Wicked Bronze Ambition: A Garrett, P.I., Novel Read Free

consulting her elders, was now being welcomed to the family’s conspiratorial heartland.
    Shadowslinger watched me as if she were cataloging recipes she wanted to try.
    Barate said, “First, we should identify the contestants. If we round them up before the killing starts, the whole stupid competition will fall apart. Nobody will have to die.”
    Hauser agreed. “We could save them all. And if we could identify the Operators . . .”
    Shadowslinger summoned Barate close. She murmured into his ear. He then announced, “Mother has to leave us. She suggests that we all give Mr. Garrett whatever information we have so he can get started, especially with identifying the contestants.”
    Right.
    Cynical me, I wondered how much actual identifying and rounding up they really intended.

5
    Itwas dark and hungry out when Strafa and I left Shadowslinger’s place, me brooding on the implausibility of a to-the-death elimination tournament involving mostly brilliant teenagers.
    Twelve was the magical number of participants. Each would have a sidekick called a Mortal Companion, normally a close friend but sometimes a hired fighter. At some point, somewhere from the shadows, each contestant would attract a supernatural ally as well, called a Dread Companion. Too, there would be entities who chose participants, managed everything, refereed, and delivered coups de grâce if necessary. These were the Operators. They were a mystery. Nobody knew how they got recruited or what skin they had in the game. Evidently death was mandatory for the scheme to work fully. Losers couldn’t just admit defeat, they had to die so their power could be folded into the final prize.
    Identifying the Operators could give us a means to abort the whole absurd tournament.
    My cynical, suspicious side already definitely wondered how the Operators would profit. My villainous side figured eliminating that crew would go a long way toward ending the game permanently, since there would be no one left to recruit a new team.
    Though I had been immersed in it all day I remained both skeptical and deeply confused. It was such a ridiculous way of doing business.
    I asked Strafa, “Did you understand all of that?”
    “Not so much.”
    “They talked a ton, and I think they were trying, but when something sounds that absurd you can’t help thinking that they’re either pulling your leg or not telling the whole story.”
    “You’re right. But I don’t think they were holding back. Bonegrinder did more talking than I’ve ever seen before.”
    “Bonegrinder?”
    “Richt Hauser. His working name is Bonegrinder. He brought it back from his first trip to the war zone.”
    “And that creepy Machtkess woman?”
    “She favors Moonblight. Unless she’s feeling randy. I hear she becomes Mistress of Chains then. A play on her name.”
    “I’ll skip finding out why. All righty, then. And they’re really your grandmother’s friends?”
    “As much as can be with their kind. More so, probably, when they were young. Coconspirators is probably closer to the truth now. Where are we going?”
    “To my house to check in with some of my matchless resources.”
    “We’re going to go that far, why don’t we fly? It’s about to rain. We’ll get soaked if we take time to walk.”
    “All right.” Reluctantly. “But you don’t have your broom.” I like having something a bit more solid than air beneath my feet.
    “You know I don’t need a broom. You’re just chicken.”
    She was right. “You got me. But hold up for a minute. I see civilians.” A girl was headed our way, nine or ten, blond, well dressed, very pretty. A living doll. She held the hand of a groll, part giant, part troll, all strength and ugliness, impervious to most weapons but, blessed be, seldom aggressive. Full-grown grolls are big. This one was bigger than most, a good fourteen feet tall. He seemed to be walking in his sleep, oblivious of his surroundings. The little girl, however, was alert and