CHAPTER 3

Doolittle bent over the boy, studying the necklace with a magnifying glass. Dark-skinned, his hair salted with gray, the Pack medic looked to be in his early fifties. Doolittle was the best medmage I had ever met. He had brought me back from the edge of death so many times, we’d stopped joking about it.

There was something so soothing about Doolittle. Whether it was his manner, his kind eyes, or the soft Southern accent, tinted with notes of coastal Georgia, I didn’t know. The moment he walked into the room, Roderick relaxed. In thirty seconds they had struck a bargain: if Roderick stayed on his best behavior, he would get ice cream.

Not that Roderick had to be bribed. It took us almost an hour to get to the Keep and the entire ride over, he did not say a single word. He didn’t move, didn’t fidget, or do any of the normal things a seven-year-old kid would do in the car. He just sat there, quiet, his brown eyes opened wide, like he was a baby owl.

Doolittle pressed his thumb and index finger just above the necklace, stretching the boy’s skin. A vein stood out, burrowing from the gold band under his skin into the muscle of his neck like a thin root.

“Does it hurt when I press here?” he asked.

“No,” Roderick said. His voice was barely above a whisper.

Doolittle probed a different spot. “And now?”

“No.”

The medmage let go and patted Roderick’s shoulder. “I do believe we’re done for tonight.”

“Ice cream now?” Roderick asked, his voice quiet.

“Ice cream now,” Doolittle confirmed. “Lena!”

A female shapeshifter stuck her red head into the room.

“This young gentleman is in need of ice cream,” Doolittle said. “He’s earned it.”

“Oh boy!” Lena made big eyes and held out her hand. “I better pay up, then. Come on.”

Roderick hopped off the chair and took her hand very carefully.

“What kind of ice cream would you like?” Lena asked, leading him through the doorway.

“Chocolate,” the boy said quietly, with a slight hesitation in his voice.

“I’ve got loads of chocolate…”

The door swung shut behind them.

Doolittle looked at the door and sighed. “The necklace is rooted in the sternomastoid. If I try to remove it surgically, he’ll bleed out. You said his mother put this atrocity on him?”

“Yes,” Curran said.

“The collar glowed when the husband came near,” I said. “He was reaching out for it and she yanked it away from him and snapped it on the boy.”

“So it was probably intended for her husband,” Doolittle said.

“That, or it’s an equal opportunity offender,” I said. “Any neck will do and the boy was the closest.”

“And it killed the girl instantly?” Doolittle asked.

“Pretty much,” Curran said.

“Strange. It doesn’t seem to be actively harming the boy at the moment beyond rooting in.”

“Does it hurt him?” I asked.

“Doesn’t appear so.” Doolittle leaned against the chair. “I poked and prodded at it a bit. It seems that the ‘roots’ shift under pressure so any attempt to cut the necklace will likely cause it to contract and strangle him. I don’t want to fool with it.”

“The woman,” Curran said, “she knew better than to touch it.”

I thought out loud. “She was unaffected by the glow, so either she’s immune or she knows how it works.”

“The boy didn’t cry when you took him from his mother?” Doolittle asked.

“No,” I said.

The medmage glanced at the door again. “The child is very passive and compliant. He doesn’t speak unless spoken to. He doesn’t take initiative. This boy is doing his best to be invisible. Sometimes this is a sign of a shy nature. Sometimes it’s a sign of emotional abuse or neglect.” Doolittle crossed his arms. “Such an accusation can’t be made lightly. This is just something to keep in mind in dealing with her. If she is emotionally distant, she may not have any attachment to him. Let me run some tests. The sooner we identify what the necklace is, the better.”

We left the infirmary and walked down the long hallway, heading toward the stairway leading up to the top of the tower, to our rooms. The Keep’s hours were skewed toward the night. For most people ten p.m. meant evening and probably bedtime—both electricity and the charged air that powered feylanterns were expensive and people tended to make the most of daylight. For shapeshifters ten p.m. was closer to four in the afternoon. The hallways were busy. Random shapeshifters ducked their heads as we passed them.

Something had occurred to me. “When the journeyman handed Amanda the necklace, did it seem paler to you?”

