Inked. Part 7

It wasn't unusual for a bunch of outcasts to stockpile weapons. The war had a lot of people paranoid, and vargulfs vargulfs had no clan to back them up if they got into trouble. And a bunch of Weres might prefer those weapons in the form of wolves. had no clan to back them up if they got into trouble. And a bunch of Weres might prefer those weapons in the form of wolves.

As for the wardsmith, he was probably pa.s.sed out somewhere, courtesy of too much wine. Waiting for him to wake up and stumble back wasn't too appealing when he might not have anything useful to tell me. Barring more clues from Cyrus, my best option was old-fas.h.i.+oned police work. I needed to know where he'd been seen last, who he'd talked to, who had been with him. I could circle back and question the wardsmith later, a.s.suming he ever showed up.

"Get dressed," I told Dieter. "We're out of here."

I checked my phone, having some questions for Jamie or Caleb, but I didn't have any bars. And then I didn't have a phone, either, because one of Dieter's flailing arms ripped it out of my hand. He was dancing around again because the ants were on the move. They'd finished with the ankle, leaving only pale skin and coa.r.s.e black hair behind, and were crawling up the inside of his leg.

He brushed at them frantically until they disappeared beneath the edge of his boxers. And then he lost it. He tore the shorts off, slapping at his b.u.t.t and various other things while I went for my phone. And found something a lot more interesting.

Dieter's dance had disturbed the rug, revealing a line in the sand covering the floor. I retrieved my phone, tossed the rug back and found a trapdoor. And a second later, I found the wardsmith.

8.

HE'D been folded double and wedged into the small s.p.a.ce so tightly that it took me several minutes to get him out. But it was obvious from the start that there was no real rush. A cigarette still dangled from his lips, but there were no lungs left to smoke it with. They'd been torn out along with the rest of his chest. been folded double and wedged into the small s.p.a.ce so tightly that it took me several minutes to get him out. But it was obvious from the start that there was no real rush. A cigarette still dangled from his lips, but there were no lungs left to smoke it with. They'd been torn out along with the rest of his chest.

It had been a Were attack. The claw marks were clearly visible, but I didn't really need them. Few things kill a man so fast that he doesn't even have time to look afraid.

I heard an odd, choking sound, and looked up in time to see Dieter's bare a.s.s heading out the door. I threw a la.s.so spell after him, but only got it around one leg. He went down, scrabbling for purchase in the dust. A few people stuck their heads out of nearby tents, attracted by the noise, and wasn't that just all I needed.

"Cut it out!" I told him, irritably, but he either didn't hear or didn't care. He turned over onto his back and started kicking his leg, trying to shake the spell off, but only succeeded in tightening it further. "He can't hurt you," I pointed out, reeling him in.

"It's not him I'm worried about!" He leaned back, trying to use his weight against the spell, but that just resulted in him getting yanked down the street in little hops, one leg stuck out straight in front of him. I gave a final heave and he fell through the door, his nose landing maybe a foot from the corpse. "Auggh!"

"Just tell me what you know," I said, because something had really spooked him. I couldn't believe that this was the first dead body he'd seen-he lived in Tartarus after all.

"That's the Predators' mark!" He pointed a shaking finger at the deep wounds on the man's chest. "They always leave the body carved up like that. It's like their signature or something."

"The Predators?"

"A Were gang. One of the worst!" He took off again and this time, I let him go. Things were starting to get a little dangerous for a bystander, even a not-entirely innocent one.

I bent over the wardsmith again. He had a bent back, a scraggly beard, pouchy cheeks and was wearing an old pair of jeans and a faded sweats.h.i.+rt. He looked like a street person, but the Thunderbird tat on his arm was a stunner. I'd never seen one like it, and it practically screamed quality. It was also a talisman, or it would have fallen free of the body when he died and his magic failed.

I brought out the three wards I'd found in the sofa and compared them. Each wardsmith has his or her own personal style, sort of a signature on their pieces. An expert could probably have told at a glance whether the same hand had made these. Unfortunately, I wasn't one. But there was something in the rounded, almost abstract quality of the pieces that looked awfully- The attack came so fast that I never even heard it-at least consciously. But my s.h.i.+elds slammed into place right before a blow landed across my chest, jarring through my bones into my teeth. If I hadn't had s.h.i.+elds, it would have killed me. As it was, I went skidding on my back through the side of the tent and across the road, before rolling into the open side of a used-clothes shop.

I landed in a pile of sweaters the proprietor was sorting and bounced back up, fighting with the smothering blanket I'd taken with me. I tore free just in time to see someone lunge for me in a blur of motion. And the next thing I knew I was flying backward through the air with what felt like half my ribs broken. I struck down with a thud that jarred my whole body, momentarily knocking my breath out, and then he was on me.

