Wolf's-own: Koan (37 page)

Jacin kept his hands from reaching for a weapon. He didn't want to start anything with this giant unless he absolutely had to.

"There is no magic here.” The man spoke angrily, as though Jacin had offered some sort of offense.

Jacin gave him a wary stare. “All right."

"Take it off,” the man said, overt threat in his deep voice.

Jacin flexed his fingers, body tensing somewhat when he sensed another presence at his back, hovering. Yeah, well, he'd figured it was a trap of some sort.

"Take what off?” Jacin asked slowly.

There was the faintest of stirrings at Jacin's nape; he sidestepped quickly, only catching a minute flash of substance out the corner of his eye before it was gone and he was backing into a very wide, very solid-feeling chest. Where he
knew
no one had been a half a second ago. Bloody hell. He stilled completely when a great hand roughly gripped his shoulder from behind.

"What kind of magic have you got here, seyh?” a harsh voice murmured into his ear. “And how did you get it past the wards?"

The chatter had stopped. Every patron of the dingy little tavern who'd politely disregarded Jacin before now stared at him with varying degrees of interest.

Jacin only snapped a glare at the white-haired man in front of him. “I paid your little friend for the damned stick,” he grated. “If he told you otherwise—"

He already had a knife in his hand by the time the man in front of him had completed his lunge forward and snatched away the stick. Jacin let him, countering with a warning swipe of the knife that just grazed the man's beard, but the man behind him prevented Jacin from lopping a hunk of it off like he'd wanted to. Jacin stilled again, the man behind him now gripping his right shoulder and his left wrist while the man in front of him inspected the walking stick like he thought it might explode in his hands. He stroked at his beard with a narrow glare at Jacin and a curl to his lip.

All right. Jacin could still get out of this. The grip on his wrist was pretty firm, but the one on his shoulder was only just firm enough. And his right hand was still free. The man was probably used to being able to subdue anyone he wanted to with size and strength alone. Except Samin was very nearly as big as these two, and had put Jacin in this kind of hold numerous times.
And
had taught him very well how to break it. Plus, neither of these men had yet tried to disarm him. Jacin wasn't trapped quite yet.

"I can sense nothing from this,” the man in front of Jacin said, looking over the walking stick with a frown cut deep between his spiky white eyebrows. “Is it possible to disguise magic as nothing at all?"

Oh, brilliant. “If there's magic in it, it came from
your
friend at the stall,” Jacin snapped.

This setup was much more elaborate than he'd anticipated. If they wanted to kick the shit out of him and teach him a “lesson” about disparaging magic in front of the little man's paying customers, why didn't they just get on with it?

"Friend?” said the man behind Jacin.

Jacin was getting pissed now. Adrenaline was pumping, and he was getting impatient to get to the ass-kicking part. He could do with a target or two on which to take out some building aggressions. The man in front of him all but handed him the excuse when he reached up and took hold of Jacin's hand—the one trapped in the other man's grip—and tried to pry the knife out of it.

"There's something coming from that ring—” was all the man got out before Jacin snapped his arm—still in the other man's grip—to the side and down, succeeding this time in swiping at the wispy white beard and taking off a good three inches of length from one side.

The man let go and reeled back. The other one yanked Jacin's arm up and tried to grab the other. Jacin merely spun to face him, and when he was wrenched upward and almost off his feet, he set one boot to the man's knee and the other to a meaty thigh then launched a kick to the side of the man's head. The man let go of Jacin and stumbled aside. Jacin landed clumsily but kept his feet. He spun just in time to duck under the walking stick as it came swinging at his head, then everything went still as a woman stepped into the middle of the semicontained brawl.

She held one hand out in a warding gesture at Jacin's chest, the other behind her where the bearded man was hefting the stick over his shoulder for another go. Her hazel eyes narrowed with intensity over Jacin's shoulder, where he assumed the other man was likely getting ready for another attack.

"Stop,” she said quietly, evenly. “There's been a misunderstanding."

It was the voice. Jacin wasn't sure he'd have recognized her otherwise, but he knew that voice.

We were to take the earth-bound and allow the Catalyst to follow.

Jacin's heart tripped up in rhythm, pounding against his breastbone. Anger and loathing curled together in his gut.

