Gunmetal Magic

Bob nodded and handed me a piece of paper. I scanned it. A formal summons with my name on it. The top left corner boasted “code X” in bold. Priority ten. Either I made this meeting, or the Guild would suspend me.

“Not that it would matter,” Bob said. “But we did all manage to agree that you need to pick somebody by Monday.”

Ivera got up and put her hand on Bob’s shoulder. “We should go.”

He started to say something and changed his mind. I watched him get to his feet. He nodded to me. “Later.”

I dragged myself upstairs to the infirmary. Roderick was playing checkers with a shapeshifter boy. The collar on his neck had gone from orange to canary yellow.

I climbed the million stairs to our quarters, asked the guards to order some food from the kitchen, and took a shower. When I came out, Curran was sprawled on our giant couch, his eyes closed.

I flopped next to him. “Help.”

The blond eyebrows rose a quarter inch. “Mhm?”

“The mercs aren’t going to reach a consensus.” I lay next to him on my side, propping my head up with my hand. “No matter who I pick tomorrow, they won’t like it. Mark can run the Guild, but the mercs despise him. The mercs can do the jobs, but the admin stuff leaves them clueless.”

“Make them work together,” Curran said.

“Not going to happen. They hate each other.”

“If fourteen alphas can meet in the same room every week without killing each other, so can Mark and the mercs. The Guild has been without leadership for months. The people are tired and they want a strong leader. Not a tyrant, but a leader who inspires confidence. You need to walk in there and roar until they cringe. Demonstrate that you are strong enough to take away their freedom to choose, make sure it sinks in, and then give some of the choice back to them on your terms.”

Hmm.

“Tie it back to Solomon Red, too,” Curran said. “It’s basic psychology: under Solomon things ran, when he died, they broke. The more time passes, the more rosy the times of Solomon look to the average merc. So if you attack them from the ‘Let’s go back to the good old days’ angle, they will fold. Make them think that following you is what they want to do.”

“You scare me sometimes,” I told him.

He yawned. “I’m totally harmless.”

Someone knocked on the door. A bit soon for the food.

“Yes?” Curran called.

Mercedes, one of the guards, entered. “There is a man outside, my lord. He is big, he’s wearing a cape, and he’s got a giant axe. We’re also pretty sure he’s drunk.”

Dagfinn.

“What does he want?” Curran asked.

“He says he wants to fight the Beast Lord.”

CHAPTER 7

Curran and I stood in the arched entrance to the Keep’s courtyard. Dagfinn waited in the clearing outside. He was six feet eight inches tall, and he weighed a shade above three hundred pounds. None of it was fat. Dagfinn looked hard. His broad shoulders strained his tunic, his biceps had trouble fitting into the sleeves, and his legs in worn-out jeans carried enough muscle to make you wince at the thought of him kicking you. His curly hair fell over his shoulders in a dense reddish wave. He’d trimmed his beard, but his red eyebrows overshadowed his eyes.

He stood brandishing a battle axe etched with runes that matched the tattoos on his arms. The blade of the axe flared at the toe and heel, its razor-sharp edge spanning a full twelve inches. Combined with the four-foot haft for extra power, the axe sheared flesh and bone like an oversized meat cleaver.

“Look, I fought this guy before. Maybe you should talk him away from the cliff. He’s drunk and isn’t in his right mind.”

“He challenged me,” Curran said. “There will be no talking.”

“Suit yourself,” I told him. Mr. Make Fun of My Leadership wanted to have it his way. Well, he’d get it.

Around us the shapeshifters were piling out onto the battlements. Every balcony and parapet facing in Dagfinn’s direction was occupied. Great. An audience was just what we needed.

“Anything I should know?” Curran asked me.

“The axe is magic. Don’t touch it. Dagfinn is pretty magic, too. If you kill him, I’ll be really mad at you. We need him to read the damn runes.”

Curran stretched his shoulders and walked out into the clearing.

“I heard you were looking for me,” Dagfinn growled. His voice matched him, deep and torn about the edges.

“She has some runes she wants you to look at.”

Dagfinn leaned to the side to look at me. “Kate? What the hell are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m with him now.”

Dagfinn looked at Curran. “You and her are…?”

“She’s my mate,” Curran said.

Dagfinn swung his axe onto his shoulder. The runes sparked with pale green. “Well, how about that? You know what, I don’t care, I’ll still beat your ass, but I like her so I won’t kill you.”

Curran’s eyes turned gold. “Thanks.”

Dagfinn waved his arm at him. “Well, go on. Do your transforming thing.”

