Blood of Stone: A Shattered Magic Novel (Stone Blood Book 1) Page 8

  I swallowed and pushed my palms down the thighs of my jeans. I’d done this before and knew what to expect, but that didn’t make it easier. I couldn’t do this often—I didn’t want to—but sometimes it was the fastest route to something I needed.

  “Now, what can I do for you?” he asked.

  For one crazy second, I could almost imagine that I was a little human kid, ready to go sit on Santa’s lap and whisper my Christmas wishes in his ear.

  “There’s a vampire, third generation. He goes by the name Van Zant,” I said. I saw a flicker of recognition in Morven’s eyes at the vamp’s name. That was good. It meant Morven had heard of him and might have information. “I need to know who’s escorting him around Faerie. And if you happen to know where he is right now, that would be helpful, too.”

  Morven’s eyelids lowered a bit, as if he suddenly felt sleepy.

  “I have the information you seek,” he said. Faint, brownish magic, like wisps of smoke, began to leak from his mouth.

  Watching as his eyes darkened, I gripped the armrests of my chair, bracing myself for what Morven was about to do to me.

  Chapter 8

  A SILENT, UNSEEN vacuum seemed to pull the breathable air from the room. It wasn’t like the void of the netherwhere. It was much worse. There, I had no sense of my own lungs or need for oxygen, so the lack of it wasn’t bothersome. But here, sitting in the loft of an ancient Duergar pub, I was acutely aware of the sense of suffocation.

  Morven’s grayish-brown magic filled the space like thick pipe smoke. I felt it creep into my ears, nostrils, and I swear it even went in through my tear ducts. And yes, you can bet your ass I was sitting there with my legs tightly crossed.

  It was like having every orifice and pore invaded by tendrils of something awful and irritating. Steel wool. Pieces of fiberglass. Barbed toothpicks.

  I ground my teeth and tried to stay as still as possible and ignore the sensation of a million probes and pricks. Any disturbance would just prolong the agony. But the full-body probing wasn’t the worst part.

  Just as I was sure I’d keel over from lack of oxygen, the swirling sensation in my chest began. It was like my torso was a blender and Morven had just pressed “liquefy.” It literally felt as if my organs were being ripped from their cozy little pockets and churned into pulp.

  I let out the tiniest of groans, more of a low hum in my throat, and a bead of sweat rolled down the center of my forehead and off the tip of my nose.

  Then all at once the tiny probes receded and air flooded into my lungs. Dark blotches blotted out my field of vision. I slouched over, too weak to keep my spine straight. With my chin on my chest and my eyes squeezed closed, I focused on breathing and not vomiting. A sheen of sweat slicked my skin.

  When I finally looked up, Morven had moved a bucket near my chair. I averted my eyes, refusing to look at it, while I waited for the nausea to subside. The muscle weakness and lightheaded feeling would take longer to go away.

  Finally, I swallowed hard, faced forward, and looked him in the eyes. Every muscle in my body was trembling with the effort of staying upright.

  “And the information?” I asked calmly.

  I wasn’t angry or resentful that he’d just taken a bit of my magic. It creeped me out, sure, and it was extremely unpleasant. But it was a transaction I’d willingly agreed to, and I would survive. In a way, it was a bit like donating blood. It depleted you temporarily, but then you recovered.

  He tipped his head down, looking at me from under his bushy brows. “You’re a tough one, Petra Maguire,” he said. “I’ve seen men twice your size writhe and scream and then lose their lunch for their trouble.”

  The corners of my mouth twitched slightly at the compliment. I decided to ignore the familiar irritation that came when someone was surprised by my strength—either physical or mental.

  “So,” he said, drawing out the word in his brogue. “You’re looking for Van Zant and his Fae companion.”

  I nodded. No point trying to rush him, as I already knew Morven wouldn’t be rushed. I needed to sit there for a few minutes before I’d be able to stand, anyway.

  “Bryna is her name. Duergar-Spriggan girl,” he said. I hadn’t specifically asked him to tell me her lineage, but one didn’t speak of Fae without mentioning such things. It confirmed what the nightclub owner had told me.

  “Sworn to the Duergar kingdom?” I asked.