The guy-young, greasy brown hair, angular face, baggy pants-was one of the Weres I'd fought in the first drain, the one who had taken a bullet in the leg. Only the wound didn't appear to be slowing him down much. He hadn't changed, which limited his strength, but then, he was doing fine without it. He picked me up by the legs and began bouncing me back and forth between the floor and the low, rocky ceiling, trying to pop my s.h.i.+elds.

It wasn't exactly a textbook maneuver, but it was doing a h.e.l.l of a job anyway. I'd have flung a spell, but the commotion had brought people running out of their booths, clogging the walkway. A Were would shrug off anything safe enough to use around the vendors, and the ricochet effect in here meant no guns.

I was trying to get a hand on my potion belt when he slung me into a column. My s.h.i.+elds collapsed, my head struck rock and everything whited out for a second. I blinked back to consciousness in time to see a blur of motion streaking down the corridor, about the same moment I realized that the wolf wards were gone. d.a.m.n it!

I got up and then went back down to one knee, as a stab of agony ran through my temple and spread over my skull. My head was spinning, my wrist had almost been wrenched off and whatever had been done to my chest was making it hard to breathe. That was okay. I wasn't planning any heroics in a cavern full of civilians. I just wanted to get close enough to get a tag in place.

By the time I got to my less-than-steady feet, the screaming had reached earsplitting decibels. That seemed a little odd for a group used to Weres acting badly. And then a crowd of people almost ran over me, headed for the back of the cavern. One of them was the Were.

He blew past me like lightning, and close on his heels was a huge, malodorous beast with small curled horns, a large s.h.a.ggy body and an evil glint in its eye. Someone had let the bonnacon out, and it seemed to have a grudge against Weres, or at least against this one. It let out a bellow worthy of an enraged ox and plowed past me at a full gallop. The fumes in its wake were almost suffocating, but even worse, everywhere the creature went a trail of destruction followed. And not merely because it weighed a couple tons and didn't bother sticking to the paths. But because- "Oh, my G.o.d!"

"Cool, huh?" I glanced over my shoulder and saw Dieter. He'd acquired some jeans and a pair of sandals, courtesy of one of the abandoned shops, I a.s.sumed. He also appeared to have found some backbone. Instead of shaking, he was bouncing on his toes, looking pleased with himself.

"It s.h.i.+ts napalm napalm?"

"I said you didn't want to know."

"I a.s.sume you let it out?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

"'Cause this is why everybody pitched in and bought the thing. Bonnacons hate wolves; it's like they're natural enemies or something."

"I meant, why help me?"

"I wasn't. That f.u.c.ker was one of those who burnt me out this morning."

"He's a Predator? You're sure?"

"d.a.m.n right I'm sure! I woke up to see my tent burning over my head and that b.a.s.t.a.r.d holding a torch. I lost everything because they decided they didn't need the compet.i.tion." He grinned as the Were ran past screaming, with his hair on fire. "Let's see how he likes it!"

The Were didn't seem to be liking it. It also distracted him enough that he ran full tilt into the large c.o.c.ktails sign, which crashed to the floor, sending bulbs bouncing and then shattering against the hard-packed ground. A second later, he changed, leapt over a counter and was gone-impossibly fast for so huge a beast.

"You said you were staying off Decatur, right?" I asked Dieter.

"Yeah."

I smiled. I hadn't managed to tag the Were, but it didn't worry me too much. You don't need a tag when you have an address.

"So, we going back to jail now?" Dieter asked hopefully.

"Naw. They'd just process and release you."

"Yeah, but sometimes they feed us first."

I tucked a fifty in his jeans. "Lunch is on me."

IT took me precious minutes to get out of Tartarus. The old man weighed maybe a hundred and fifty pounds, and no way was I in any shape to carry him out of there. But leaving him behind wasn't an option, either. Not with a ten-thousand-dollar tat on his arm and a hungry Asw.a.n.g in the vicinity. took me precious minutes to get out of Tartarus. The old man weighed maybe a hundred and fifty pounds, and no way was I in any shape to carry him out of there. But leaving him behind wasn't an option, either. Not with a ten-thousand-dollar tat on his arm and a hungry Asw.a.n.g in the vicinity.

I would have normally used magic, but right then I didn't have any to spare. So I rigged up a travois out of plywood and blankets from the shop and dragged him out. Weak sunlight was filtering through angry clouds when I emerged, matching my mood. I leaned against the side of the drain, heedless of the mildew sliming my coat, and dug out my phone. The fact that it took me three tries to grab it probably wasn't a good sign.

"You wouldn't happen to have seen a young man?" Caleb asked, before I got a word out. "Bad skin, lots of piercings, dreads-"

"Doesn't ring a bell."

"Well, I'm sure it'll come up at your court-martial!" Jamie said heatedly. Oh, great. We were on speakerphone.

