Magic Rises

He had come to fight shapeshifters. Raking him with claws would do no good.
    He marched down the hallway, wearing black and cloaked in magic. He looked unstoppable. He would soon learn that looks could be deceiving.
    “Hail to Hugh d’Ambray,” the Iron Dogs intoned in unison, their voice one loud chorus.
    Hugh strode through the door and walked to our table, straight to Desandra’s chair on my left.
    “You’re in the wrong seat.” He held out his hand.
    Desandra blinked, stood up, and put her hand into his. Hugh led her to his chair on Curran’s right and held it out for her. She sat. He turned and sat in her place, next to me.
    Great.
    “You didn’t bring enough,” Curran said quietly.
    “It will suffice,” Hugh said. His voice boomed. “In honor of the hunt, I bring you entertainment.”
    The Iron Dogs took three steps backward, turning, moving in unison until they formed a line along the wall to our right, behind Jarek’s werewolves. People entered the minstrel’s gallery, carrying small round drums, accordions, and other instruments. A line of men walked into the great hall, dressed in identical jet-black djigit coats. The musicians plucked at their instruments, adjusting and settling down.
    A wild melody started, fast and limber, the rhythm of the drums like a racing heart. The men spun across the floor, dancing like a flock of graceful ravens, pivoting and leaping. The lead dancer dropped down and spun across the stage on his knees. I winced.
    Hugh pretended to be absorbed in the dance. What are you planning, you bastard?
    Something tugged on my jeans. I glanced down carefully. Atsany stood by my chair.
    You’ve got to be kidding me.
    The small man patted my leg with his pipe, winked, and pointed to the side. I glanced up. Astamur stood by the door, leaning against the wall. He wore a long wide coat of black fleece that covered him from head to toe. A rifle rested in his hands. He looked straight at me and his eyes were grim. The nearest Iron Dog was feet away and oblivious to the man behind him. Nobody paid him any attention, as if they couldn’t see him.
    I glanced down. Atsany was gone. I leaned to Curran. “Do you see him?”
    “Who?”
    “Astamur. By the door.”
    Curran frowned. I looked back. Astamur was gone.
    Okay, I did just see that. That wasn’t a hallucination.
    The dancers snapped into their final poses. The music died. Hugh clapped. Reluctant applause followed from the side tables.
    “Is there going to be a play next?” Curran asked. “I never took you for the dinner theater type.”
    “I promise it will be a show you never forget,” Hugh said.
    A man and a woman walked in. The man, lean and graceful, wore the black djigit outfit, his profile hawkish, his dark hair slicked back. The woman wore a silver-white gown that covered her head to toe. Fitted in the bust and the waist, the gown flared at the skirt. She looked like a swan. Her black hair fell in four braids, two over her chest, two down her back, all the way past her narrow waist. A small hat perched on her glossy hair, with a white veil trailing from it to hide her back.
    The woman turned, standing side by side with the man. Her face was beautiful. I felt a brush of magic. It felt ancient.
    “Thousands of years ago Suliko’s family entertained the ancient kings of Georgia,” Hugh said. “Today she honors us with her presence. She will dance the kartuli for us. Count yourself fortunate. You will not see another dance like that.”
    A song started with a solo of some sort of reed pipe, so old it rolled through me, familiar and new at the same time, like an echo of some racial memory buried deep inside me, in the places mind and reason couldn’t reach. The man held his hand out. The woman placed her fingers on his. He led her forward. They bowed.
    Magic shifted. The shapeshifters sat, oblivious. This wouldn’t be a normal dance.
    “What are you up to?” I squeezed through my teeth.
    “You’ve been sleepwalking for so long, you forgot who you are,” he said “This is your wakeup call.”
    “What’s going on?” Curran asked.
    “Magic,” I told him.
    “Yours isn’t the only ancient family,” Hugh said.
    Drums joined the reed pipes in a quick rhythm. Suliko and her partner backed up—he moving on his toes in tall leather boots, she gliding as if she had wheels—and split, moving to the far ends of the room. The woman stood, her arms raised, so graceful it was almost painful to watch. The man