Magic Strikes Read Free Page B

through the city, sending shivers down my spine. I could almost picture her standing upon a concrete rib of a fallen skyscraper, pale fur enameled silver by moonlight, her head raised to expose her shaggy throat as she sung a flawless song, tinted with melancholy longing and the promise of a bloody hunt.
    A lean shadow skittered from the alley, followed by another. Emaciated, hairless, loping on all fours in a jerky, uncoordinated gait, they crossed the street before me and paused. They had been human at some point but both had been dead for more than a decade. No fat or softness remained on their bodies. No flesh—only steel-wire muscle beneath thick hide. Two vampires on the prowl. And they were out of their territory.
    “ID,” I said. Most navigators knew me by sight just like they knew every member of the Order in Atlanta.
    The forefront bloodsucker unhinged his jaw and the navigator’s voice issued forth, distorted slightly.
    “Journeyman Rodriguez, Journeyman Salvo.”
    “Your Master?”
    “Rowena.”
    Of all the Masters of the Dead, I detested Rowena the least. “You’re a long way from the Casino.”
    “We . . .”
    The second bloodsucker opened his mouth, revealing light fangs against his black maw. “He screwed up and got us lost in the Warren.”
    “I followed the map.”
    The second bloodsucker stabbed a clawed finger at the sky. “The map’s useless if you can’t orient for shit. The moon doesn’t rise in the north, you moron.”
    Two idiots. It would be comical if I didn’t feel the blood hunger rising from the vamps. If these two knuckleheads lost control for a moment, the bloodsuckers would rip into me.
    “Carry on,” I said and nudged Marigold.

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    The vamps took off, the journeymen riding their minds probably bickering somewhere deep within the Casino. The Immortuus pathogen robbed its victims of their egos. Insentient , the vampires obeyed only their hunger for blood, butchering anything with a pulse. The emptiness of a vampiric mind made it a perfect vehicle for necromancers, Masters of the Dead. Most of the Masters served the People. Part cult, part research institute, part corporation, all vomit inducing, the People devoted themselves to the study and care of the undead. They had chapters in most major cities, just like the Order. Here, in Atlanta, they made their den in the Casino.
    Among the power brokers of Atlanta, the People ranked pretty high. Only the Pack could match them in the potential for destruction. The People were led by a mysterious legendary figure, who chose to call himself Roland in this day and age. Roland possessed immense power. He was also the man I had been training all my life to kill.
    I circled a big pot hole in the old pavement, turned onto Dead Cat, and saw the crime scene under a busted street lamp. Cops and witnesses were nowhere in sight. Gauzy moonlight sifted onto the bodies of seven shapeshifters. None of them was dead.
    Two werewolves in animal form swept the scene for scents, carefully padding in widening circles from the narrow mouth of Dead Cat Street. Most shapeshifters in beast form ran larger than their animal counterparts, and these proved no exception: hulking, shaggy beasts taller and thicker than a male Great Dane. Past them, two of their colleagues in human form packed something suspiciously resembling a body into a body bag. Three others walked the perimeter, presumably to keep the onlookers out of the way. As if anyone was dumb enough to linger for a second look.
    At my approach, everything stopped. Seven pairs of glowing eyes stared at me: four green, three yellow.
    Judging by the glow, the shapeshifter crew hovered on the verge of going furry. One of their own was dead and they were out for blood.
    I kept my tone light. “You fellows ever thought of hiring out as a Christmas lights crew? You’d make a fortune.”
    The nearest shapeshifter trotted to me. Bulky