  “That wasn’t part of your original request, but I’ll give you that as a wee bonus since you guessed it right.”

  “How generous,” I said wryly.

  “As for the vampire’s location, I got wind he’s lodging at the Cockburn with the girl Bryna.”

  “Lodging there tonight?”

  “Aye.”

  My pulse bumped up a notch. The Cockburn was a hotel in an old Duergar mansion, and it wasn’t far from the Aberdeen.

  “She’s the owner of the wraith,” he said.

  My brows lifted. Now I knew for sure that the wraith was connected to Van Zant. And I knew who to thank for sending it to kill me in the netherwhere.

  Morven rose. “Always a pleasure doing business with you.”

  He gave me a little salute and then turned toward the staircase, leaving me alone in the loft.

  I tipped my head back and closed my eyes, letting my full body weight sag into the chair while I mentally took stock of my condition. I’d managed to hold my shit together in front of Morven, but it had taken all my willpower to keep my spine straight. I was still sweating, though the chill from having a bit of magic torn from me was starting to set in, along with a pounding in my temples.

  It was basically like an epic hangover, but without the fun part that comes before.

  After another minute of deep breathing, I used the armrests to heave myself up, straightening gradually once on my feet. By the time I made it to the stairs, I was fairly sure I wasn’t going to throw up.

  Down in the pub, several people eyed me with knowing looks. I lifted my hand at Morven as I walked gingerly past, and he returned my wave with his signature Santa Claus smile.

  Outside, the night air was the perfect summer’s eve temperature. A deep breath of Faerie air, and I almost felt decent. I had a short walk ahead of me to the Cockburn, which frankly I needed to make sure my legs were in working order. The streets in this Duergar township were narrow, having been designed long before the advent of cars.

  Everything here was very old, and as in the Aberdeen, all manner of Fae creatures roamed the streets. It was like walking through a Disneyland set or a fantasy-themed Vegas hotel complete with costumed characters. As I drew closer to the Cockburn, I skirted glances at the faces I passed, looking for Van Zant. I had no idea what his Fae companion, Bryna, looked like—maybe stocky, based on her Spriggan blood, but with mixed Fae races you never knew for sure.

  It had been early evening in Las Vegas when I’d stepped through the MonsterFit doorway, but in this Scotland-anchored territory of the Faerie realm, it was just past midnight. The only people out and about seemed to be those who were pub hopping or heading home for the night. A raucous group of Cait Sidhe men was coming my direction on the other side of the street, and one of them tipped his head back and yowled up at the sky with an eerily perfect alley-cat call. The Cait Sidhe were felines at heart, even in their humanoid forms, but those noises coming from a person always set my nerves on edge.

  I was reminded of my roommate, Lochlyn, who was part Cait Sidhe. Thank Oberon, she hardly ever made cat sounds. But being also part Baen Sidhe, or banshee, she could scream to make a person go insane. Whenever she brought a guy home, I did my best to find another place to be.

  I turned a corner onto a block away from the main strip that was lined with pubs. This street was empty. I frowned, a tingle of apprehension spiraling up my spine. Just as something in the air seemed to shift, I drew Mort and whirled around, shifting my weight to my toes and taking a fighting stance.

  But no one was there.

  T
hin violet flames of magic ignited, activating the spellblade to extend the reach of its damage, but it was a mere wisp of what I could usually do. My temples throbbed with blinding pain from drawing magic, and I nearly reeled with nausea. Compared to my usual power, I was weak as a lamb from my session with Morven.

  I glanced up, remembering the ninja attackers. While my gaze was averted, the wraith attacked.

  Even if I’d been looking right at it, I probably wouldn’t have seen it coming. Wraiths could sometimes be sighted out of the corners of your eyes, but they were as elusive as smoke. As in the netherwhere, a dozen appendages seemed to wrap around me—neck, shoulders, waist—pinning my arms to my sides. They looked like something in between old bone and rotted wood. I could smell its deathly rotting breath wafting over my left shoulder. It squeezed with vise-like strength, forcing the air from my lungs.