“No need.”

“Oh, there is a need,” Dagfinn assured him.

“Are you going to talk all day? I’m a busy man,” Curran told him.

“Fine. Let’s get to it.” Frost condensed on Dagfinn’s hair. His skin turned dark. He grew, gaining half a foot of height, his shoulders spreading wider.

“Have fun, baby,” I called.

Pale tendrils of cold spilled from Dagfinn’s body. The icy mist danced along his skin, clutched at the runes tattooed on his arms, and drained down in a brilliant cascade onto his axe. The weapon burst with bright green.

I braced myself against the stone wall. Dagfinn swung his axe.

Curran jumped aside. A flash exploded to the left of him, blinding white and searing. Thunder slapped my ears. An air fist slammed into me. Curran flew a bit and rolled up to his feet.

A three-foot hole smoked in the grass where Curran had stood. Dagfinn roared like an enraged tornado. A blast of frigid air whipped from him, striking at Curran. The Beast Lord dodged again.

Dagfinn remained firmly planted. The last two times we’d fought, he’d moved at me and I’d taken him down. There were dozens of ways to use an opponent’s movement against him: trip him, knock him off balance, gain control of a shoulder or a leg, and so on. Dagfinn must’ve decided not to give Curran that chance.

Dagfinn spun the axe. A barrage of frost missiles shot out. Curran leaped back and forth, circling Dagfinn. On the battlements the shapeshifters roared and howled.

“How are we doing, baby?” I called out. Serves you right, Your Furriness. Next time, listen to me.

“Trying not to show off,” Curran yelled.

Dagfinn brought the axe down. A sonic boom smashed into me. Curran flew backward.

“Bring it!” Dagfinn roared.

The shapeshifters booed.

Curran bounced back up and dashed forward.

Dagfinn spun, but the Beast Lord was too fast. He dodged left, right, and collided with Dagfinn. The huge Viking staggered back from the impact, whipped around, picking up momentum, and charged, roaring, gripping the axe with both hands, and bringing it up for an overhead blow.

Move, honey. Move.

Curran lunged forward.

What the hell was he doing?

Dagfinn chopped down with all his strength.

Curran caught the axe with his right hand.

Dagfinn stopped.

Holy shit.

The Viking strained, right leg forward, left leg back. Muscles rippled on his arms. Frost ate at Curran’s hand, but the axe didn’t move.

“Done?” Curran asked.

Dagfinn snarled.

Curran raised his left hand. His fingers curled into a fist.

“Not in the head!” I yelled. “We need his brain intact.”

Curran yanked the axe forward. Dagfinn jerked back, trying to regain his balance, and Curran swept his left leg from under him. Dagfinn crashed down like an oak chopped at the root.

Curran tore the axe out of his hands and tossed it aside. Dagfinn swung at him with his right fist. Curran leaned out of the way and sank a vicious punch straight down into Dagfinn’s gut.

Ow. I hurt just from looking. The shapeshifters watching on the wall made sucking noises.

Dagfinn curled into a ball, trying to gulp in a lungful of air, which was suddenly missing.

Curran pulled Dagfinn up, swung him over his shoulder, and carried the Viking toward me.

Oh, you crazy sonovabitch.

Curran dumped purple-faced Dagfinn by my feet. “Here is your expert, baby.”

The shapeshifters on the wall whistled and howled. Why me?

“Thanks, show-off,” I told him. “Let me see the hand.”

“It’s fine.”

“The hand, Curran.”

He held it out. Blisters covered his right palm. Frostbite, probably second-degree. It had to hurt like hell. Lyc-V would fix it in a day or so, but meanwhile he’d have to grit his teeth.

“I said don’t touch the axe.”

He leaned over and kissed me. The shapeshifters on the walls cheered.

Dagfinn finally managed to remember how to breathe and swore.

I leaned over him. “He won. You’re going to read my runes now.”

“Fine,” Dagfinn growled. “Give me a minute. I think something’s broken.”

According to Doolittle, nothing was actually broken. Dagfinn treated the diagnosis with open suspicion, but given the circumstances, he decided to deal with it. Curran, on the other hand, got a plastic bag with some sort of healing solution tied around his hand. He liked it about as much as I expected.

“This is ridiculous.”

“With the bag, the hand will be usable in two hours,” Doolittle informed him. “Without the bag, it may be usable by tomorrow. It’s your choice, my lord.”

Curran growled a little, but kept the bag on.

I put Julie’s drawing in front of Dagfinn.