Must Love Hellhounds Page 8

  Minus Trovis.

  “Brilliant,” said Batanya.

  When she’d collected herself, Flechette said, “This is just. No one will dispute it.”

  Trials had never really caught on at the Britlingen Collective.

  “Who—and what—have you brought with you?” asked the tall, veiled magician who had ushered them in on the day they’d departed. Every magician and mech in the room, even Narcissus’s new admirer, was electrified with excitement at Clovache’s demonstration.

  “This is Amelia Earhart,” Batanya said, taking care to pronounce the name correctly. “She is a . . . She can operate a flying machine, and she left home, which was America, on Earth, in July of 1937.”

  “A time traveler,” exclaimed the magician. His eyes, above the veil, were almost glowing with interest. “And that is surely Lucifer’s conjuring ball.”

  “It’s the island. That one tiny island,” Batanya said. “That’s the key. Amelia landed on it by accident, and then as she explored the island, she found herself in Hell. The island is a portal of some kind. Once Amelia had come through, she could pass back, with the help of the conjuring ball. She took Clovache and the rest of us through. Then our homing spell finally worked, and we returned through the portal to land here. So the conjuring ball can take you through the portal, if you’re with someone who’s passed through it once.” Batanya couldn’t decide if her theory was complete nonsense or not. The magicians and mechs could study their magical hearts out and tell her their findings.

  In the meantime, she would have happy daydreams of Trovis on a deserted Pacific island in 1937 in the middle of nowhere.

  “If this proves to be true, you have experienced amazing magic,” the veiled magician told Amelia, who looked heartened by the greeting.

  “Well, thank you very much, sir,” she said. “I’ll try to make myself useful. I don’t guess you can send me home? Not to the island.” She shuddered. “But to America? In my own time?”

  “Not at this moment,” said another magician, “but maybe we can work on it with your help.”

  “Sure,” Amelia said.

  “Crick,” Flechette said, “we will take you to the medical rooms. Was your mission achieved?”

  “Yes,” he said. He was glad of the two men who came to help him down the steps, but he turned to look back at Clovache and Batanya. “And I was very satisfied with the service.”

  A week later, Batanya and Clovache had returned to their favorite courtyard to spar with each other. First they used weapons, then they wrestled. They were sweaty and limber and pleased with themselves when they were through, and though Batanya pointed out a few mistakes her junior had made, they sprawled on the grass in the sunlight in good harmony.

  “How is Geit?” Batanya asked.

  “Glad to see me again, and very vigorous in telling me so,” Clovache said, smiling to herself. “Did I hear someone knocking on your door at night?”

  “Unexpectedly, yes.” Batanya grinned, which made her scar more obvious. But who cared?

  “Do tell?”

  “Our client,” Batanya said.

  “Oh, my honor! Then you’ve experienced . . .”

  “Oh, yes,” Batanya said, her voice rich with satisfaction.

  “I didn’t get a very good look in Lucifer’s chamber,” Clovache said, “being in imminent danger and so forth. How is he all . . . arranged?”

  “Very satisfactorily,” Crick said, dropping onto the ground beside Batanya.

  “How are you today, Harwell Clansman?” she asked.

  “Very well, Britlingen.” He smiled down at her. “But I have to go to Pardua to give Belshazzar his conjuring ball, now that I’m well enough to travel.”

  “Will you be there long?”

  “Depends on how much Belshazzar believes me.”

  “What, do you need a sworn statement?” Clovache said. “We were there, we saw the conjuring ball, we saw you retrieve it, and in fact we came within a breath or two of losing our lives for it. Though it turned out to be quite handy, if you can concentrate. That’s all I did, you know, concentrate on where I wanted to go.”

  “Ah, but am I taking Belshazzar the same conjuring ball that we retrieved?” Crick said. “That’s what he’ll wonder.”

  Clovache gaped at him. “And why would you not?” she demanded. “Oh. Oh, it’s very valuable. But he commissioned you to steal it!”