  It aimed to make me lose consciousness, so it could then use one of its needle-sharp appendages to pierce my skull and drink the fluid from my brain. There’d been no corporeal skull to jab in the netherwhere, but here I was in real danger. The thing had somehow been imbued with cold iron, and the burn was starting to set in. She must have had a human helping her. Or maybe the vamp.

  Stars began to dance around in my vision. I couldn’t pass out. I groaned and drew more magic to form rock armor around my torso to keep the creature from squeezing more air from my body. Pain ripped over my skin where the armor plates sprang forth, but I had just enough juice to keep them in place.

  Mort was useless in such close combat, but I held the grip hard to keep my sword in my hand. I’d need it in a second.

  The wraith had to take solid form to hold me like this, which meant it was vulnerable. I flexed the bicep of my sword arm and felt the wraith’s appendage give just a little. It was strong, but so was I. Clenching my teeth, I forced a flash of magic around my arm, forming a layer of stone. The sudden change broke the wraith’s hold, and it squealed in protest. My sword arm was free.

  I jerked Mort up and back over my left shoulder and felt the blade hit something hard but brittle. It gave way with the sickening crack of a bone breaking. An other-worldly scream filled the night, and all the limbs holding me went limp. I kicked back with one heel and spun away, using my momentum to pull Mort free.

  Lightning fast, I whirled and stabbed at what appeared to be a hollow-eyed hooded face carved of rotted wood. There were cracks radiating from one of the eye sockets, indicating where my first hit had landed. My second stab was straight into the thing’s awful yawning mouth, through greasy-looking strands of some unknown substance that strung between top and bottom jaws.

  The wraith’s scream rose in pitch until I thought my eardrums might implode. I held Mort’s grip with both hands and sharply shoved the blade several inches deeper into the creature’s throat.

  Like something out of a horror film, long, bony branch appendages that sprouted from its shoulders began to curl up and shrivel. A moment later, the wraith exploded into a decay-scented puff of ashy dust.

  I stood there gripping Mort, my chest heaving as if I’d just sprinted a mile. Magic drained away, and as it did the pain in my head and where my armor had been intensified so swiftly my limbs lost strength. The new iron burns screamed. Mort slipped from my hand, and I went heavily down to one knee.

  I needed to stand, to be ready for whomever had sent the wraith, but I was on the edge of losing consciousness. If not for Morven sucking out some of my magic and leaving me weakened, I could have ended that wraith and a dozen more in three seconds flat.

  Grimacing, I felt around for Mort and shifted so I was sitting on the cool cobblestones. Just as the spots in my vision cleared, the dark alcove of a nearby shop entrance began to shift. Out of the shadows stepped Van Zant.

  My brain tried to command my muscles to pick me up off the ground, but my limbs weren’t interested.

  The vampire came forward to loom over me, and there was just enough light to see his upper incisors extending.

  “Oh, shit,” I groaned.

  Chapter 9

  I WISHED I could look around for Van Zant’s Fae companion, Bryna, who’d been driving the wraith. I wouldn’t have minded introducing her to Mort. But alas, I had to avoid the fangs bearing down on me.

  Van Zant sprang at me in that creepy, animal way that vamps move. I rolled to my back and kicked out with my feet, nailing him in the stomach with one boot and the groin with the other. The blows catapulted him over me. He landed with a grunt and skidded along the ground.

  He must have been high on his own power and adrenaline because he sprang to his feet almost immediately, and seemed none the worse for wear from the crotch kick.

  I forced myself to rise and mirror his crouch. I growled, not because of amped-up aggression but because I felt like a re-heated carcass that had already taken all the abuse it could handle for one twenty-four-hour period, and I was pissed. Van Zant and I had started circling each other, and he kept flicking glances at Mort. I was pretty sure my sword was the only thing keeping the vamp at bay. I reached for magic, and searing pain and sparks exploded through my head.

  “Damn it to Maeve,” I muttered.

  All I needed was sufficient magic to incapacitate Van Zant long enough to flash the bounty card in his face, and he’d be magically identified and cuffed. Then I could haul him in, and there’d be one less vamp hazard on the loose, and the fat payday would be mine. But vamps were preternaturally strong, and this one clearly wanted to end me.