"I don't think I'm likely to be put on trial for borrowing a junkie for a few hours."

"No, but you might be for disobeying the direct command of a senior officer!"

"Hargrove isn't that much of a-"

"Not him! Sedgewick! The old man told him he'd sent you on an errand, or he'd have you up on charges right now!"

"Hargrove is covering for me?" Okay, now I knew I was hallucinating. is covering for me?" Okay, now I knew I was hallucinating.

"Yeah, and I'd love to know the story behind that one," Caleb put in.

"So would I," I told him. "But it'll keep. Right now, I need some-"

"You need your head examined!" That was Jamie, of course.

"Yeah. Concrete is pretty hard when you get slammed into it by a three-hundred-pound Were."

There was a brief silence. "Is that the body the patrol just brought in?" Caleb demanded.

"I've only tagged two today so far, so-"

"And where's the other one?" Jamie again.

"Tartarus. Some big market over by the Tropicana. I found a wardsmith stuffed into his own drop safe and then got jumped by a Were. He stole some wards, so I'm a.s.suming he's the one who did him, although-"

"What wardsmith? What was his name?"

"Like I said, we never made it as far as introductions. But he was still warm when I arrived; no rigor. So I'm guessing-"

"What did he look like?"

"Would you let me finish a sentence?"

"It's important, Accalia."

Something in his tone cut through the static. Not to mention that he never used my full name. "Older guy, shabby clothes, Thunderbird tat on his left arm-"

"s.h.i.+t!"

Jamie didn't say anything else, and Caleb took over. "Sounds like you've had a busy day. Why not come in? We can get your story straight before you see Sedgewick."

"Can't, although it would be great if you could reroute a patrol by here to pick up the body."

There was some quiet conversation I couldn't quite hear, and then Caleb came back on the line. "Will do. It'll be about fifteen minutes."

"I'll be here."

I pa.s.sed the time on the phone with a guy I know in research. The Predators were composed of outcast wolves, as I'd a.s.sumed. There were twenty to thirty of them and they were known for being big dealers of illicit drugs-including the Fey variety. I guess I knew what Dieter had meant about compet.i.tion. They also had a reputation for brutality.

"I kind of got that from the name," I said, as an ambulance came around the corner. Four guys got out, two medics and...c.r.a.p.

"Nice to see you, too," Caleb said, hiking an eyebrow at me. I guess I might have said that last bit aloud.

"Where is he?" Jamie demanded, splas.h.i.+ng through the current. A stretcher was whizzing through the air behind him, trying to keep up. That was definitely not SOP in an open area in broad daylight, any more than was the huge sword he'd slung over his back. But Jamie didn't look like he gave a d.a.m.n.

I indicated my makes.h.i.+ft travois, which I'd parked inside the drain to keep it out of sight of pa.s.sersby. Jamie knelt beside it and pulled back the blanket. And said a word he rarely employed in the presence of a lady-or even me.

"You knew him?"

"His name was Toby Wilkinson, and he was a d.a.m.n fine wardsmith."

The two orderlies reached us and transferred the body to the stretcher. "Why was a talented wardsmith hanging around the drains?" I asked.

"Because he was a stubborn old coot who wouldn't listen to reason, that's why!"

"Could you be a little more-"

"Six years ago, Toby was one of the best weapons-grade wardsmiths in the southwest. Then a group of kidnappers took his daughter and demanded an exorbitant ransom. Toby paid it instead of coming to us, afraid they'd kill his only child if he didn't do precisely as he was told."

"I'm a.s.suming they killed her anyway?"

Jamie nodded. "Didn't want to risk being identified. But it wasn't her death that sent Toby over the edge. It was the fact that they killed her using one of his own wards."

"Jesus."

"What could they possibly have hoped to gain by that?" Caleb asked.

"Nothing. That was the devil of it. We caught them eventually and one of them cracked. Said they'd thought it would be quieter than shooting her or some such. It was pure coincidence that the ward they used to suck the life out of her was one made by her father."

"And afterward?" I asked, pretty sure I already knew.

Jamie shrugged. "Toby went off the rails. He started drinking, lost his practice, disappeared for a few years. The next time I saw him, he'd hung out his s.h.i.+ngle in Tartarus. Turns out he'd been studying with some Native American master out in Arizona-healing spells, defensive wards and the like."

"And weapons. I didn't find any in his shop, but I'm pretty sure he was killed over some wolf tats. And I didn't think they were used for defense."

"They're not. But Toby didn't make weapons. He swore he'd never again allow his energy to be used to destroy the innocent."

"Are you sure? Because-"

"He's dead, isn't he?" Jamie snapped. "I warned him when we had to pull out that Tartarus wasn't safe-not with his inventory and with the price of wards these days. I practically begged him to at least make a few weapons for his own use. He flat-out refused."