One of Asai's. One of the maijin who'd tried to steal Joori so that Asai's disobedient little Ghost would fall back into line and do his bidding and his killing for him. One of Wolf's who'd been more than willing to ally with Asai behind Malick's back, but had lost her nerve when faced with Malick himself.

"You know this man, Leu?"

Jacin didn't wait to hear her answer; he took advantage of the distraction and the lack of any grip on him. Teeth set tight, he flipped his knife into his palm and lunged. The snatch and hard yank to the back of his collar didn't help. Neither did Leu's quick retreat and dive to the side. Still, Jacin managed to clip her on the arm a good one, and by the amount of blood gushing from the wound, he'd say he'd done pretty well.

Leu yelped and clutched at the gash, trying to staunch the bleeding, but Jacin merely crooked an evil little smirk as he was grabbed again from behind and placed into a hold somewhat more secure than the last one. “Oops,” he said, a little smugly and to no one in particular. “Think I got an artery."

"I guess they do know each other,” someone muttered. Jacin didn't bother to look around to see who it might have been, but he could feel every eye in the place on them now, where before he wasn't even sure he'd remembered anyone else was here.

"Get them out of here,” the man holding Jacin snapped, digging his fingers into Jacin's wrist to try to make him drop the knife as he was abruptly propelled forward, but Jacin didn't let it go. His fingers were numb and would be useless in a moment, but he wasn't about to relinquish any defense he might end up needing any second now.

He didn't exactly go along as he was shoved and manhandled over toward the door, but he didn't fight as hard as he could've, either. Too many large, angry-looking men materialized out of the shadows, glaring threat, and anyway, it wasn't like Jacin was opposed to leaving. Which was good, because apparently, he was being thrown out. Jacin supposed there were worse things that could've happened. He hoped these people weren't thinking of having him arrested. He'd hate to have to kill one of the Patrol. Then he'd
really
be in trouble. Or maybe not. After all, maybe none of this was real.

"Brilliant, Fen-seyh."

Jacin cut a glance sideways to see Leu being shoved toward the door almost as roughly as he was being shoved himself.

"All of the weeks Kamen spent hiding you, and
now
look. Now keep your bloody mouth
shut
."

Jacin merely snarled and let himself be shoved. He could kill her once they were outside. More room and less interfering thugs to hold him back.

No one came toward them, neither the patrons of the place nor the apparent...guards? Bouncers? As far as Jacin could tell, the patrons were all still sitting at their individual tables and watching the ruckus like it was a show put on for their casual entertainment, while one of the big guards waiting for them at the door reached out to inspect Leu's bleeding arm.

"You know the rules, Leu,” the man said in a chiding tone, mouth pinching down as he peered at the wound. This one had tattoos that crawled right up his neck in the shapes of spiky flames, curling up from under his clean-shaven chin. “No magic and no fighting. This is a neutral house.” He cut an irritated glance at Jacin on that last then nodded at the slash on Leu's arm. “This is mortal,” he told her, somewhat blandly. “Better find yourself a healer.
Out
side."

"Bloody hell,” Leu hissed and rolled her eyes. “I
just
got back from spirit, damn it!” She scowled at Jacin then shot her glance to the white-haired man, still holding onto her but bright-red with anger beneath his all-over tattoos, and glaring at Jacin like he'd just taken a piss on his cat. “Seb, I need Rihansei,” Leu told him. Seb opened his mouth to say something but Leu cut him off: “Don't argue with me and don't give me any shit.” She leaned in close and dropped her voice. “If I go to spirit now, you'll be stuck with
this
man and every single maijin and
Temshiel
who wants him. Do
you
want to be the one to tell Kamen you lost his Untouchable?"

Jacin didn't even have time to react; he was abruptly locked in a hold so strong and tight it threatened to crush his chest, and Seb went from flushed to pale by the time Leu had finished speaking. “Well, bloody damn,” was all Seb breathed, stricken, as Leu reached out and snatched the knife from Jacin's hand.

"I wouldn't spread that about, if I were you. Rihansei can only protect you so far.” Leu shook her head and looked between the gathered bouncers. “Bloody idiots. That's why your wards didn't catch him. They can't. And you can't see him with magic. Now get the rest of his weapons and take us downstairs before I bleed to death. I'm starting to get dizzy."