  “And what am I?”

  “A thief,” Batanya said, without opening her eyes. “Dear Crick, you are a thief.” Her hardened hand slipped into his bony one.

  After that, they all enjoyed the blue sky and the floating clouds, the light breeze that stirred their hair. Perhaps they were all thinking about how excited the magicians and the mechs had been when they’d seen the conjuring ball; how they’d peppered Crick with questions, most of which he couldn’t answer, about the ball’s properties and history and operation; how they’d disappeared with it for a few days, taking Amelia with them, to “make sure it still worked.”

  “Be careful along the road, and come back when you can,” Clovache said, when she got up to take her gear into the castle.

  “Oh, I will,” Crick said. He lay back in the green grass, smiling gently at Batanya. “I’m thinking of taking an apartment down the hill, in Spauling.”

  “Really?” Batanya said. “That’s very interesting.” She was on her feet. “Invite me to the housewarming, will you?”

  “You’ll be the only guest.”

  Angels’ Judgment

  A GUILD HUNTER NOVELLA

  Nalini Singh

  Cadre of Ten

  The Cadre of Ten, the archangels who ruled the world in all the ways that mattered, met in an ancient keep deep in the Scottish Highlands. No one—human or vampire—would dare trespass on angelic territory, but even had they felt the need to give in to the suicidal urge, it would have proved impossible. The keep had been built by angels, wings a prerequisite for access.

  Technology could’ve negated that advantage, but immortals didn’t survive eons by being left behind. The air above and around the keep was strictly controlled, both by a complex intrusion detection system and by units of highly trained angels. Today’s security had turned the sky into a cascade of wings—it wasn’t often that the ten most powerful beings in the world met in one place.

  “Where is Uram?” Raphael asked, glancing at the incomplete semicircle of chairs.

  Michaela was the one who answered. “He had a situation in his territory that required immediate attention.” Her lips curved as she spoke, and she was beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful woman who had ever lived . . . if you didn’t look beneath the surface.

  “She makes Uram her puppet.” It was a murmur so low that Raphael knew it had been meant for him alone.

  Glancing at Lijuan, he shook his head. “He’s too powerful. She might control his cock, but nothing else.”

  Lijuan smiled, and it was a smile that held nothing of humanity. The oldest of the archangels had long passed the age where she could even pretend at being mortal. Now, when Raphael looked at her, he saw only a strange darkness, a whisper of worlds beyond either mortal or immortal ken.

  “And are we not important?” A pointed question from Neha, the archangel who ruled India and its surrounds.

  “Leave it, Neha,” Elijah said in that calm way of his. “We all know of Uram’s arrogance. If he chooses not to be here, then he forfeits the right to question our decisions.”

  That soothed the Queen of Poisons. Astaad and Titus seemed not to care either way, but Charisemnon wasn’t so easily appeased. “He spits on the Cadre,” the archangel said, his aristocratic face drawn in sharply angry lines. “He may as well renounce his membership.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Chari,” Michaela said, and the way she did it, the tone, made it clear she’d once had him in her bed. “An archangel doesn’t get invited to join the Cadre. We become Cadre when we become archangels.”

  “She’s right.” Favashi s
poke for the first time. The quietest of the archangels, she held sway over Persia, and was so good at remaining unnoticed that her enemies forgot about her. Which was why she ruled as they lay in their graves.

  “Enough,” Raphael said. “We’re here for a reason. Let’s get to it so we can return to our respective territories.”

  “Where is the mortal?” Neha asked.

  “Waiting outside. Illium flew him up from the lowlands.” Raphael didn’t ask Illium to bring their visitor inside. “We’re here because Simon, the mortal, is growing old. The American chapter of the Guild will need a new director within the next year.”

  “So let them choose one.” Astaad shrugged. “What does it matter to us as long as they do their job?”

