Magic Strikes (10 page)

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 my face. I broadcasted “bodyguard” loud and clear.
That’s right—looking is free; touch Saiman and I’ll crush
your windpipe.

“There’s no need to play my bodyguard,” Saiman assured me.

“There’s no need to play my date.” It was a matter of principle. If somebody sniped Saiman while I sat two feet away, I would have to pack up my knives and take up farming instead.

“I can’t help it. You’re simply stunning.”

“Is this the part where I swoon?”

The man rose and headed toward us. Six-two at least. I didn’t like the way he moved, smooth, gliding easily on liquid joints. A swordsman. An exceptional swordsman, to move with such grace considering his size. Tall, supple, deadly.

Saiman sighed. “At the risk of sounding crude, wooing you is like playing basketball with a porcupine.

No compliment goes unpunished.”

“Then stop complimenting.”

A young red-haired man entered the observation deck and briskly crossed the floor. The swordsman halted in midstep. The young man approached, said something softly, and stepped to the side, treating the man with the deference given to a senior officer. The swordsman glanced at me one last time and walked away.

Saiman chuckled.

“I don’t see the humor in it.”

The waiter delivered our drinks: my water in a flute and Saiman’s cognac in a heavy cut-crystal glass.

Saiman cupped the bowl of his glass in his palm to warm the dark amber liquid, and held it close, letting
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the aroma rise to his face.

“Male attention is to be expected. You’re a captivating woman. Edgy. Fascinating. And there are certain advantages to being seen in my company. I’m attractive, successful, and respected. And very rich. My reputation in this particular venue is beyond reproach. Your beauty and my position create an air of allure. I think you’ll discover that men here will find you very desirable. We could be a devastating duo . .

.”

I flexed my wrist, popped a silver needle into my palm, and offered it to him.

“What’s this?”

“A needle.”

“What should I do with it?”

He’d walked right into it. Too easy. “Please use it to pop your head. It’s obscuring my view of the room.”

The doors of the observation deck opened and two men entered. The one on the left towered over his buddy. Tall, large, his hair cropped so close it was merely stubble on his large scalp, he held himself ramrod straight. He wore black pants, huge combat boots, and nothing else. Twisted swirls of tribal tattoos, precise and coal black as if painted in pitch, spiraled up his arms, stained his chest, and climbed up his back over his neck. A lot of elaborate ink. Interesting that it would all be the same color.

Beside him walked a man with hair so blond, it resembled a lemon. Cut even with the corner of his jaw, it flared around his narrow face in a disorganized mess. It was an odd haircut for a man but he somehow pulled it off without looking too feminine.

“And here they are.” Saiman leaned back casually.

“Reapers?” I murmured.

“Yes. The dark brute uses the stage name ‘Cesare.’ The blond is Mart.”

“What are their real names?” If anyone knew, Saiman would.

“I have no idea.” Saiman sipped his cognac. “And that bothers me.”

The Reapers zeroed in on our table.

“Anything in particular I’m looking for?”

“I want to know if they’re human.”

I watched Mart. Lean, bordering on thin, he wore a long gray trench coat he left hanging open. Under it was what could only be described as a cat burglar suit: black and skin-tight over his chest, it hugged his legs before disappearing into soft black boots. If it wasn’t for the tightness of the suit, I would’ve missed the minute tensing of his leg muscles. He leapt and landed in a light crouch on our table.

Excellent balance—didn’t slide at all when he jumped, landed on his toes, the table barely moved.

Mart looked straight ahead, presenting me with a carved profile. Very light eyes, blue, rimmed in darker gray, but undeniably human. Good bone structure, masculine, without obvious weakness. Compact frame, narrow, corded with lean muscle. Long limbs, providing for good reach. No odd scent. Looked human to me, but I’d never known Saiman to be wrong. Something had to have given him pause, but what?

When in doubt, poke the beehive with a stick to see if anything interesting flies out. I clapped my hands.

“I had no idea Pit teams had such pretty cheerleaders. Can you do it again, but with more spirit this time?”

Mart turned to me and stared, unblinking. It was like looking into the eyes of a hawk: distance and the promise of sudden death.

I pretended to think and snapped my fingers. “I know what’s missing. The pom-poms!”

No reaction. He knew I had insulted him, but he wasn’t sure exactly how.

Saiman chuckled.

Mart still stared at me. His skin was perfect. Too perfect. No scratches. No cuts. No imperfections, no pimples, no blackheads. Like alabaster polished to light gloss.

“What brings you to our table, gentlemen?” Saiman’s voice was relaxed. Not a shadow of anxiety. I had to give it to him—Saiman had balls.

The tattooed man crossed his arms. His frame was lanky, his limbs very long in proportion to his body.

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Definition showed on his arms, but his muscle was long rather than thick. He fixed Saiman with an unblinking stare.

“You will lose.” He pronounced the words very distinctly, his deep voice tinted with an accent I couldn’t place.

I reached over slowly to touch Mart’s face. He grabbed my hand. I barely saw his hand move and then my fingers were clamped in his. Grip like a steel vise. Fast, too. Possibly faster than me. This should be interesting. I kept my fingers limp. “Oh, you’re strong.” He was strong. He also left himself wide open. I wondered if he would be fast enough to block a champagne glass if I broke it and shoved it into his throat. That would be a very tempting theory to test.

“Mart!” Saiman’s voice snapped like a whip. “You break her, you buy her.”

Mart swiveled his head toward him. It was a very odd gesture: only his head turned. Like an owl. Or possibly a cat. He released my fingers. He had probably discounted me because I was a woman in a brightly colored dress.

