Kate Daniels 01 - Magic Bites

wasn’t unusual. Half of the mountain towns had gone “deep” before the “Live-Life-with-God” movement gave them a new dogma.
    Curran rubbed his neck, biceps rolling under the sleeve of his shirt. “When the kid was fourteen, they went to an end-of-the-world tent revival and daddy brought home the Lyc-V.”
    He sat next to me. “He didn’t know what the fuck it was or how to deal with it. He didn’t even know enough to get help. Went loup within days. Loups are contagious as hell. Derek’s mother killed herself after she got infected and left her rabid husband alone with seven kids. Five of them were girls.”
    I swallowed the hard clump in my throat. “How long?”
    “Two years.” Curran’s face was grim. “They killed a passing lycanthrope midway through the first year and Derek found the Code on his body. That and starvation kept him sane.”
    “So how did it end?”
    “The way it always does. The kid became competition for the females and the father tried to kill him. The kid has a good beast-form and he can keep it steady.”
    The beast-form is the warrior form, superior to both animal and man. Most first-generation shapechangers have trouble with beast-form, unable to maintain it longer than a few seconds. They get better with practice, but it takes years of trial and error.
    “Derek killed his dad?”
    “And set the house on fire.”
    “What of the other children?”
    “Dead. Two from starvation, three from daddy’s affections, and the last one burned to death. We went through the rubble and buried the bones.”
    “And now you’re giving him to me? Why, Curran? I can’t be responsible for him, I’m doing a piss-poor job of being responsible for myself.”
    His gaze held enough contempt to drown me. “Derek can handle himself. I don’t tolerate loss of control. He’s been tested and he won’t lose his way when he smells the blood. In your place, I’d worry more about your own ass.”
    “Well, you’re not in my place.” I rose to my feet. Time to go.
    We walked back to the room, where Curran said a few words to Mahon and left. Mahon approached me. “I’ll show you out. Derek’ll meet us at the entrance.”
    “Please make sure he takes a shower,” I said. “Lots and lots of Irish Spring. I don’t want the People smelling blood or wolf on him.”
    Mahon led me a different way, through the maze of dim passages and branching tunnels that brought us to a wooden door. Mahon leaned his palm against it and it swung open.
    “Curran wanted you to see this before you left,” he said.
    In the room, on a simple metal table under a glass hood laced with preserving spells, lay the head of Sam Buchanan.

CHAPTER 5

    BETSI WOULD NOT START. A WERERAT MECHANIC took one look under the hood, mumbled something about the alternator, and pointed me toward the stables.
    Before we left, I popped Betsi’s trunk, untied the strings holding the long oiled-leather roll and pulled it open, displaying swords and daggers secured in leather loops. The moonlight silvered the blades.
    “Wow,” Derek said.
    Men and swords. My father said that if you put any able-bodied man, no matter how peaceful, into a room with a sword and a practice dummy and leave him alone, eventually the man would pick up the sword and try to stab the dummy. It is human nature. This young wolf was no different.
    “Choose a weapon.”
    “Whatever I want?”
    “Whatever you want.”
    He examined the row of cutlery, his face thoughtful. I thought he’d go for a leaf blade, but he ignored it and his fingers strayed toward Bor instead. It was a good sword, especially for a beginner, with a thirty-two-inch blade and an ash-sheathed hilt just under eight inches long. It had a straight steel guard with sharp tips pointing downward and a no-nonsense steel pommel. Like all weapons I owned, it had a superb balance.
    Derek held it upright.
    “It’s light!” he said. “I went to a sword fair once, and the swords there were way heavier.”
    “There is a difference between a sword and a swordlike object,” I said. “What you saw at the sword fair were mostly reasonable imitations. They are pretty and heavy and they make you slower than a slug on vacation. This one only weighs two pounds.”
    Derek swung the sword in a practice slash.
    “It’s a working sword,” I said. “It won’t break and it doesn’t send a lot of vibration back to your hand when you strike a target.”
    “I like it,” he said.
    “It’s