Curran frowned. “Yes. Almost white gold.”

“And now it’s almost orange.”

“You think it feeds on the host?”

“It would make sense. Maybe it develops hunger. The girl died instantly, because the necklace was hungry. Now it’s satiated, so it’s biding its time.”

“We’ll need to talk to the journeyman,” Curran said. “And the boy’s mother.”

“Yes, the woman. The supernaturally beautiful woman with long flowing hair…Can’t forget her.”

Curran turned his head to look at me.

“What?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

I shrugged. “I’ll speak to the journeyman tomorrow.”

“I’ll come with you.”

And why would he want to do that? I pictured trying to conduct an interview in the presence of the Beast Lord. The journeyman would take one look at him and run for the hills screaming.

“No.”

“You always say that word,” he said. “Is it supposed to mean something?”

“It means I don’t want you to come with me. The moment you muscle your way into the room, he’ll clam up out of sheer self-preservation. Let me handle this.”

We started up the stairway. Our quarters were at the very top and I really could’ve used an elevator right about now.

Curran kept his voice even. “Somehow I have managed to deal with the People just fine for almost fifteen years without your help.”

“As I recall, you almost had yourself a war. And I won’t be dealing with the People. I’ll be dealing with one specific journeyman, facing sanctions and scared out of his mind.”

“If you think you’ll be able to get anywhere near Ghastek without me, you’re crazy,” Curran said.

I stopped and looked at him. “I will take my boudas and personal guard, dress them in black, put them on horses, and ride up to the Casino. Then I will pick the scariest-looking shapeshifter in the bunch and send him in to announce that the Consort seeks an audience. Do you really think the People will keep me waiting for long?”

It’s good that we didn’t have any kindling or paper around or the sparks flying from our butting heads would set the Keep on fire. We were both tired and pissed off.

Above us Jim rounded the corner on the landing and came to a dead stop, obviously wondering if he could get away with turning on his foot and going back the way he’d come without our noticing. Curran turned to face him.

That’s right, you’re busted.

Jim sighed and headed toward us at a brisk pace.

Tall, his skin the color of rich coffee, and dressed all in black, Jim looked like he was carved from a block of solid muscle. Logic said that at some point he must’ve been a baby and then a child, but looking at him one was almost convinced that some deity had touched the ground with its scepter and proclaimed, “There shall be a badass,” and Jim had sprung into existence, fully formed, complete with clothes, and ready for action. He was the alpha of Clan Cat, the Pack’s chief of security, and Curran’s best friend.

He braked near us.

“Have you vetted the Wolves of the Isle yet?” Curran asked.

“No.”

“Who are the Wolves of the Isle?” I asked.

“It’s a small pack from the Florida Keys,” Curran said. “Eight people. They’re petitioning to join us and for some odd reason our security chief is dragging his feet on the background checks.”

Jim waved the stack of paper in his hand. “The security chief has two thefts, four murders, and an abandonment of post to deal with.”

“Murders?” I asked.

Jim nodded.

“I gave my word to the wolves,” Curran said.

“I’m not opposed to admitting them.” Jim spread his arms. “All I’m saying is let me make sure the people we have are safe before we add any more to them. By the way, Kate, did you review the Guild documents I sent you?”

Deflecting attention, are we? I gave him my tough stare. It bounced off Jim like hail from the pavement. “Somewhat. I was busy.”

“See?” Jim pointed to me. “Your mate is doing the same thing I’m doing. Prioritizing.”

I would get him for this. Oh yes.

Curran looked at Jim. “Do you need my help with the background checks?”

A muscle in Jim’s face jerked. “No, I’ve got it.”

Ha! He didn’t want Curran in his hair either. “Don’t worry, he’s coming with me to investigate things.”

“In the city?” Jim asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s a great idea. You both should go. To the city.”

Curran and I looked at each other.

“He’s trying to get rid of us,” I said.

“You think he’s planning a coup?” Curran wondered.

“I hope so.” I turned to Jim. “Is there any chance you’d overthrow the tyrannical Beast Lord and his psychotic Consort?”

“Yeah, I want a vacation,” Curran said.

