooter's eyes — Mediator violet — flick to the space behind me, and that's all the warning I get before something hard slams into the base of my skull.

The world flickers. Bright flashes burst in front of my eyes.
 

Sonofabitch pistol whipped me.

Too bad for the bowman I'm on, my sword stabs into his stomach. I can't see well, but I feel the wet glob of saliva that lands on my cheek and hear him call me my favorite insult for Carrick.

The sounds of a scuffle swirl behind me, and my vision comes back enough to see the person who hit me with the butt of his .45. He's hesitating as if he doesn't quite know what to do with me. He's wearing a mask. So's the bowman.

I scissor a kick at his shins, and he dodges — a moment too late. My kick hits his right ankle, and he stumbles.

Alamea appears from the kitchen, and he doesn't have time to dodge her kick.
 

At over six feet tall without heels, she has no trouble landing a front kick smack to this guy's masked face. I look at the bowman, who's clutching his bleeding stomach and groaning.
 

"I barely stabbed you," I tell him.

In the kitchen, the attacker who came through the window is knocked out cold, his face in Alamea's broken plate with her half-eaten pickle pressed under his cheek.

"So," I say to the groaning bowman. "Just three? Or is there more of a party? Honestly, I'm a little insulted you thought three of you could take out both of us."

He tries to spit at me again, but his abdominals are a little bit stabbed, and the gob of spit lands on his own chin, soaking into the fabric of his mask.

"You weren't supposed to be here." He's able to talk, so that's a plus.

"Alamea, look, he's being helpful." I watch the bowman and take a peek at his stab wound. He's lucky I got hit in the head, because I didn't stab him very deep. My sword could have run him through. Even so, it probably nicked something important.

Alamea goes to the basket of crocheting supplies and pulls out a ball of yarn. She kneels next to the guy who pistol whipped me and starts using the yarn to tie him up.

She's not being particularly gentle. I can see the guy's pale hands turning pink.

"This is what it's come to, has it?" She says her words carefully, as always. "Open assassination attempts?"

"You're not fit to lead the Summit," the bowman says.

I pat him on his stomach. He cries out.

"You're not being as helpful. Any more of you?" I ask. The anger in his eyes is a clear no. "Good. Now. Did you leave Ollie alive?"

If they killed that dear little old man, I might give my stabbing a second try. My head throbs where the gun made contact with my skull, but I can hit an unmoving target with the pointy end of my sword even so.

The bowman nods. "We're not the ones who kill norms, Storme."

Just Alamea, apparently. I think of Hazel Lottie, the witch who was helping magically implant fertilized demon eggs into human hosts to spawn the shades. I definitely killed her in full view of most of the Mediators in Nashville. I don't have anything to say to this guy, so I just nod. "Fair enough."

He doesn't seem to know what to say to that.

"So you don't kill norms, but you were going to assassinate the Summit leader. I'm not sure I fully understand your logic process, but indulge me," I say. "What's your beef with Alamea?"

The woman in question has finished hog-tying the first assassin and is moving on to the one in the kitchen, grimly not seeming to pay me any attention.

"She should be hunting those fucking hellkin hybrids to extinction," the bowman says. "Instead she lets you and Gregor work with them as if they're people."

"They are people," I say brightly. "Some of them have more morals than you seem to, Mr. I-Hurt-Old-Men-Who-Get-In-My-Way. Or is your reason that you were just told to?"

The bowman clams up, and Alamea's finished tying up the other guy, so I let her have him and hurry down the hall to check on Ollie.

To my profound relief, he's snoring lightly. He's got a welt and a goose egg, but he looks like he'll be okay. I dial 911 on my phone to get an ambulance anyway. For Ollie only — I imagine Alamea has other plans for the three men who wanted her dead.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

I'm not wrong.

After getting Ollie safely in the ambulance with the paramedics and helping Alamea load the three wannabe killers into her Jeep, we make the trek back to Nashville together, me following in my car close behind her.
 

By the time we reach the Summit, the parking lot is already filling with cars. Five Mediators meet Alamea at her parking spot while I'm still parking my own vehicle. I hurry after them, unsure what's going on. My phone buzzes as Alamea and the others disappear into the Summit building.

All call
, is all the message from her says.

My stomach drops.

An all call is when every single Mediator in the territory is summoned. Sure enough, my phone also shows an alert that went out thirty minutes ago. I can't remember the last all call before my Silver Scale ceremony. And even that one was a blur, because I was still half-afraid they were going to punk me and put my head on the chopping block instead.

