Bitten in Two Read online

  “We do?”

  “She’s cowering behind the banana plant.”

  Oh! Well, that’s just—I am not! I stomped right up to him, trying to glare the smirk off his face. It didn’t work.

  Monique rushed into the awkward silence with the grace of a born party planner. “Your friend arrived early this morning,” she told me. “He said you were expecting him?” She raised her eyebrow just enough to let me know that under the civilized veneer lurked a she-bear fully capable of throwing the guy into the gutter if he turned out to be an asshole.

  “Yeah, I… yes, I invited him. I was thinking he could room with Mr. Berggia. I’m just surprised to see him so soon.” So how do you greet a guy who—aw shit, really?—wore a small white scar on his forehead because of you? I said, “Thanks for coming, Sterling.”

  He’s goddamn Harry Potter. Which makes me Voldemort. I am, officially, the most evil bastard on earth. And I don’t even have a mini me to pawn off the guilt on! Grannyyy!

  Sterling said, “It’s been a while… Madame Berggia.”

  “Yup.” I held out my hand. “Thanks for coming.” I waited. When he shook it, I felt an extra slap on top of the jolt that always hit me when I touched him, which I’d only done this time to show my genuine appreciation. I looked at our linked hands and noticed his pinky ring. Nothing fancy, just a silver band with some deep black engraving. But my Sensitivity told me it was just as powerful as the amulet and bracelets. The hairs on the back of my neck only began to lie down after I pulled my hand away. Which was when I felt like I could breathe again. So, apparently, could Monique. Her sigh actually left a mist on my cheek.

  Sterling said, “Cassandra told me you’re offering to pony up a new trumpet.”

  I couldn’t hide my surprise. “I figured you’d put me on a hunt for your favorite whiskey instead.”

  “Naw.” He pointed to the pocket where he knew I kept my cash. “This job’s gonna cost you more than booze, Chill.” So he hadn’t forgotten my nickname.

  “Fine, you want a trumpet? You got one.”

  “I’ve changed instruments. It’s all part of my ten-year plan. Now you’re going to have to buy me a guitar.”

  “Deal.”

  “I’m not finished negotiating.”

  “Oh?” Shit! I should’ve bartered. Then he wouldn’t have realized how desperate I was for his help.

  Granny May, back in her outdoor sewing chair, stabbed her needle into the material like she wanted to draw blood. He already knows you’re dangling off the bottom rung of a helicopter’s rescue ladder, girl. The way you two parted—what else could he think? All you have to decide is how much pride you can swallow before you’ve met your limit.

  I said, “What else do you want?”

  He smiled, ducking his head so we could stare straight into each other’s eyes. “You know.”

  Aw, fuck.

  “How long?”

  “Twenty-four hours.”

  “Are you out of your goddamn mind? How am I gonna—”

  He backed away, his hips twisting slightly, as if he was moving to tango music played too low for uninitiated ears like mine. He said, “Not my problem. You want my help, those are my terms. Your move, Chill.”

  Monique’s eyes moved from Sterling to me as if she was watching a slow-motion Ping-Pong match. Her hand had stolen to her lips, where she gnawed a fingernail, waiting for my reply. Geez, what would she have been chewing on if she’d actually known what was at stake?

  I closed my eyes. What sucked more than anything had so far was that I hadn’t even approached the pride line yet. What did that say about the lengths I’d go to for Vayl? In a word—terrifying.

  I said, “Done.” Patter of applause as Monique clapped her hands. I glared at her. “I wonder if you could give us a moment.”

  Sterling shook his head. “You know this kind of deal needs a neutral witness. Now seal it,” Sterling demanded.

  “Oh, for—okay.” I crossed my hands, one over the other, and pressed them against my chest. “I swear on my heart’s blood that I will give you a guitar and twenty-four hours of uninterrupted time with you and your Wii playing any damn game you want—”

  “I’m going to kick your ass in tennis—”

  I gave him my like-hell-you-will stare as I finished. “—in return for your help in solving my partner’s current problem.”

