I dialed the guardroom. Barabas picked up the phone, his slightly ironic tenor amused before I even had a chance to say anything. "Yes, Consort?"
"Why is everyone calling me Consort?"
"Jim designated you as Consort in official papers. You don't want to be called Mate, calling you Alpha is confusing, and `Beast Lady' makes people laugh."
"Why is it necessary to attach a title to me at all?"
"Because you are attached to the Beast Lord."
Behind me Curran chuckled to himself. Apparently I amused everyone this evening. "I know it's late, but could you find a book for me? It's called The Slavs: Study of Pagan Tradition by Osvintsev."
Barabas sighed dramatically. "Kate, you make me despair. Let's try that again from the top, except this time pretend you are an alpha."
"I don't need a lecture. I just need the book."
"Much better. Little more growl in the voice?"
"Barabas!"
"And we're there. Congratulations! There is hope for you yet. I will look into the book."
I hung up the phone and glared at Curran. "What's so funny?" "You."
"Laugh while you can. You have to sleep eventually, and then I'll take my revenge."
"You're such a violent woman. Always with the threats. You should look into some meditation techniques ..."
I jumped on the couch and put the Beast Lord into an armlock.
Chapter 8
THE TWO TRACKERS REPORTED IN EARLY THE NEXT morning. They had picked up Julie's scent, hit wolfsbane, lost her, and found her trail again at the crumbling Highway 23, except it was two hours old and mixed with horse scents. She was hitchhiking. Great. Awesome. At least she always carried a knife with her.
When I relayed this to Curran, he shrugged and said, "If she kills anybody, we'll make it go away."
Shapeshifter parenting motto--if your kid slits somebody's throat, always have a backup plan to make the body disappear.
I put on my clothes, grabbed my sword, kissed Curran good-bye, and headed to the lower floor. Barabas waited for me by the desk, slim, dapper, and wearing an ironic smile. The first thing you noticed about Barabas was his hair. Cut short on the sides and the back, it was about an inch and a half long on top of his head, and he brushed it and rubbed gel in it until the entire inch and a half stood on end, like hackles on a pissed-off dog. It was also bright, fiery red. He looked like his head was on fire.
Technically, Barabas wasn't a bouda. His mother shifted into a hyena, but his father was a weremongoose from Clan Nimble. As was customary in the interclan unions with the Pack, his parents had an option of belonging to either clan, and they chose the loving embrace of Aunt B and the protection of her razor-sharp claws. Faced with the same choice on his eighteenth birthday, Barabas chose to remain with Clan Bouda and pretty soon ran into some personal problems. When Aunt B gave him to me, it was for his benefit as much as mine.
"Good morning, Consort." Barabas handed me a package wrapped in shimmering red foil. A big red bow was set on top of the foil.
"Why the wrapping?"
"It's a gift. Why not make it special?"
"Thank you." I untied the bow. "This render Curran is supposed to hunt today. Leslie Wren. How good is she?"
"Pack's top twenty. I wouldn't fight her," Barabas said. "I know some alphas who wouldn't either."
Great. I unwrapped the paper, revealing an old edition of Osvintsev. "Where did you find it?"
"In the Keep library."
"The Keep has a library?" "Both paper and digital."
I flipped through the pages. Runes, runes, runes ... Runes. An inverted Algiz rune. The caption next to it said "Chernobog." The Black God.
Right. Of course, it wouldn't be Chernobog, God of Morning Dew on the Rose Petals, but a woman could always hope.
I riffed through the pages looking for the gods and goddesses. The Slavic pantheon broke into two opposing factions, benevolent and malevolent. I skipped the "good" faction.
The moment I turned the pages to the dark faction, an inverted Algiz rune stared at me. Next to it was a sketch of a man with a black mustache frosted with silver. His black armor bristled with spikes. His hand clenched a bloody spear. He stood on a heap of dismembered corpses covered in black ants while black crows circled over his head. Fury warped his face into an ugly grimace. The caption read: Chernobog. The Black Serpent. Koshei. Lord of Darkness and Death. Ruler of Freezing Cold. Master of Destruction. God of Insanity. Embodiment of everything bad. Evil.
Barabas glanced over my shoulder. "This doesn't look good."
Understatement of the year. De Harven was sacrificed to Chernobog, probably by a volhv, a Slavic pagan priest. Volhvs had broad powers, like druids, but unlike the druids, who were very self-conscious about their human-sacrificing past, the volhvs had no aversion to violence. And Atlanta volhvs really didn't like me.
I tapped the book, thinking. The Slavic pagan community was self-regulating: light gods were counterbalanced by dark, and volhvs of both factions were equally respected. Sacrificing de Harven took a huge load of magic. A volhv packing that much magic would be well known and rooted in the community. I wouldn't get anywhere by talking with them. I had to find a Plan B.
The volhvs were all male. If you were female and practicing Slavic pagan magic, you were likely a witch, and the most powerful Slavic witch in the city was Evdokia. She was a part of the Witch Oracle and the last time we'd met, Evdokia told me she knew my stepfather. I had no idea if she would even talk to me, but it was worth a try.
The magic was still up, but I tried the phone anyway. Dial tone. I punched in Ksenia's number. Ksenia owned a small herbal shop on the north side. I'd stopped there a few times when my supplies had run low, and the last time I was there Ksenia boasted that Evdokia had bought some herbs from her. Maybe she could arrange for an audience.
OUTSIDE, THE MARCH WIND BIT AT ME WITH ICY fangs. Two people stood by my vehicle. The first was taller, his dark hair cropped short. He wore a dark gray hoodie and faded jeans. His posture was deceptively relaxed, but he watched me as I walked. Derek. The second person was shorter, dressed in an inconspicuous ensemble of black jeans, black turtleneck, and a leather jacket, of all things. Black hair, angelic face, and devil eyes. Ascanio Ferara. The kid was so handsome, he almost looked unreal. Combine that with an agile face that went from innocence to remorse to admiration in a blink, and you had a pure chick magnet. Ascanio knew the effect he had, and he used every drop of it to his advantage.