Treason is a big deal when it comes to the Summit. When the safety of the homo sapiens world depends on you to keep the hordes of hellkin at bay, there's sort of a zero tolerance for big fuck ups. And trying to assassinate the leader of the local Summit? Definitely qualifies as a big fuck up.

The lobby of the Summit is a-buzz with people, but I avoid everyone and go to the first floor kitchenette to get something to eat. The all call begins in an hour, and though most of the other Mediators are milling around and murmuring to one another, I don't want to answer anyone's questions. It's likely my presence at this assassination attempt will soon be common knowledge, but I want to avoid any prying eyes until I have no other choice.

The air feels heavy, and the cheesy sandwich crackers I try to shove down my throat are about as appetizing as dry dust.

When the all call's about a half hour off, I go to the convening chamber and find a seat. I'm not the only one there, but I find a spot mostly away from other people and play a game on my phone. I can't stop fidgeting. Here I helped Alamea avoid death, and the second we got back here, she took off. I feel like the ground could crack away beneath my feet at any moment, and it's not a sensation I like.

Slowly, the convening chamber fills up with Mediators. The room holds almost a thousand people, but it's only about seventy percent full, and looking around I can see at least fifty or so Mittens in here. The youngest will be at their training lodges still, but those who are close to finishing training come and live at the Summit or one of its satellites. If there's only fifty of them here during an all call, how low are our numbers?

I know Mira and Devon and Ripper are in here somewhere, but I don't see them, and I don't look for them.

Alamea takes the stage, and behind her, the three almost-assassins are prodded in to kneel at the front of the dais. Their heads are covered. Alamea wastes no time.

"Today, these three Mediators made an attempt on my life. In the process, they injured an eighty-year-old innocent, who is in the hospital in stable condition, thanks to Mediator Storme, who happened to be with me." A loud murmur ripples through the crowd, and violet eyes turn on me from around the room. Alamea gives me a nod, and I recognize it as the probable only acknowledgement she's going to give me. She goes on. "I've called you all here for two reasons. One, to decide the fate of these three Mediators. Richard Peyton, Samuel Thorpe, and Darryn Kinney.

"These three are charged with conspiracy to murder a fellow Mediator, conspiracy to assassinate a Summit leader, premeditated attempt to commit murder, and the assault of a norm." Alamea's heeled boots make dull thuds on the dais, and I can see the quickening rise and fall of each assassin's chests from where I sit. Summit justice does not hold to laws of due process in cases of treason against the Summit leader. Alamea could have executed them on the spot at Ollie's house, but she chose to come here. She wants to make a point.

They will offer no plea, and they will be heard by no jury. This is not a trial, but they may not die.

Executions are a voting process.

"It is with intent to kill that these three Mediators broke into the home of Ollie Anderson and assaulted him. They came armed and attacked me and Mediator Storme. Had they anticipated her presence, it is likely that neither of us would be here now." Alamea looks out over the crowd, her face showing no expression.

I can almost feel the hundreds of Mediators around me shift and take a collective breath. They know as well as I do that Alamea is more than a match for three Mediators unless they got very lucky. It's not my presence that caused them to fail; I only sped it along.
 

"There are only two possible punishments for crimes at this level of severity," she says. "Execution or imprisonment. Those who do not vote for execution will be assumed to vote for imprisonment. There can be no vote to abstain. All Mediators-in-Training who are currently present will vote as full members of the Summit."

My heart takes up a hurried beat. Her choice, as far as I can guess, is unusual. What is she playing at?

"Voting shall be by way of hands raised. There shall be no anonymous voting. Remove the traitors' hoods." Alamea stops in the dead center of the dais, and I understand.

She's not doing this to further any guise of democracy when it comes to these men.

She's doing it so she can look into the eyes of every Mediator in the Summit and see their votes.

A vote for execution will be a vote in her support.

A vote for incarceration in the prison below the Summit will imply dissent with what they know is the default consequence for attempting to kill the Summit leader.

She's doing it to size up just how deep the fractures in the Summit go.

"All in favor of execution, raise your left hand, palm forward. You have two minutes."

I can't be the first hand to go up. Thankfully, some shoot up around me, and I raise my left hand in the air. If Alamea's opponents are smart, they'll raise their hands now. Looking around, maybe thirty percent of the room has their hands raised. The seconds slip by, and more go up. Forty percent.