Kate Daniels 03 - Magic Strikes

held his stare for a long moment. “Don’t call; don’t stop by. You need something done, go through official channels. And the next time you meet me, mind your p’s and q’s, because I’ll fuck you over in a heartbeat the second you step over the line. Now return my sword, because I’m walking out of here, and I dare any of your idiots to try and stop me.”
    I went to the door.
    Jim stood up. “On behalf of the Pack, I extend an apology . . .”
    “No. The Pack didn’t do that. You did that.” I reached for the door. “I’m so mad at you, I can’t even speak.”
    “Kate . . . wait.”
    Jim walked to me, took the door, and held it open. Outside three shapeshifters sat on the floor in a hallway: a petite woman with short dark hair, one of the Latino men, and the older bodybuilder who had stopped me at the first murder scene. A short, dark gray line marked the woman’s neck, where Lyc-V had died from the contact with silver. Hello, Brenna. They probably had to cut her throat to get the needle out. The cut had sealed but it would take the body a couple of days to absorb the gray discoloration—the evidence of dead virus. Shapeshifters had trouble with all coinage metals—that was why most of their jewelry was steel or platinum—but when it came to toxicity to Lyc-V, silver beat out gold and copper by a mile.
    The shapeshifters looked at Jim.
    Muscles played along his jaw. His shoulders tensed under the black T-shirt. He was pushing against a wall only he could see. “My bad.”
    “My bad?” That was all he had? That was it?
    He thought about it for a second and nodded. “My bad. I owe you one.”
    “Your attempt at damage control is duly noted.” I shook my head and headed out.
    “Kate, I’m sorry. I fucked up. It didn’t go down right.”
    He finally sounded like he meant it. Part of me wanted to kick him in the head, walk away, and just keep walking until I got the hell out of there. I considered the situation: Jim had apologized in front of his crew. That was all I would get. He wouldn’t get down on his knees and beg my forgiveness. In the end it wasn’t about Jim and me. It was about the kid.
    Jim must’ve sensed what I was thinking. “I’ll take you to him.”
    That cinched it. As we walked past the shapeshifters, he paused, looked at them, and said, “She’s in.”
    I followed him along the gloomy hallway and down a rickety flight of stairs. The air smelled musty. The stairs accepted our weight with shrill creaks of protest. This wasn’t one of the Pack’s regular offices, or at least I didn’t recognize it. It was hard to forget a place plastered with panda wallpaper. Jim’s face grew grimmer with each step.
    I was still pissed. “What kind of shapeshifter has orange fur anyway?”
    “Weredingo.”
    Now I’d seen everything. Well, at least he didn’t steal my baby.
    The stairs terminated in a heavy door. Jim halted. His gaze bored into the door with hate reserved for mortal enemies.
    “They broke him,” Jim said suddenly, a barely contained growl clawing at his words. “They broke the boy. Even if he survives, he’ll never be the same.”
     
     
    THE ROOM WAS DIM. A SMALL FLOOR LAMP spilled light onto the rectangular glass box filled with swamp-green fluid. The box was shallow—only two feet tall, and at first, I mistook it for a casket.
    I’d seen it before. The shapeshifters called it the tank. A restorative device, invented by Dr. Doolittle, self-proclaimed physician to all things Pack and wild.
    A nude body rested in the green liquid, connected to life-support equipment by thin capillaries of IV tubes.
    In all my twenty-five years I had never seen a shapeshifter on life support.
    I knelt by the box. Breath caught in my throat.
    Derek lay encaged in wire. An angry band of magenta swelling marked the flesh over his broken bones, where the abused muscle refused to heal. His right leg was shattered beneath the knee, the shin one continuous misshapen mess of purple ringed with bands of dark gray. Another purple stain marked his left thigh—the femur, the toughest bone in the body, broken right in the middle, snapped like a toothpick.
    Two fractures scarred Derek’s right arm, above the elbow and at the wrist. Identical breaks marked his left arm. The inhuman precision of the mind that would conceive the need for breaking both arms in exactly the same places made me grind my teeth.
    My heartbeat slowed. My head grew hot, my fingertips cold. Breath rolled around