The Last Slayer (7 page)

“Our lawyers worked on the contract for a long time.”

“A long time?” I laughed. “Supernaturals have been doing this sort of thing for centuries.”

Andersen didn’t answer.

What a stubborn corporate drone. Still, he was a client, and I had a fiduciary duty to make him understand. “We don’t even bargain with low-level supernaturals because we lose ninety-nine times out of a hundred.”

“These are professional negotiators.”

I pointed at Apollyon. “How old do you think he is?”

Andersen shrugged. “A hundred? Two hundred?”

“At least five hundred.”

He frowned. Apollyon glowed with cherubic innocence as he smiled at Swain’s bodyguards, but the curve of his lips held a faint hint of feline anticipation. He raised a hand, brushed a lock of short golden hair back and tucked it behind one ear. The motion was too human, too casual.

“The longer they live, the more powerful they become, especially someone classified as a demigod.” I could see Andersen start to get it. He wasn’t really dumb, just bureaucratic. It took time for his mind to adapt.

“Well, what do we do?” he finally asked.

“I don’t know. I wish you’d told me earlier about Swain’s plan.”

“I didn’t think it was important.”

Translation: he didn’t think I needed to know until he’d felt that wash of magic in the air and gotten spooked by it. At least he’d had the good sense to be scared. Lots of people refuse to admit their fear, and in my line of work they’re usually the first to die.

Andersen was scowling again. “Just stay in the background as much as possible. Mr. Swain doesn’t want anything to disrupt the itinerary.”

“I get it. Don’t talk to anyone, blend in with the furniture. Oh, and if a dragonlord suddenly decides to go crazy, save the day. That about right?”

The furrows between his eyebrows deepened. Despite our less than auspicious beginning, I felt bad for him. It wasn’t his fault that corporate America had limited his scope. “Look,” I said, “it’s your job to keep your CEO safe, and it’s my job to help you. I’ll do what I can.”

Reassuring words, but there was very little I
could
do. Delicate negotiations aren’t exactly my strong point. I could protect Swain physically, but not much more. He could sign his soul away to the dragonlords and wouldn’t even realize it until it was too late. And if he thought he would be able to work it out later through lawyers and the court system, he was deluding himself.

Several fast-track executives and managers from TriMedica had joined us. One of them looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. He seemed too young to be an executive already, but maybe he, too, had gotten some chemical help. An aura of dark power, the kind necromancers have, shifted around him. It felt raw, only half-trained. I wondered to what extent he could tap into it and bend it to his will.

The upper management introduced themselves to the dragonlords. Judging from the smiles, TriMedica had the world’s best dental plan. The dragonlords looked at them indulgently, the way you would at overeager puppies.

I sighed at the spectacle but didn’t say anything. Several of the firm’s hunters were positioned around the area. They’d been chosen for their expertise and skills, and normally I would’ve had absolute confidence in them. But not today. At least Blake wasn’t tapping his foot anymore.

Swain looked around. “Now that we have everyone, why don’t we move to the conference room for a grand reception?”

Apollyon shook his head. “I want to see your mage lab. You promised to show it.”

“We were planning to do that after—”

Nathanael interrupted the CEO. “Now.”

Swain looked like he’d just swallowed a bug. Probably not too many people talked to him like that. I held my breath. Of the three, Apollyon came across as the most sadistic and violent despite his angelic façade, but that didn’t necessarily make him the most dangerous one. That would be Nathanael, clad all in black. Although he looked bored—almost sleepy—it hadn’t escaped my notice that he had made the promise for the group. I suppressed a shudder. This was the Nathanael of legend, the one who had killed all the slayers, women and children as well as warriors, during the Twilight of Slayers. Okay, maybe not single-handedly. He wasn’t the only one who had fought. But before his ascension to power, the dragonlords had been too busy bickering among themselves to unite against the slayers. And the boredom he was projecting could be a trick. Probably was a trick. I found myself praying that Swain would do as he was told.

Thankfully he did, leading everyone to the lab himself in an overland hike across the TriMedica grounds. As we passed various facilities he pointed them out to the dragonlords, who glanced at the buildings cursorily as they strode effortlessly beside him.