  He’d made the same gesture. Now he said, “I swear on my heart’s blood I will aid you to the end of my abilities until”—he hesitated, glancing at Monique, so I put in—“Vasil Brâncoveanu”—since Vayl no longer answered to his modern name and Sterling didn’t know him by any other.

  The warlock nodded gratefully. “Until Vasil Brâncoveanu is restored or until you release me of my duties.” We clasped hands, my right in his left, his right engulfing my left. I felt, not a zap exactly. More of a slow-dizzy, the kind that falls over you when you’ve looked in a fun house mirror way too long. It came from his bracelets, making our agreement official. And from his pull.

  Warlocks borrowed energy from other people to fuel their powers so they didn’t have to sleep sixteen hours a day. Sterling was so good that his was mostly reflex, as much a part of his character as his eye color. I also knew he could crank it up when he wanted to, which was why I enjoyed touching him about as much as I liked slapping skin with psychics. I took my hands back as soon as I could. His eyes dropped to Cirilai. “Your ring…”

  “Is none of your business.”

  He let it drop. But I could see the regret in his eyes. His look said, If only I’d known it wasn’t just a hunk of metal when I was wheeling and dealing.

  I slipped my hands into my pockets. What have I done? I watched Sterling touch Monique between the eyes, saw the jolt of blue move from his ring down his finger into our hostess’s skull, and knew the memory of our contract would now be locked away where she could only access it if either of us welshed. Her foggy expression, followed by a trip to the buffet to fix the same flowers she’d been working on when I’d entered the courtyard, convinced me it had worked. And brought on the guilt.

  We shouldn’t be here. Monique’s place should be full of vacationing families. Moms and dads planning shopping excursions or trips to see the Koutoubia Mosque and the Bahia Palace. We belong in an empty plain, surrounded by the ruins of long-dead buildings where we can’t destroy anything that isn’t already rubble.

  I felt something trickle down my lip.

  Sterling frowned. “Your nose is bleeding.”

  “Oh.” I looked around, but Monique was already beside me holding a tissue, her kind brown eyes big with concern.

  “Thanks.” I took it and shoved it against my nostrils. “Don’t worry, I’m fine.” I glanced around the courtyard so I wouldn’t have to deal with her sympathy or Sterling’s curiosity. I said, “You know what? I think Sterling and I will eat in the gazebo this morning. We have some business to discuss.”

  “Of course. I’ll find Shada and tell her you’re ready for her to clean your room.”

  I nodded, reminding myself to leave the quiet little maid a big tip before we left for keeping her mouth shut about all my hand-rinsed bedclothes. “Thanks.”

  “I’ll be working on accounts most of the morning, so if you need me please feel free to knock on my office door.” Monique nodded to Sterling. “Nice to have met you,” she said, then she left through the kitchen doors.

  Sterling waved her away, the twist of his wrist and curve of his last three fingers making me wonder if he’d just hexed our hostess until he said, “A small blessing to follow our witness for the rest of the day. It’s the least I can do, don’t you think?” While he tore a generous piece of bread off the loaf and scooped a spoonful of butter onto his plate, I mopped myself up. Again. Fearing that chewing motions would just reconvene the bleeder’s convention, I settled for a glass of juice and followed him into the gazebo. I spent as much time as I could arranging myself on the couch, the cushions at my back, my cup just so on the
table. Sterling watched me for what seemed like hours. Finally he’d had enough.

  “Chill. I’m not gonna jump you,” Sterling said, his voice as smooth as icing.

  “Oh. Good.”

  “Although an apology would be cool.”

  I stared.

  He said, “You know, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to be black.”

  “I never said there was!”

  “You said—”

  “I’m sorry, okay?” I pressed my lips together before they spat out something that would aggravate him all over again. “I need you on this mission. I need you to concentrate on what’s happening now, not on the past. Is that possible?”

  “I’m here.” Some irritation in the way his teeth ripped into the khobz. But I’d take it.

  “You got here quick. I appreciate that.”

  His eyebrows went up. “You have changed. Well, me too.” He leaned toward me. “I’m better. At magic. At music. You want to know why?”