  My quads were shaking with the effort of holding the crouched ready stance, and my sword arm was already aching. If he came at me, I was done. I sneered, trying to look menacing enough to disguise the fact that I was about to keel over.

  “Come at me, bloodsucker,” I snarled, changing my grip so I held Mort in both hands.

  I really didn’t want to kill him. The assignment was to bring him in alive so he could stand trial. A dead mark only paid out ten percent of a full live capture—the Guild’s way of discouraging mercs from becoming legal paid assassins. Plus, the thought of the paperwork that ensued from a kill on the job sent fresh nausea spinning through me. Oberon’s balls, the damn paperwork. It would bury me for a week.

  Van Zant lunged and swiped with his claw-like nails. Only my years of training saved me with a reflexive twitch of my sword that blocked him. He pulled back, again looking warily at Mort.

  “Aw, is that all you got?” I waved my sword, which helped to mask the shaking of my arms. “Try again, leech.”

  Van Zant answered my taunt by springing up from the ground with blurring speed. I twisted, struggling to keep up with his movement. He rebounded off the building we were next to. My mind barely had time to process his trajectory. He was going to land on my shoulders and take me down backward.

  I couldn’t raise my arms in time, so I threw my weight forward and allowed gravity to assist my fall. I dropped hard onto my knees, spun to face him with one knee up, and slashed wildly. Even in this position, I could barely hold myself up, but it was enough and he scored only a glancing blow to my head from one of his boots as he tried to jump clear of my blade.

  He shrieked, the sound echoing down the empty street. When he curled up on the ground, writhing, I saw it: the vamp’s severed hand.

  I crawled forward and snatched the dripping chunk of vampire flesh, and then used Mort as a crutch to push me up to my feet.

  “Regenerate that, you bastard,” I said. With a new surge of strength, I kicked him in the back of the head.

  I reached for the bounty card and managed to pull it out. But when I crouched to try to flash it in his face so the certificate could identify the mark, Van Zant sent up a sharp kick that caught me on the wrist. I dropped the card. He snatched it up with his remaining hand and let out a screech of fury. He tore at the card with his teeth as if it were a chunk of jerky. It sparked and then disintegrated to dust, the charm that was supposed to ID and cuff the mark destroyed.

  Shit!

  Witho
ut a functioning card, I had no way to apprehend him. And I was running on fumes. I wouldn’t be able to apprehend him without the card, and I didn’t have the strength left to kill him. If I stuck around, he’d end me.

  Cursing as I went, I hightailed it away from the vamp as fast as my shaky legs could shamble. I had to get away before he managed to attack me again. At least since he knew he was a Guild target, he would go into hiding and stop passing VAMP3 blood around to avoid attention. Temporarily, anyway.

  A severed hand certainly wouldn’t kill Van Zant, but I honestly wasn’t sure whether a vamp could grow back a limb. I didn’t really give a shit. I was just happy I’d managed to inflict enough damage to get away alive.

  By some miracle, I remembered that there was a little town square nearby and, in the center of it, an ancient oak that served as a doorway.

  When I arrived in the MonsterFit vestibule, I’d never been so happy to smell the stale-sweat aroma of the gym. It was dark out in Las Vegas, but the enclosure was still about a gazillion degrees after being bombarded with the western sun. I passed through the doorway and stood outside, Mort in one hand and bloody vampire fingers clutched in the other. It was almost like I was holding hands with Van Zant.

  Ewww.

  I dropped the hand, and it landed with a faint, fleshy plop, and I went to pull the towel off Vincenzo’s seat. I wiped the vamp ick off Mort, sheathed the sword, and then used the towel to pick up Van Zant’s hand. I wrapped the worn terrycloth around the severed appendage and stuffed it in one of Vincenzo’s side cases.

  Then I wheeled my scooter into the vestibule and used the doorway to travel home to Boise.

  At the foot of the stairs leading up to my floor, a stray I’d named Emerald sat primly. All I could do was groan and drag myself past her. She let out a plaintive meow at my back, obviously affronted that I hadn’t offered her a treat.

  “Next time, Emmy,” I grumbled. Cats were so demanding.