Kate Daniels 03 - Magic Strikes

line was still there. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’ve had silver in me before.”
    “Where is everybody else?” I asked.
    Nobody answered. Chatty Cathys, the shapeshifters.
    I cut into my Beef Wellington and put a small piece in my mouth. It tasted like heaven. Jim cut his meat with the precision of a surgeon.
    “Curran called.”
    The three shapeshifters around me stopped breathing for a moment.
    “I thought I’d mention it before you started eating. I didn’t want you to choke.”
    “He say anything?” Jim asked.
    “You have three days to turn yourself in.” I imitated Curran’s voice. “After that he’ll have to find you. And he doesn’t want to find you.”
    “Anything else?”
    “He mostly cussed after that. I told him you and I were having a hot roll in the hay and he was interrupting.”
    Tea came out of Brenna’s nose.
    Jim struggled with it for a long moment. “I wish you hadn’t done that.”
    “He didn’t believe it.” I left it at that. Mentioning my morning exercise and naked dinner promise was bound to give Jim apoplexy. “He can’t find us here, can he?”
    “Never underestimate our lord,” Doolittle said.
    “It’s hard to say,” Jim said. “Curran’s persistent. He’ll find us eventually. But not for a while.”
    I hoped he was right. If not, both of us would have some explaining to do.

    WE WAITED FOR SAIMAIN IN THE PARKING LOT OF the Games.
    Jim’s black, fur-trimmed cloak flared behind him as he walked, revealing a black leather vest, black pants, and black steel-toed boots. His body was toned to the point of absurd: he looked like a prizefighter in his prime, his thick muscle crisply defined, his stride loose, his bearing broadcasting bad-ass. An ugly scowl sat on his face. He looked as if he wanted to punch somebody.
    “You need a pair of shades,” I told him. “Someone might mistake you for a yuppie.”
    “Never happen.”
    Saiman’s sleek ride slid into the parking lot. He got out, dapper and urbane in his Thomas Durand persona, popped the trunk, and took out an oblong object bundled in canvas and wrapped with a cord. He swung it onto his shoulder, which proved to be a difficult feat—the thing was about four and a half feet long and two feet wide.
    We headed to the door. Saiman caught up with us and passed the bundle to Jim. Jim showed no strain as he took the bundle. It might have been light as a feather, but by the way Saiman’s stride eased, I could tell it had to be heavy.
    “Your crew passes.” Saiman handed me two yellow tickets and slowed down, putting some distance between us and himself.
    We reached the doors and I presented the crew passes to the outside guards. They waved us on to Rene’s welcoming arms. Recognition sparked in her eyes. She surveyed Jim and turned to me.
    “Congratulations, love. You traded up. Does he treat you well?”
    “He’s a teddy bear,” I said.
    Teddy bear looked like he was suffering from murder withdrawal. Rene grinned. “He certainly is. First room on the right, get yourself logged in.” Rene glanced at the doors, where Saiman was making his grand entrance. “Hurry now. Your ex is coming through. We don’t want him getting hysterical again.”
     
     
    THE FIGHTER LEVEL WAS BASICALLY A LONG hallway forming a ring. Red Guards were thick in the hallway like flies on a dead horse. Big deadly flies, armed with Tasers, chains, and nets. No fights would break out there. Inside the ring lay a large exercise room located directly under the Pit. Outside the ring branched off fighter quarters: sets of rooms where the fighters waited for their bouts.
    Jim leaned against the doorframe of our room, like some dark sentinel. The patrolmen gave him a wide berth.
    I sat at a bench. I had inspected our quarters: the front room where we waited now was long and narrow, a bottleneck. No door separated us from the hallway. In case of trouble, a couple of Guards could easily contain a dozen people or more within the room.
    On the left a door led to a narrow locker room with a bench and three showers and off it was a small bathroom with three toilets, separated by partitions. Behind me another door led to a large bedroom housing eight double bunks. The Order’s files said the teams were sequestered once the tournament began and for three days they lived in their fighting quarters.
    Above us the crowd roared, enthused by someone’s death.
    Guilt gnawed on me. It haunted and stalked me, just waiting to pounce when I had