  That job happened to be a critical one. Angels might Make vampires, but it was the Guild Hunters who ensured those vampires obeyed their hundred-year Contract. Humans signed the Contract easily enough, hungry for immortality. However, fulfilling the terms was another matter—a great many of the newly Made had changes of heart after a few paltry years of service.

  And the angels, despite the myths created around their immortal beauty, were not agents of some heavenly entity. They were rulers and businessmen, practical and merciless. They did not like losing their investments. Hence, the Guild and its hunters.

  “It matters,” Michaela said in a biting tone, “because the American and European branches of the Guild are the most powerful. If the next director can’t do his job, we face a rebellion.”

  Raphael found her choice of words interesting. It betrayed something about the vampires under her tender care that they’d seize any chance of escape.

  “I grow tired of this.” Titus stirred his muscular bulk, his skin gleaming blue-black. “Bring in the human and let us hear him.”

  Agreeing, Raphael touched Illium’s mind. Send Simon in.

  The doors opened on the heels of his command and a tall man with the sinewy muscles of a street fighter or foot soldier walked in. His hair was white, his skin wrinkled, but his eyes, they sparkled bright blue. Illium pulled the doors shut the instant Simon cleared them, cloaking the room in lush privacy once more.

  The retiring Guild Director met Raphael’s eyes and nodded once. “I am honored to be in the presence of the Cadre. It’s not a thing I ever thought to experience.”

  Unsaid was the fact that most humans who came into contact with the Cadre ended up dead.

  “Be seated.” Favashi waved to a chair placed at the open end of the semicircle.

  The old warrior settled himself without any fuss, but Raphael had seen Simon in his prime. He knew the Guild Director was feeling the kiss of age. And yet, he was no old man, never would be. He was a man to be respected. Once, Raphael might’ve called such a man a friend, but that time had passed a thousand years ago. He’d learned too well that mortal lives blinked out with firefly quickness.

  “You wish to retire your position?” Neha asked with regal elegance. She was one of the few who continued to keep a court—the Queen of Poisons might kill you, but you’d admire her refined grace even as you took your last agonizing breath.

  Simon remained coolly composed under her regard. Being Guild Director for forty years had given him a confidence he hadn’t had as the young man Raphael had first seen take the reins. “I must,” he now said. “My hunters are happy for me to stay on, but a good director needs always consider the health of the Guild as a whole. That health flows from the top—the leader must be eminently capable of undertaking an active hunt if necessary.” A rueful smile. “I’m strong and I’m skilled, but I’m no longer as fast, or as willing to dance with death.”

  “Honest words.” Titus nodded approvingly. He was most at ease among warriors and their kin—for though he might rule with brutal strength, he was as blunt as the hard line of his jaw. “It’s a strong general who can give up the reins of power.”

  Simon acknowledged the compliment with a slight nod. “I’ll always be a hunter, and as is custom, I’ll remain available to the new director till my death. However, I have every faith in her ability to lead the Guild.”

  “Her?” Charisemnon snorted. “A female?”

  Michaela raised an eyebrow. “My respect for the Guild has suddenly increased a hundredfold.”

  Simon didn’t allow himself to get drawn into the dialogue. “Sara Haziz is the best possible person to take my place for a number of reasons.”

  Astaad settled his wings. “Tell us.”

  “With respect,” Simon said quietly, “that is no concern of the Cadre’s.”

  It was Titus who reacted first. “You think to defy us?”

  “The Guild has always been neutral for a reason.” Simon’s spine remained unbending. “Our job is to retrieve vampires who break their Contracts. But through the ages, we’ve often found ourselves in the middle of wars between angels. We survive only because we are seen as neutral. If the Cadre takes too much of an interest, we lose that protection.”

  “Pretty words,” Neha said.

  Simon met her gaze. “That makes them no less true.”

  “Is she capable?” Elijah asked. “This, we must know. If the American Guild falls, the ripple effect could be catastrophic.”

  Vampires would go utterly free, Raphael thought. Some would slip softly into an ordinary life. But others, others would murder and kill. Because at heart, they were predators. Not so different from angels when all was said and done.