  “Um—”

  “Because at their core they’re the same. I’m making my way to the source now. And when I get there?” He paused, his amulet swinging hypnotically, his eyes glittering like I should prepare for hefty news. “I’ll be a Bard.”

  I sat back. “Dude. There hasn’t been a Bard roaming since…” I thought back. What had my History professor said? “I dunno, 1715?”

  “Olfric the Hand was the last Bard, and he was murdered by Calico Jack Rackham and his pirate crew in 1718.” We both looked over our shoulders at the mention of pirates, who had strongholds in North Africa guarded, so it was said, by badass magic and wicked beasts. They’d never been a national security threat, so we hadn’t dealt with them directly. But we’d heard horror stories, and I sure as hell didn’t want to take any of them on. Especially when they’d made it part of their code to exterminate the Bardish from the face of the earth.

  I whispered, “Why would you want to be a Bard?”

  “As a warlock I’m at the top of my game. Musically I’m finally pulling it together.” He lowered his voice. “Sometimes when I’m playing, I think I can hear the universe singing back to me.” He made a pillar of his fists on the table and rested his chin on them. Staring at the grouping of purple candles at its center he said, “That’s really why I’m here. Because I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “What?”

  He turned his head, letting his cheek rest on his hand. I watched his dark lashes sweep against his cheeks as he closed his eyes, wincing against the admission. “Nobody ever stood up to me before. For obvious reasons. I mean, we destroyed a fucking house.”

  I nodded. “I was just thinking that we should probably be banned from property that has any value. At all.”

  Tiny smile that dropped right off his lips as he said, “You were right. I needed to stop whining and start working.” He sat up and glared. “I still think I’d have been a better man if I’d been born black.” His eyes softened. “But that’s probably because the only people who showed any kindness to me when I was a kid were a Jamaican named Teller Keene and Skinny Day, who was African American.”

  I nodded. “Where’d you grow up?”

  He looked through the curtain-framed opening to the sparkling blue of the fountain, then up to the ornate metal-worked balconies. “Louisiana. First in a Catholic home for orphans. Then I spent a couple of years in juvie.” He glanced at me. “I may have been a killer even longer than you.”

  What do you say to that? Especially when the guy revealing all these intimate details once tried to collapse a roof on your head?

  “Why are you telling me this?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I’ve got a pretty thick skull. Skinny always said I was so hardheaded that I could drive nails with my eyebrows. But I’m not fool enough to turn my back on the few people brave enough to throw an honest opinion under my feet.” Again with the smile. “Especially when it comes with the offer of a new instrument.”

  “Never let it be said that I’m above bribery.”

  He swung his legs onto the couch, crossing them in front of him so he could face me as he spoke. “Cassandra said Vayl’s got a pretty serious problem.”

  My bottom lip started to tremble, so I bit it. “Yeah. About that. We haven’t been able to discover what could’ve caused it.”

  He nodded. “During my flight I thought about all the dead ends you’ve been trying to make into highways. And then I realized there was one road you hadn’t considered.” He draped an arm across the couch’s metal backrest. “Maybe this is a curse.”

  I shook my head. “Curses are personal. My understanding is that you need the victim’s hair and clothing, stuff like that, to pull it off.”

  Sterling said, “That’s true. They’re also all about timing, meaning they can only be cast in special circumstances. For instance, has Vayl been in New Orleans in the past three months?”

  “No.”

  “Has he killed an innocent or cursed someone else recently?”

  “No to both.”

  “Has he—”

  “Wait a minute! Wait, wait, wait…” I rubbed my forehead, trying to pull a scene I’d wanted to forget forever back into focus. “About two weeks ago we were in Scotland. My mom escaped from hell to—well, it doesn’t really matter what she wanted with me. But before the dogs dragged her back down, Vayl whispered something in her ear that really flipped her out. And then Satan’s Enforcer”—who’s trapped in my head right now, but I’m sure as hell not admitting that to you—“he said, ‘So it shall be.’ And he took her away. Does that sound like it might’ve been a curse to you?”

