Inked

wrist. It was heavy and cold, and made me want to shudder. But it was working. I’d never felt less like using magic in my life.
    This class of ward wasn’t designed to give added power in combat, or to enhance the senses or to heal. It did just one thing—absorb magical energy—and did it very well. Wards like it were used in surgery to keep a patient’s natural protective energies clamped down so surgeons didn’t have to worry about being attacked while they worked. In my case, I’d worn one early in the healing process to help regulate my magic.
    It had done the job, but had left me feeling weak and listless. I’d finally persuaded Sedgewick to remove it, promising to keep it on hand in case of emergency. I’d never planned to let it anywhere near me again. But if I was going into the field, I had to wear it or risk accidentally attacking someone who didn’t have Hargrove’s shields. The tat would make powerful spells impossible and even weak ones difficult, rendering me a lot less dangerous—to everyone, including the bad guys. But I couldn’t see an alternative.
    After a moment, I got up, threw on a leather trench to hide the weapons, and grabbed my guide. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “Are you taking me to lockup?”
    “Nope. You got a name?”
    “Dieter,” he said suspiciously.
    I didn’t bother asking for a last name, since it would probably be fake anyway. “Well, we’re going on a field trip, Dieter.”
    “Where to?”
    “It’s a surprise.”

5
    I parked my Hog next to the long concrete runoff channel along Highway 91. I didn’t have to ask if this was the place. The old Las Vegas sign, veteran of a million plastic mementos and gaudy key chains, was glittering right across the road. And according to the report I’d wheedled out of Michaelson, the body had been found practically in its shadow.
    As usual, a couple tourists were taking turns posing in front of the sign, grinning toothily. It wasn’t a great day for it. To the west, the sky shaded dung brown at the horizon, then yellow, then a sick and ominous green. The air felt heavy, like maybe one of Vegas’s brief spring showers might not be far off.
    “Aw, man! You gotta be shitting me!” My reluctant guide stared into the concrete gully below, looking a little wall-eyed. Then he took off.
    I watched him scramble down the road for half a minute, before throwing a lasso spell around his ankles and giving it a yank. I’d been nice, waiting until he veered onto the curb so he’d hit dirt instead of asphalt, and twisting the spell so he’d land on one shoulder instead of full face. But he didn’t look appreciative when I walked over and jerked him back up.
    I manhandled him down into the channel, our boots splashing through a thin, braided current and a bunch of soggy adult entertainment flyers. Ahead were two large tunnels, maybe ten feet wide by six feet high, a few of the thousands of concrete boxes linked together under the city’s urban scrawl. They were pitch dark and not very friendly looking, but I didn’t understand the severity of the struggle my prisoner was putting up.
    “What’s your deal?” I demanded. “I thought you got pulled out of one of these this morning.”
    “Not this one. And I’m not going in there. You may as well shoot me now! Better that than those damn things eat me!”
    “What things?”
    “Kappas. This drain’s infested with ’em. Everybody knows that.”
    “Kappas, huh?” I peered into the mouth of the western tunnel, but saw only cobwebs and drooling algae. The place smelled like mildew and old shoes, but I didn’t pick up any of the distinctive fishy odor of kappa feces. “Kappas are Japanese,” I said. “We don’t have too many problems with them in Vegas.”
    “I don’t know where they came from. But a bunch moved in and took over the whole tunnel.”
    A heavy stream of runoff gurgled under my boots, but hardly enough to satisfy a river imp. “When did these kappas move in?”
    “About a week ago.”
    “Huh.” This was where the Hunter had dumped the body, so he wasn’t likely to be hanging around. But the kappas were interesting. It was exactly the kind of story someone would circulate who didn’t want anyone poking around his hidey-hole. And if he’d been here once, there was a chance he’d left something behind.
    The guy’s acne-covered chin took on a mulish tilt. “I’m not going in there and you can’t make me. I know my rights. You have to