  “Sara is more than capable,” Simon said. “She also has the loyalty of her fellow hunters—I’ve had a significant number of them come up to me this past year and suggest her name as a possible successor.”

  “This Sara is your best hunter?” Astaad asked.

  Simon shook his head. “But the best will never make a good director. She is hunter-born.”

  Raphael made a note to find out her name. Unlike normal members of the Guild, the hunter-born came out of the womb with the ability to scent vampires. They were the best trackers in the world, the most relentless—bloodhounds tuned to one particular scent. “And Sara?” he asked. “Will she accept?”

  Simon took a moment to think. “I have not a single doubt that Sara will make the right decision.”

  Chapter One

  Sara wasn’t used to feeling sorry for vampires. Her job, after all, was to bag, tag, and transport them back to their masters, the angels. She was no fan of indentured servitude but it wasn’t as if the angels hid the price of immortality. Anyone who wanted to get Made had to serve the angels for a hundred years. Non-negotiable.

  You didn’t want to bow and scrape for a century, you didn’t sign the Contract. Simple. Running out on the Contract after the angels delivered their part of the bargain? That just made you a welsher. And nobody liked a welsher.

  However, this guy had worse problems than being returned home to a pissed-off angel. “Can you talk?”

  The vampire clamped a hand over his almost-decapitated neck and looked at her as if she were insane.

  “Yeah, sorry.” She wondered how the hell he was still alive. Vampires weren’t true immortals—they could be killed by both humans and others of their kind. Cutting off the head was the most foolproof method, but the majority of people didn’t go that way—it wasn’t as if the vamps were going to stand still for it. Shooting out the heart worked, so long as you then cut off the head while they were down. Or fire. That did the job.

  But Sara was a tracker. Her job was to retrieve, not kill. “You need blood?”

  The vampire looked hopeful.

  “Suck it in,” she said. “You’re not dead. Means you’re a strong one. You’ll last till I can get you home.”

  “Dhooooo.”

  Ignoring the gurgled rejection, she crouched down to slide an arm around his back so she could drag him to his feet. She was only five feet three, and he was considerably taller. But she wasn’t bleeding out from her neck, and she worked out seven days a week. Grunting as she got him up, she began to walk him to the car. He resis
ted.

  “Need a hand?” A deep, quiet voice, aged whiskey and smoldering embers.

  She didn’t know that voice. Neither did she know the body that moved out of the shadows. Six feet plus of solid, muscled male. Heavy across the shoulders, thick in the thighs, but with the liquid grace of a trained fighter. One she wouldn’t want to be up against in a fight. And she’d taken down vampires twice her size. “Yeah,” she said. “Just help me get him to the car. It’s parked at the curb.”

  The stranger all but picked up the vampire—who was starting to make vaguely understandable sounds—and dumped him in the backseat. “Control chip?”

  She pulled her crossbow off her back and aimed it at the vamp. The poor guy scrambled back, pulling his feet completely into the vehicle. Rolling her eyes, she returned the crossbow to its previous position and withdrew a necklet from its spot hooked into the waistband of her black jeans, under her T-shirt. Reaching in, she paused. “Don’t try anything funny or I’ll shoot you for real.”

  Slumping, the vampire let her clamp the circle of metal around his rapidly healing neck. The science behind the device’s effect on vampiric biology was complex, but the results clear—the vampire was now constrained from acting without a direct order from Sara. Helpful didn’t begin to describe the control chip because even this injured, the vamp could probably rip off her head in two seconds flat.

  Sara liked her head, thank you very much.

  Crawling back out, she shut the door and looked up at the other hunter—and there was no doubt in her mind as to his vocation. “Sara.” She thrust out a hand.

  He took it, but didn’t speak for a long time. She couldn’t bring herself to protest—something in those dark, dark green eyes held her in place. Power, she thought, there was an incredible sense of power in him. Then he spoke, and the decadent whiskey of his voice almost blinded her to his actual words.