  Sterling had started to straighten up and sit forward halfway through my story. He nodded and said, “When someone lays down a curse, they leave themselves vulnerable to the same kind of attack. It’s not a wide window. In fact, it starts to close right away, and by the time the moon changes again they’re safe. But if an enemy can attack that person within the month, they can do massive damage.”

  I stared at the candles. Was it just my imagination, or had they begun to melt in the heat of my gaze? “The only person who knew about that curse before today was the Enforcer. Brude. Who, we just discovered on our last mission, has ties with the Sol of the Valencian Weres. Have you heard of him?”

  “Just through office memos. His name’s Roldan, right?”

  “Yeah, but he’s not just some superalpha who’s in the mood to throw his weight around. He’s so old that he met Vayl for the first time during the same era his mind is currently stuck in.” I looked up at Sterling. “Do you believe in coincidences?”

  “Not when they click like a seat belt. How does Roldan feel about Vayl?”

  “A week ago I’d have said he was just some creeper who’d backed a bunch of fanatical gnomes that were trying to gut NASA. I never knew about Vayl’s history with him until the end of the mission. And even then I’d have guessed Roldan was only after what he got when we were able to stop the Australian gnomes—you know, a major reputation boost among the moon-changers. But now I’d guess he’s probably hating like a reality-show reject, and it’s all to do with this ward Vayl had in the late 1700s named Helena.”

  Sterling raised a finger. “We also know he killed Ethan Mreck.”

  Ethan had been one of us, a Were assassin assigned to infiltrate Roldan’s pack. News of his death had reached us shortly before Pete was killed. Sterling must’ve been thinking along the same lines because he went on. “Pete’s killer was clawed too.”

  I shivered, almost like I could feel the tips of those razor-sharp spikes brush against my neck. “That’s enough for me. You want to know what I think?”

  Sterling’s eyes had begun to blaze. “Hit me.”

  “I’m glad you don’t mean that literally. There’s this guy named Yousef—never mind.” I took a deep breath. “I think Roldan was moving to fill the power void that was left when we took out the Raptor and Floraidh Halsey lost her coven. He killed Ethan and Pete in a largely successful
bid to bring down our department, which was the biggest threat to his safety. Take us out, he hamstrings his worst enemies. In addition, somewhere along the way, he learned that Vayl was working for Pete. I don’t know how or when. The chronology doesn’t really matter. The point is that he’s created this perfectly geometric plan, which probably has him bouncing like a kid on a trampoline, where he gains power over all Weres by taking his revenge on Vayl.”

  Sterling shoved his plate away from the edge of the table so he could tap at its top, almost as if he was playing the notes of a song as he spoke. “But this kind of curse? It’s mondo magic. Only a few people can pull off the kind of mind-fuck Vayl’s experiencing right now.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I’d bet big money that Roldan’s hired himself a mage. I can’t give you a name. They keep their identities closer to their chests than poker cards. But if you get close enough to him, you’ll be able to sense him.”

  I jumped off the couch. If the mage felt anything like Sterling, my hair would probably fly straight off the nape of my neck the second I hit his neighborhood. “Let’s go get him.”

  He raised a hand. “I’m not wasting my energy looking for a guy who’s probably guarded his home better than a super-max prison.”

  “So how are we going to find him?”

  Sterling flicked his hand like I’d just presented him with a simple math problem. “He’ll be where the crowds are thickest.”

  Right. A parasitic pickpocket, feeding off mass energy so nobody in particular would notice what he was stealing. Sterling had probably done it hundreds of times himself. I said, “That’ll be the Djemaa el Fna after dark. It’s rolling with people.”

  “So we know where he’ll be.” But Sterling didn’t seem satisfied. He ran a hand through his hair, pulling it back far enough to reveal an earring that hung halfway to his shoulder. Shaped like a boat oar, it was inscribed with runes that made me feel a little sick when I stared too long. I concentrated on his straight black eyebrows as he said, “But I’m not positive I’m right. No mage could have pulled off the curse without using some of Vayl’s personal things. I looked it up. He’d need something from the year he wanted to stick Vayl’s mind in. Something with his blood on it. Something related to a habit he’d had in—what year was it?”