Jim leaned toward us and said in a lowered voice, “You couldn’t pay me enough. This is your mess, you deal with it. I have enough on my plate.”

He walked away.

“Too bad,” Curran said.

“I don’t know, I think we could convince him to seize the reins of power.”

Curran shook his head. “Nah. He’s too smart for that.”

We finally made it up the stairs, through the long hallway, up the second flight, and into our quarters. I dropped my bag down, shrugged out of my sword and scabbard and took a deep breath. Aahh, home.

Generally, tackling someone from behind is very effective, because the person doesn’t know you’re coming. However, after being tackled a dozen times, the victim becomes accustomed to it. Which is why when Curran made a grab for me, I danced aside and tripped him. He grabbed my arm, then we did some rolling on the floor, and I ended up on top of him, our noses about an inch apart.

He grinned. “You’re jealous.”

I considered it. “No. But when you stared at that woman like she was made of diamonds, it didn’t feel very good.”

“I stared at her because she smelled strange.”

“Strange how?”

“She smelled like rock dust. Very strong dry smell.” Curran put his arms around me. “I love it when you get all fussy and possessive.”

“I never get fussy and possessive.”

He grinned, showing his teeth. His face was practically glowing. “So you’re cool if I go over and chat her up?”

“Sure. Are you cool if I go and chat up that sexy werewolf on the third floor?”

He went from casual and funny to deadly serious in half a blink. “What sexy werewolf?”

I laughed.

Curran’s eyes focused. He was concentrating on something.

“You’re taking a mental inventory of all the people working on the third floor, aren’t you?”

His expression went blank. I’d hit the nail on the head.

I slid off him and put my head on his biceps. The shaggy carpet was nice and comfortable under my back.

“Is it Jordan?”

“I just picked a random floor,” I told him. “You’re nuts, you know that?”

He put his arm around me. “Look who’s talking.”

We lay together on the carpet.

“We can’t let the necklace kill that boy,” I said.

“We’ll do everything we can.” He sighed. “I’m sorry about dinner.”

“Best date ever. Well, until people died and vampires showed up. But before that it was awesome.”

We lay there some more.

“We should go to bed.” Curran stretched next to me. “Except the carpet is nice and soft and I’m tired.”

“You want me to carry you?”

He laughed. “Think you can?”

“I don’t know. Do you want to find out?”

It turned out that carrying him to our bed wasn’t necessary. He got there on his own power and he wasn’t nearly as tired as he’d claimed to be.

Morning brought a call from Doolittle. When we arrived at the medward, Roderick was sitting on the cot, the same owlish expression on his face. The necklace had lost some of its yellow tint during the night. Now it looked slightly darker than orange rind.

I crouched by the boy. “Hi.”

Roderick looked at me with his big eyes. “Good morning.”

His voice was weak. In my mind the necklace constricted around his fragile neck. The bone crunched…

We had to get a move on. We had to get it off him.

Doolittle led us toward the door and spoke quietly. “There is a definite change in the color of the metal. He’s beginning to experience discomfort.”

“So that thing is getting hungry,” Curran said.

“Probably.” Doolittle held up a small printout. A pale blue stripe cut across the paper. The m-scan. The m-scanner recorded specific types of magic as different colors: purple for the undead, green for shapeshifter, and so on. Blue stood for plain human magic—mages, telepaths, and telekinetics all registered blue. It was the basic human default.

“Is that the necklace or Roderick?” Curran asked.

“It’s the boy. He has power and it’s obscuring whatever magic signature the necklace is giving out.” Doolittle pointed to a point on the graph. I squinted. A series of paler sparks punctured the blue.

“This is probably the necklace,” Doolittle said. “It’s not enough to go on. We need a more precise measurement.”

We needed Julie. She was a sensate—she saw the colors of magic with more precision than any m-scanner. I stuck my head out into the hallway and called, “Could someone find my kid, please, and ask her to come down here?”

Five minutes later, Julie entered the medward. When I’d first found her, she’d been half-starved, skinny, and had had anxiety attacks if the protective layer of grime was removed from her skin. Now at fourteen, she had progressed from skinny to lean. Her legs and arms showed definition if she flexed. She was meticulously clean, but recently had decided that the invention of brushes was unnecessary and a waste of time, so her blond hair looked like a cross between a rough haystack and a bird’s nest.

