Kate Daniels 06 - Gunmetal Magic

deal with Avalon Construction to clear the magic hazmat at their prospective construction sites. It’s a sweet contract, so you know there were perks. Bribes. Gifts. How much and to whom?”
    Bob growled a bit. “All this stuff can be learned.”
    I nodded. “Sure. But how long will it take you? The Guild has been without a leader for what, six months now, and you still haven’t learned any of it. Would it even matter by the time you finished learning?”
    Bob crossed his arms. “You could do it.”
    “No, I can’t. First, it’s not my job. I’ve got my hands full with the shapeshifters and my own business. Second, what little I know I’ve learned only because it came up during my tenure as a liaison. It would take me ages to find it in the Guild’s Manual. For better or worse, Solomon made Mark the sole brain behind this operation and Mark has years of experience. You don’t have the knack for wheeling and dealing, Bob. You’re a good solid tactician. You know what the gig needs and you’re good at picking the right people and getting it done. The mercs look up to you. But bargaining isn’t your thing.”
    Bob’s eyebrows crept closer together. “You’ll be backing Mark then?”
    “I will tell you what I told him. I don’t know yet.”
    Bob nodded and handed me a piece of paper. I scanned it. A formal summons with my name on it. The top left corner boasted “code X” in bold. Priority ten. Either I made this meeting, or the Guild would suspend me.
    “Not that it would matter,” Bob said. “But we did all manage to agree that you need to pick somebody by Monday.”
    Ivera got up and put her hand on Bob’s shoulder. “We should go.”
    He started to say something and changed his mind. I watched him get to his feet. He nodded to me. “Later.”
    I dragged myself upstairs to the infirmary. Roderick was playing checkers with a shapeshifter boy. The collar on his neck had gone from orange to canary yellow.
    I climbed the million stairs to our quarters, asked the guards to order some food from the kitchen, and took a shower. When I came out, Curran was sprawled on our giant couch, his eyes closed.
    I flopped next to him. “Help.”
    The blond eyebrows rose a quarter inch. “Mhm?”
    “The mercs aren’t going to reach a consensus.” I lay next to him on my side, propping my head up with my hand. “No matter who I pick tomorrow, they won’t like it. Mark can run the Guild, but the mercs despise him. The mercs can do the jobs, but the admin stuff leaves them clueless.”
    “Make them work together,” Curran said.
    “Not going to happen. They hate each other.”
    “If fourteen alphas can meet in the same room every week without killing each other, so can Mark and the mercs. The Guild has been without leadership for months. The people are tired and they want a strong leader. Not a tyrant, but a leader who inspires confidence. You need to walk in there and roar until they cringe. Demonstrate that you are strong enough to take away their freedom to choose, make sure it sinks in, and then give some of the choice back to them on your terms.”
    Hmm.
    “Tie it back to Solomon Red, too,” Curran said. “It’s basic psychology: under Solomon things ran, when he died, they broke. The more time passes, the more rosy the times of Solomon look to the average merc. So if you attack them from the ‘Let’s go back to the good old days’ angle, they will fold. Make them think that following you is what they want to do.”
    “You scare me sometimes,” I told him.
    He yawned. “I’m totally harmless.”
    Someone knocked on the door. A bit soon for the food.
    “Yes?” Curran called.
    Mercedes, one of the guards, entered. “There is a man outside, my lord. He is big, he’s wearing a cape, and he’s got a giant axe. We’re also pretty sure he’s drunk.”
    Dagfinn.
    “What does he want?” Curran asked.
    “He says he wants to fight the Beast Lord.”

CHAPTER 7

    Curran and I stood in the arched entrance to the Keep’s courtyard. Dagfinn waited in the clearing outside. He was six feet eight inches tall, and he weighed a shade above three hundred pounds. None of it was fat. Dagfinn looked hard. His broad shoulders strained his tunic, his biceps had trouble fitting into the sleeves, and his legs in worn-out jeans carried enough muscle to make you wince at the thought of him kicking you. His curly hair fell over his shoulders in a dense reddish wave. He’d trimmed his beard, but his red