A dark-haired woman entered the deck. She was young, barely eighteen if that. Her features would’ve made her at home on the streets of Delhi: deep dark eyes, round, full face, sensuous lips, dark hair that streamed behind her. She wore plain jeans and a dark long-sleeved shirt, but the way she walked, rolling her hips slightly, shoulders held back a little to showcase her breasts, made me want to picture her in a sari. An exotic Indian princess. Men watched her move. Three to one, this was Livie, the intended recipient of Derek’s note. I had no trouble seeing how she would inspire a young male werewolf to lose all common sense.

She reached our table and halted a couple of feet away, keeping her gaze down. “Asaan,” she murmured to Mart. “Mistress wants you.”

The tattooed man bared his teeth. She had interrupted their intimidation routine.

The woman bowed her head in submission.

In a moment the Reapers would leave and my chance to pass Derek’s note would leave with them. What to do?

Across from me two women excused themselves and headed to the corner of the room, where a small sign pointed toward bathrooms.

“I need to go to the ladies’ room!” I announced a bit too loudly, got up, and stared at the dark-haired woman. “Come with me. I don’t want to go by myself.”

She looked at me as if I were speaking Chinese. You stupid idiot girl.

“I don’t want to go by myself,” I repeated. “There might be weirdoes in there.”

The tattooed man jerked his head toward the bathroom and she sighed. “Okay.”

As we departed, I heard the tattooed man’s voice. “When you die, your woman will scream.”

“Is that a threat?” Saiman chuckled.

“A promise.”

We stepped into the bathroom. The moment the heavy door closed behind us, she turned around. “There you go, all set. Unless you want me to hold your hand until you sit on the toilet, I’ve got to go.”

“Are you Livie?”

She blinked. “Yes.”

“I’m Derek’s friend,” I said.

The name hit her like a punch. She reeled back. “You know Derek?”

I pulled the note from the wrist guard. “For you.”

She snatched it from my hand and read it. Her eyes widened. She crumpled the note and dropped it into the circular hole in the marble counter.

“Are you in trouble?”

“I have to go. I’ll be punished if I stay too long.”

“Wait.” I grabbed her by the forearm. “I can help. Tell me what’s going on.”

“You can do nothing! You’re just a slut.” Livie jerked her arm out of my hand, ripping her sleeve, punched the door open, and took off.

There are times when strenuous mental conditioning comes in handy. It helps you to keep going when
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you’re wading through the sewers up to your thighs in human excrement hacking at an endlessly regenerating Impala worm. It also keeps you from screaming when two young idiots intend to commit suicide by Reapers and resist all attempts to be saved.

The note. She’d thrown the note away. I gave my word I wouldn’t read the note before giving it to her, but since she had read it and tossed it into the garbage, the note was now the property of the public. I was Jane Public, so technically I could read the note.

The two women I had seen enter the bathroom earlier exited the stalls, carrying on a conversation about somebody’s biceps. They walked past me and proceeded to touch up their already perfect makeup before the mirror.

I ran through my reasoning in my head. It was a bit thin, but I was past the point of caring.

I stepped up to the counter and stuck my arm into the hole. My fingers grazed clumps of wet paper towels.

The ladies stared at me as if I had sprouted a chandelier on my head.

I gave them a nice smile, withdrew my hand, and looked into the hole. A short, wide trash can full of discarded tissue. I could fish all day and not get the note. The counter was marble, but the cabinet under it was metal. A small door allowed access to the trash can. I grabbed the handle. Locked.

The ladies determined that ignoring me was the most prudent course of action and resumed their biceps-related discussion.

I looked at the lock. Lock picking wasn’t my forte. Busting things, on the other hand, was right up my alley.

I backed up to give myself a bit of room. It was good that the counter was relatively high. Hard to place a low kick with enough power. I stepped forward and hammered a side kick to the door. Metal boomed like a drum. The door buckled under my foot but held.

The women froze.

I sank a front kick into the dent.
Boom.

Good door.
Boom.

The door shuddered, slid down, and crashed to the floor with a thud. I smiled at the horrified ladies.

“Dropped my engagement ring down there. You know how it is. A girl will do anything for a diamond.”

They fled.

I pulled the trash can out and dug through it. Paper towel, paper towel, used tampon . . . Ugh. Who put used tampons into the paper towel wastebasket? There it was.

I unrolled the crumpled note. “By the Red Roof Inn, same time, tonight.”

Pieces began to line up in my head. A breathtakingly beautiful girl, seemingly the property of a team of lethal, possibly not human, gladiators. A young male werewolf with an overdeveloped protective instinct.

Derek was in love—nothing less would cause him to break Curran’s laws—and he was planning to rescue her. He was also in the fast lane to getting his balls chopped off.

Okay, so what possible time could it be and where was the Red Roof Inn? The Red Roof Inn was about the only hotel franchise actively remaining in business. Any shack’s roof could be painted red, instantly identifying it as a place to purchase a room for the night. Problem was, I hadn’t the foggiest idea where there might be a Red Roof Inn in this area of Atlanta.

The Reapers struck me as a paranoid sort, the kind who would leave and arrive together. If I were them, I would depart shortly after their last fight of the day was over. They also kept Livie on a short leash. Her absence wouldn’t go unnoticed for long. Derek was an idiot, but a bright idiot. He would realize this. He would meet her someplace close to their exit route. Best-case scenario, they would talk and she would go back. Worst-case scenario, he had some sort of getaway vehicle ready for their joint escape. Which would end in disaster.