I explained about the necklace. Julie approached the boy. “Hey. I’m going to look at the thing on your neck, okay?”

Roderick said nothing.

Julie peered at the metal. “Odd. It’s pale.”

“Pale yellow? Pale green?” Any tint was good.

“No. It looks colorless, like hot air rising from the pavement.”

Transparent magic. Now I had seen everything.

“There are very faint runes on it,” Julie said, “hard to make out. I’m not surprised you missed them,” she added.

“Can you read them?” Curran asked.

She shook her head. “It’s not any runic alphabet I was taught.”

Doolittle handed her a piece of paper and a pencil and she wrote five symbols on it. Runes, the ancient letters of Old Norse and Germanic alphabets, had undergone several changes over the years, but the oldest runes owed their straight up-and-down appearance to the fact that historically they had to be carved on a hard surface: all straight lines, no curves, no tiny strokes. These symbols definitely fit that pattern, but they didn’t look like any runes I’d seen. I could spend a day or two digging through books, but Roderick didn’t have that long. We needed information fast.

Curran must’ve come to the same conclusion. “Do we know any rune experts?”

I tapped the paper. “I can make some calls. There is a guy—Dagfinn Heyerdahl. He used to be with the Norse Heritage Foundation.”

The Norse Heritage Foundation wasn’t so much about heritage as it was about Viking, in the most cliché sense of the word. They drank huge quantities of beer, they brawled, and they wore horned helmets despite all historical evidence to the contrary.

“Used to be?” Curran asked.

“They kicked him out for being drunk and violent.”

Curran blinked. “The Norse Heritage?”

“Mhm.”

“Don’t you have to be drunk and violent just to get in?” he asked. “Just how disorderly did he get?”

“Dagfinn is a creative soul,” I said. “His real name is Don Williams. He packs a lot of magic and if he could have gotten out of his own way, he would be running the Norse Heritage by now. He’s got a rap sheet as long as the Bible, all of it petty stupid stuff, and he’s the only merc I know who actually works for free, because he’s been fined so many times, it will take him years to get out of the Guild’s debt. About two years ago, he got piss-drunk, took off all of his clothes, and broke through the gates of a Buddhist meditation center on the South Side. A group of bhikkhunis, female monks, was deep in meditation on the grounds. He chased them around, roaring something about them hiding hot Asian ladies. I guess he mistook them for men, because of the robes and shaved heads.”

“And why didn’t anybody point out the error of his ways to this fool?” Doolittle asked.

“Perhaps because they are Buddhists,” Curran said. “Violence is generally frowned upon in their community. How did it end?”

“Dagfinn pulled a robe off one of the nuns and an elderly monk came up to him and hit him in the chest with the heel of his hand. Dagfinn did some flying and went through the monastery wall. Bricks fell on his face and gave him a quickie plastic surgery. Since the old monk had raised his hand in anger, he went into a self-imposed seclusion. He still lives near Stone Mountain in the woods. He was greatly revered and the monks got pissed off and went to see the Norse Heritage Foundation. Words were exchanged and the next morning the Foundation gave Dagfinn the boot. The neo-Vikings will know where he is. They kicked him out, but he’s still their boy.”

Curran nodded. “Okay, we’ll take the Jeep.”

“They don’t permit any technology past the fourteenth century AD in their territory. You’ll have to ride a horse.”

Curran’s face snapped into a flat Beast Lord expression. “I don’t think so.”

“You can jog if you want, but I’m getting a horse.”

A low rumble began in Curran’s throat. “I said we’ll take the Jeep.”

“And I said they will put an axe into your carburetor.”

“Do you even know what a carburetor is?” Curran asked.

I knew it was a car part. “That’s irrelevant.”

Doolittle cleared his throat. “My lord, my lady.”

We looked at him.

“Take it outside my hospital before you break anything.” It didn’t sound like a request.

A careful knock echoed through the door. A young woman stuck her head in. “Consort?”

What now? “Yes?”

“There is a vampire downstairs waiting to see you.”