Jacin didn't know what most of that meant. He didn't much care. And he didn't have time to suss it. A blur of movement to his right caught his eye, a flash of metal. All Jacin saw was dark eyes and dark hair, and a surge of fury moved his body before his mind could insist he'd killed the bastard twice now, and he
still
wouldn't stay dead.

With a snarl and a move that would have done Samin proud, Jacin broke the hold on him and met the charge with blades twirling.

Imara peered up at the stately home Naro-yi had acquired for Kamen and wondered exactly who Kamen thought he was fooling. He was the bloodier end of Wolf's long arm, and Imara knew quite well that Kamen liked it that way. He wasn't some country lord, he was a killer, and as much as he was trying right now to pretend he could be something else for “his” Incendiary, Imara had no doubt whatsoever that Kamen was merely setting himself up for yet more risks.

Maybe he'd at least learn that lesson during his time with the spirits.

Imara snorted.

Right. Sure. It was
Kamen
, for pity's sake.

She didn't have to go into the house to know it was empty. They'd been there, though, she could feel them still, could follow a faint trail of vivid color in her mind's eye that she recognized as Kojoi Shig, but the trail was
too
faint, and she couldn't catch a hint of any of the rest of them. Nor, strangely, could she seem to latch onto the thread that would lead her to Naro-yi.

New wards, Imara supposed, and she was glad, but annoyed too. Maijin couldn't veil. She could find Naro-yi—and, therefore, Kamen's mortals—if she took the time and effort to meditate and look, but it was irritating that Naro-yi hadn't left her some hint so she wouldn't have to. Didn't he know she had things to do? Bad enough she'd had so little time to hand down Dakimo's orders to Xari in the first place, but it was all the worse for the rush, and Imara had been forced to leave Xari to look for her son's spirit alone. It was not something anyone should have to do alone, and Imara was anxious to get back and make sure her initiate did not falter on her final steps to Wolf's path.

With a sigh that was too dramatic for its lack of an audience, Imara shut her eyes against the fat, heavy snowflakes and reached, looking for a hint of direction, latching onto the trace of color that Kojoi Shig had left in her wake. Spirit-bound, that one had been, but spirit-blessed she was born—a Sensitive, if Imara didn't miss her guess. The imprint was too distinct, the favor of not-quite-lost souls almost a tangible thing. Whether Shig heard the spirits or not, they still followed her, watched her, which would have been useful, if Naro-yi hadn't obscured his path and, thusly, the paths of Imara's charges.

Nothing for it, she supposed. She'd just have to follow the traces until they ran out and figure out where to go from there. Focusing on the threads of color Shig had left behind, Imara let loose the tethers of corporeity and began to ease herself into the periphery of hazy ephemera where the spirits cried their sorrows, searching for lost reality.

And stared, wide-eyed, as Fen Jacin flung himself from shadow and pitched himself toward her dissipating physicality, long knife raised and flashing with intent.

With a quick snap and surge, Imara hurled herself into spirit, watching, appalled, as Fen Jacin's knife brutally slashed through the air where her mortal body had just stood. His arm followed the arc of the knife, hand sliding through where Imara's chest would have been, the semicontact shoving a queer tremor through a body that wasn't there anymore. Thank the gods she'd been going to spirit, rather than shadow, or the strike would have done her for certain. Imara almost didn't hear the voices of the spirits immediately crowding in, almost didn't feel the tug and grasp of hundreds of ghost-fingers reaching for her. That she could still see Fen Jacin—when she knew very well he
couldn't
be seen from the spirit planes—shocked her. The sensation of Fen Jacin's touch shocked her more.

Dark depths and primal strength; power she couldn't quite touch or understand, but it was there, all around her, and it tasted like damp earth and ashes. Alien and
old
. It nearly sent her reeling from the grip she had on herself. She held on. She had no wish to stumble away from her own being and end up wandering around the spirit realm, just as lost as the rest of them. Or pulled inside whatever it was that glanced a blow to her spirit. Because whoever this was wearing Fen Jacin's face, it most certainly was
not
Fen Jacin.