Kate Daniels 01 - Magic Bites

eyes and died. “Agreed,” he said.
    I took a knife from my belt and sawed through the restraints securing his arms. The Crusader sat up, rubbing his wrists. I offered him the knife and he cut the bonds on his ankles.
    “What’s your name?” I asked.
    “Nick,” he said. He wore the Pack’s trademark sweats and smelled clean.
    I looked to Curran. “Did you force him to bathe?”
    “We dipped him,” Curran said. “He had lice.”
    “My weapons,” Nick said.
    Curran motioned us to follow and we did. He led us out of the room to the hallway, down the corridor, and to a small room. “I have to go,” he told me, his hand on the door handle. He turned to Nick and the two men locked stares, sizing each other up. “Stay put,” Curran said.
    “He will,” I told him. The Crusaders were insane, but they were still Knights of the Order. Their word was binding.
    Curran opened the door for us and walked away, while we entered the room.
    A lone bed flanked the wall next to a small dresser and a desk cluttered with metal. The place didn’t look lived in—no personal items on the furniture, no loose clothes. A heavy punching bag hung from the ceiling and I wondered if that was standard equipment for Keep’s rooms. Nick went to the desk, while I sat on the bed.
    He had been loaded for bear when the shapechangers took him. A dozen shark-teeth gleamed on the table, next to a 9mm Sig Sauer, a .22, a shotgun, several clips, and boxes of assorted ammo. A long chain lay coiled by the shotgun. Silver, judging by the color of its metal. A short gladius-shaped sword lay on the side, flanked by several sharp dirks and a crescent-shape serrated blade designed to slice the throat. A tangle of cord and wooden parts occupied the corner of the desk—a garrote. There was a utility belt, two leather bracers, designed to hold the shark teeth, a back sheath, an r-kit, and bandages.
    Nick stripped to the waist, displaying a hard scarred torso. His left shoulder was bandaged. He pulled the bandages off, exposing a raw, jagged wound, and slapped the r-kit onto it. Taking a fresh roll of gauze from the table, he began to dress the shoulder. I got up, stood behind him, and passed the bandage over his back.
    We worked in silence until the wound was dressed. He put the shirt back on and strapped the utility belt over his waist.
    “How long have you been tracking him?” I asked.
    He didn’t look at me, his attention captured by the metal on the table. “Four years.” He slid the shark teeth one by one into their places on the bracers. “First Quebec, then Seattle. Tulsa.”
    I touched the desk. “Nothing here will kill him.”
    He thrust the gladius into his belt. It didn’t matter that he had nothing. He would still try.
    “How did you know the upir would attack the kid?”
    “The kid’s been bound to you. A natural target.”
    “I’m a better target.”
    “No. He wants you alive. To breed.” He stepped toward me and touched my arm. Pale luminescence shimmered on his fingertips and vanished. “Power,” he said. “Draws him like a moth to a flame.”
    He didn’t need demonstrations of power. He could tell by touch. I tried to remember if he had touched me back in Ted’s office. We’d brushed against each other.
    “You took responsibility for the kid,” he said. “You let him be taken.”
    He was right. “Coming from a man who let himself be captured by the Pack and strapped to a bed, that doesn’t carry much weight. Tell you what, come back to me with the upir’s head and then you can judge me.”
    He stared at me for a moment, his face blank and then said in his grating voice, “Fair enough.”
    We moved at the same time and I stared into the barrel of his Sig Sauer while Slayer’s tip pressed against his jugular. I wasn’t sure how I knew he’d move.
    The door opened slowly. Someone stepped into the room and halted. Neither of us was willing to look away. A long moment passed, and the newcomer exited. The door clicked, closing. A loud knock broke the quiet.
    I grimaced at Nick. “You going to do something, do it, so I can slit your throat and move on.”
    The gun barrel pointed upward and vanished back into the holster with a safety’s click. “Not now,” he said. I slid Slayer back into its sheath.
    The knocking persisted. “Come in,” I said.
    The door opened, revealing a female shapechanger. She turned to me. “Curran wants you,” she said.
    The woman led me to the Council room in the back of