Kate Daniels 03 - Magic Strikes

and called a few times but nobody materialized to assist me.
    Brenna was supposed to have watched the door. The only thing that could’ve drawn her from it was . . . Please don’t let Derek be dead.
    At the thought of going down to the basement, my legs nearly gave out. I wasn’t sure I could take seeing him dead.
    I needed to go down there but I couldn’t make myself move. I swallowed and stared at the doorway.
    The bodies. I better go get the bodies. That’s a good idea.
    It proved surprisingly difficult to maneuver a four-armed corpse through the door. I tried it for a full three minutes before my patience ran dry. But by the time Brenna appeared at the top of the gloomy staircase, I had matters well in hand.
    “Is Derek dead?”
    “Not yet.”
    Relief rolled though me. I needed a nice place to sit down. “I thought you were guarding the entrance,” I said, sliding Slayer under my arm.
    “I was. I had to let someone in.” She stared at the corpse at my feet.
    “It’s not Curran, is it?” I asked.
    “No.”
    “Great.” I gathered up the four severed arms and nodded at the stub of the body. “Would you mind getting the bigger piece?”
     
     
    DOOLITTLE HAD TAKEN ONE LOOK AT ME AND prescribed an immediate shower. Half an hour later, showered, patched up, and given a mug of coffee by Brenna, I felt almost human. Doolittle had disappeared into the depths of the house to continue his constant vigil on Derek. It was just me and two corpses. At about half a mug, Jim wandered into the room, looking mean and hungover. He favored me with an ugly scowl and flopped into a chair.
    “Now what?”
    “We wait.”
    “What for?”
    “My expert. She’s with Derek now.”
    We sat for a while. I was still out of it. Doolittle was the best medmage in the business, hands down. My back almost didn’t hurt and the pain in my side was a distant echo. But I was so tired I could barely see straight.
    I had to check with Andrea on the results of the silver analysis. I tried the phone. No dial tone.
    A young woman strode into the room. She was barely five feet tall and very slender. Her skin was almond dark, her face wide and round. She looked at the world through thick glasses and her eyes behind the Coke-bottle lenses were very brown, almost black, with a touch of Asian ancestry to their cut. She stepped into the apartment and peered at me as I closed the door.
    “Indonesian,” she announced, shifting a tote bag on her shoulder.
    “What?”
    “You were trying to figure out what kind of ’nese I am. Indonesian.”
    “I’m Kate.”
    “Dali.”
    She looked to where Jim sat. As she swept past me, I caught a glimpse of a book in her tote bag: a long, lean blond man brandishing an improbably enormous sword posing with three girls strategically arranged at his feet. One of the girls had cat ears.
    Dali fixed Jim with her disconcerting stare. “You owe me. If he finds out I’m here, I’ll be dead meat.”
    He who? He better not be Curran.
    “I take responsibility,” Jim said.
    “Where are the corpses?” Dali asked.
    “Behind you.”
    Dali turned and stumbled over the four-armed freak’s legs, and would’ve executed a beautiful nosedive if she were an ordinary human. As it was, she managed to jump away and land with perfect balance if not perfect grace. Shapeshifter reflexes to the rescue.
    Dali adjusted her glasses and shot me an irate look. “I’m not that blind,” she said. “I’m absentminded.”
    Perhaps she was also telepathic.
    “No,” she said. “I’m just not stupid.”
    Okay.
    Dali surveyed the four-armed corpse. “Oh boy. Polymelic symmetry. Any other supernumerary body parts? And did you have to hack his arms off?”
    “Yes, I did. He wouldn’t go through the door.”
    “You say it like you’re proud of it.”
    I was proud of it. It was an example of quick thinking in a difficult situation.
    Dali shrugged her tote to the floor, knelt by the corpse, and stared into the gaping hole where the creature’s heart used to reside. Jim had really done a number on it. “Tell me everything.”
    I described the ward, the jungle, the flying palace, the ruins, the stone chariot with multiheaded driver, and the fight, with an occasional comment from Jim. She nodded, raised the corpse’s front left arm to take a look at the back set, frowned . . .
    “So who isn’t supposed to know you’re here?” I asked. Please don’t be Curran, please don’t be Curran . . .
    “The Beast Lord,” Jim