I tagged along behind all the “important” people. Truth be told, I was curious. I’d never seen medicinal mages at work. A lot of non-magic users preferred drugs with magical enhancement, but I refused to pay a premium for it. When you know how many of the “doctors” are really just quacks who got their certifications online… Watchdog groups do exist, but medicinal magic is the least of their concerns. Not when they have necromancers, hunters and other life-or-death situations to deal with. So why did the dragonlords want to see the mages?

The lab was located in a natural setting more conducive to magic. The sun penetrated the canopy of green leaves in broad lances, reminding me of my dream. How Ramiel had come out of the forest and dominated my senses and—I gave myself a mental shake. I needed to focus on work, not think about that…demon. It didn’t matter what I’d said to Valerie last night. I was the lead hunter, and the team was my responsibility.

As we came closer to the lab building, a deep barking started ringing in the air. I looked around and saw Rottweilers in a cage. “Ignore them,” Andersen yelled. “They’re for security.”

Apollyon glanced at the dogs, just the slightest shift of his eyes, nothing more. The dogs’ demeanor changed instantly. They whined and rolled onto their backs, exposing their throats. My mouth went dry. Maybe the dogs knew something we didn’t. Maybe we should all roll on our backs and beg for mercy too.

“Well?” Semangelaf said. Everyone was looking at the dogs. “Where are your mages?”

“Uh…right this way,” Swain said, and led us on. The dogs remained silent and on their backs. Smarter than their masters, if you asked me. Their survival instinct had a razor-sharp edge that the corporate drones’ didn’t.

For a lab that belonged to one of the premiere pharmaceutical companies in the world, it was surprisingly rustic, no steel beams, concrete or refined metal in sight. Unvarnished logs made up the four walls of the rectangular structure, which was surrounded by old pines and oaks. The interior of the lab was one big room, all wood. As we went in, the mage closest to us poured a beaker of Sex into a vat of dirty, bathwater-colored chemicals and began condensing it. A gray column of smoke rose from the clay cauldron. My eyes watered at the overpowering odor of musk and eucalyptus, and I wondered what the mages used to kill their sense of smell.

Every table had several gallons of bottled Sex, which looked like it powered most of the mages’ magic. How disappointing. I’d assumed they used something more mysterious. Like, I don’t know, herbs and magical amulets and stuff. Or maybe they did, but not for TriMedica.

“Ah, this way,” Swain said, starting down an aisle.

The triumvirate didn’t follow. Semangelaf pulled out a small glass ball with a dot of crimson in the center. “Since you’re here…” he murmured, and handed it to Nathanael.

Nathanael took the orb, looked at it a moment, then crushed it in his fist. A bit of blood ran out and something cold and invisible snaked through the air. Goose bumps rose on my skin, and the mages stopped working and let out soft sighs. A small frown creased Apollyon’s face, while the others’ expressions remained unchanged.

“What the hell was that?” Andersen said under his breath.

“Seekers.”

“Which do what?”

“Look for things.” His scowl deepened, and I sighed. “Seekers require something of the desired item or being. So if the dragonlords are hunting for an object, they need a bit of the raw material used to create that particular item, or something that is deeply related to the item itself. If the target is a living being, the spell demands something of the target or of the target’s parentage.”

“Like a birth certificate?”

“No.” God, bureaucrats. Maybe Andersen hadn’t summoned the “Selena” demon after all. Even if he didn’t know how to create seekers, as a magic practitioner he should’ve recognized the spell. “The mother or father’s hair, a bit of skin…something that’s been taken from their living body.”

I watched him put it together. “Blood?”

“Blood.”

“But there was hardly any.”

“Don’t need much to key the target.”

“Enough,” Semangelaf said.

Andersen and I turned our attention back to the dragonlords. Nathanael in particular seemed dissatisfied, his eyes questing and his mouth grim.

“We have seen what we need to see.”

Swain took a step forward, like he wanted to argue, but he stopped when Andersen shook his head. The other hunters on my team were looking at me. We all had recognized the dragonlords’ cold tendrils as seekers, but apparently everyone else was as mystified as I was as to who they were trying to find.

Something else was weird as well…why had Semangelaf given the blood to Nathanael? The latter hadn’t even planned to show up from what I could tell. There was no apparent reason for Semangelaf to defer a spell that had been his to perform.

