Kate Daniels 03 - Magic Strikes

we traveled, he made it a point to lay our route so it would go past a lake or a river. He let me speak my mind. My opinion mattered. I was a person to him and I was important. I saw him treat others as if they were important. For all of his supposed indifference, there is a town in Oklahoma that worships him and a little village in Guatemala that put a wooden statue of him at the gates to protect them from evil spirits. He helped people, when he thought it was right.”
    I shook my head. “I have this picture of what my dad wanted me to be, and I can never measure up. And I don’t want to. I have my rules. I stick to them. That’s hard enough as it is. If that means my dad would spit in my face, so be it.”
     
     
    ALMOST TWO HOURS HAD PASSED BEFORE SAIMAN made it to the room. He strode briskly inside, his face flushed.
    “The bug?”
    Jim held out a small, flesh-colored disk the size of a quarter. “A transmitter,” he said. “The deeper into the body you shove it, the better. Make him swallow it. We don’t want it found.”
    Saiman accepted the transmitter and crossed the floor to the door in the opposite wall, swiping the bundle of canvas on the way. He entered and shut the door behind him.
    Minutes stretched by. Behind the closed door something thumped.
    “Think he can do it?” Jim asked.
    “Nope. But we don’t have a choice.”
    We sat some more. Above us something howled in the Pit, sending a dull hum of resonance through the ceiling.
    “Cold,” Jim said.
    A moment later I felt it too, a dry, intense cold emanating from the door that hid Saiman. I rose. “I’ll go check on him.”
    I knocked. The wood of the door burned my fingers with ice. “Saiman?”
    No answer.
    I pushed the door and it swung open, admitting me inside. The room curved to the right and I saw only a small section of it, illuminated by the bluish glow of the feylanterns: a shower stall, its curtain pulled aside. A long icicle dripped from the metal showerhead.
    “Anybody home?”
    A layer of frost slicked the floor under my feet. I turned to the right, moving slowly. My shoes slid a little. I caught myself on the wall and saw him.
    He sat slumped on the bench, his enormous back knotted with hard clumps of muscle beneath skin so white and smooth, it seemed completely bloodless. Coarse hair fell down his back in a long blue-green mane. A fringe of hair trailed the vertebrae of his spine, disappearing into ragged pants of wolf fur. Sitting, he was taller than me, too huge to be a man.
    “Saiman?”
    The being turned his head. Piercing eyes stared at me, distant, pale blue, yet lit from within with power like two chunks of ice that somehow stole the fire of a diamond. He had the face of a fighter carved with exacting precision by a master sculptor: terrifying, forceful, arrogant, and touched with cruelty. His eyes sat sunken deep into their orbits, guarded by a thick ridge of blue eyebrows. His cheekbones were pronounced, his nose wide, and the line of his jaw so strong he could have bitten through bones with little effort. Gone was the philosopher, the urbane erudite, who pontificated on the meaning of luxury. Only a primitive remained, hard, cold, and ancient as the ice that hugged the bench on which he sat.
    I wanted to raise my hands to shield myself from that gaze. Instead, I made myself walk to the bench and sit by him. He made no movement. Next to him, I looked like a toddler.
    “This is the original form?” I said softly.
    “This is the form of my birth.” His voice was a deep, contained bellow.
    “And the golden dancer on the roof?”
    “He’s what I could have been. What I should have been. There is enough of him in my blood to let me assume his shape with infinite ease, but I don’t delude myself. This is the true me. One can’t deny blood.”
    On that we were in agreement.
    Above us something thumped. The noise of the spectators swelled. Saiman raised his monstrous head to the ceiling. “I’m frightened. I find it richly ironic. What a ridiculous notion.”
    He raised his massive arm, the forearm sheathed in silver-blue hair. His fingers shook.
    “It’s natural,” I said. “Only the insane aren’t scared before the fight. They can’t imagine dying.”
    “Do you feel fear, Kate?”
    “Always.”
    “Why do you do it, then?”
    I sighed. “Fear is pain. It hurts. I sink into it and use it like a sharpening stone gliding against a sword. It makes me better, more aware. But I can’t be scared for