Nathanael had mentioned having done a “favor” for Swain, perhaps referring to eliminating one of Swain’s competitors. Apollyon had said he’d blown up the GenEvo Labs because of a lie. Semangelaf hadn’t made any moves to pulverize us yet, so maybe Swain hadn’t made any stupid promises. But for the dragonlords to go to these lengths, whoever they wanted to find must have been very important.

The dragonlords turned and left, and the rest of us had little choice but to follow. They talked quietly with Swain as we walked. I strained to hear the conversation ahead of me. Apollyon’s voice suddenly came alive with amusement and joy, while Semangelaf and Nathanael sounded indifferent. I didn’t trust Apollyon’s good humor.

Finally, Apollyon stopped and said, “If you prove that you can control a mere wyrm, the lowest of the low in our army, I shall lend you a dragon of your choice. A wyvern even, if that’s what you wish.”

Wow, that offer could sure tempt you if you had a single-digit IQ.

Swain’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second before he smoothed his face into a mask of pleasantry. “That’s very generous of you.”

Generous, my ass. Wyrms formed the basic ground troops of a dragon army, but they were not the lowest of the low. What the hell was a “lowest of the low” dragon anyway? Furthermore, the ability to control a wyrm had nothing to do with commanding a wyvern. Wyverns were the proud elite, with a pair of wings and two powerful forelegs. Although better suited for air battle, they could also fight on the ground. In the chain of command in a dragon army, wyverns outrank wyrms. So if you passed Apollyon’s test, you might be more powerful than a wyrm but most likely still far from being able to control a wyvern.

Apollyon’s lips curved. It was the smile the snake must have given Eve at the moment of temptation. “Then do you accept my proposal?”

“It depends on what you’d like in return.”

“I require nothing in return.”

Oh, bullshit. I took a step forward. Andersen grabbed my arm. “Don’t,” he said. “It’s not your job to interfere.”

“Do you really think he wants nothing?” I hissed.

“He said it front of everyone.”

“He wants to have fun—”

“We know what we’re doing. We didn’t bring you here to get in the way. Just do your job.”

Oh. My. God. Why had they hired me if they were planning to do what they wanted regardless of my professional opinion?

“When would you like me to send someone for this task?” Swain was saying.

“Now would be fine.”

“Now?”

Apollyon glanced around theatrically. “We’re all here, aren’t we?”

Swain nodded, also looking around. His gaze came to rest briefly on me.

Ah hell.

I didn’t care how much Swain was paying us. I was
not
fighting a wyrm.

Andersen still had my arm. “Just wait,” he whispered.

Apollyon smiled politely. “Would you please invite a wyrm of mine? And name your champion.”

“On the company grounds?”

“My wyrms are quite well mannered.”

A frown marred the thin skin on Swain’s forehead. “But there are no wyrms with you.”

“They’re always with me.” Apollyon waved a hand, the heavy rings on his fingers sparkling in the sunlight. “I shall repair any structural damage, but I can’t guarantee the safety of your man if he fails.”

Swain looked to one of the executives he’d brought with him. It was the one with the raw magical talent, who I’d thought looked familiar. The man nodded smartly and stepped forward as though he was about to receive a military honor.

“I invite a wyrm for the test,” Swain said. “Mr. Patterson will command it.”

Finally I remembered him. The name and that step forward had done it. Ed Patterson, a fellow alumnus from Stanford, who’d majored in necromancy. Long on ego and drive, but short on intelligence and magical talent. He’d failed to get his mage’s license and—as far as I’d heard through the grapevine—knew nothing about dragons. What was he doing here?

Swain and his executives merely smiled, as if the entire event had been scripted the night before. The bodyguards moved forward to protect the overpaid suits.

I pointed at Patterson. “Does he know what he’s doing too?” My voice was low, but I wasn’t whispering anymore.

Andersen nodded. “He’s an expert. Just watch.”

“Are you ready, Mr. Patterson?” Apollyon said.

“Yes, sir.” Patterson cracked his knuckles. What did he think this was? A street fight? He looked like he worked out—his suit was tight across the shoulders and biceps—but controlling a dragon is different from picking up an unresponsive forty-five-pound iron plate. Or raising the dead.