Alpha: An Urban Fantasy Novel (War of the Alphas Book 3) Page 8

  Finally, Rylie seemed to understand why they might need privacy. She glanced back at the OPA agents. “Let’s take a walk.”

  VII

  Hiking through the Appalachian forest with shifters at Stark’s back felt right. It was so mammalian, so very natural, to move through the trees with the whisper of furred bodies sliding through leaves shadowing him. He had maintained his human form but compelled the others to shift, giving him an escort of beasts. More than an escort—an army.

  For those few hours where they hiked, the world felt right. This was the world that shifters were meant to live in. A world where they followed the strongest and weren’t confined to cities, fed kibble by government agencies, registered and tagged like dogs.

  They were wild animals of the forest, and this was where they belonged, unconstrained by bureaucracy and rules.

  But reality had to return, and it did.

  By the time the sun rose, Stark had led his people to a familiar location. There were signs of a small camp there: flattened soil, broken branches, even a wrapper for shifter-branded jerky. Stark had been there with his team only a week earlier, and the forest had yet to wipe away all traces of their presence.

  He stepped up to the edge of the canyon.

  The chasm where Holy Nights Cathedral had sat was empty. The grass was untouched. Trees were growing where a huge building had been only days earlier—trees that must have been growing for years, as though there had never been a cathedral there at all.

  “Impossible,” Stark muttered, turning to inspect the camp again. He could see no sign of his shifters, but he could feel them among the trees, waiting and watching.

  He must have gone to the wrong place.

  But that was impossible, too. Stark was an excellent tracker. He had never gotten lost in his life.

  The trees were identical. The curve of the canyon was identical.

  So where was Holy Nights Cathedral?

  Stark put the binoculars away and searched his pockets for his GPS device.

  Even with the rustling of cloth and zippers, the approach of footsteps didn’t escape his notice.

  He wasn’t alone in the forest with his pack.

  Stark acted like he hadn’t heard anything. He riffled through the bag, found the GPS device, and left it at the bottom of the pocket. Instead, he wrapped his fingers around a small handgun and removed the trigger guard.

  The footsteps were growing nearer. The stride was short, but heavy—a man attempting to navigate the steep incline of the mountains without falling. He sounded clumsy. Definitely not a shifter.

  Stark’s nostrils flared as he scented the air. His senses weren’t as acute as a werewolf’s, but he picked up the faint odor of cherries. It wasn’t a smell he recognized.

  The man was behind him.

  Stark turned and lifted the gun in one smooth gesture, aiming it at the place he knew the newcomer’s head would be.

  “Freeze,” he said.

  The man stopped a few hundred feet away. He was ill equipped for hiking, draped in heavy black robes that accounted for his clumsy motions. One hand clutched a staff that shone with an internal glow, as though the wood were translucent and held fireflies captive within its core.

  It was Brother Marshall, the man who had run Holy Nights Cathedral.

  “Good morning,” the monk said. “Nice day, isn’t it?”

  “Where is the cathedral? Is this illusion magic?”

  “No, it’s nothing that complicated.” Brother Marshall looked strangely relaxed, considering that he was being held at gunpoint by a shapeshifter who had attempted to rob him a week earlier.

  “Drop the staff and get down on the ground,” Stark said.

  “No,” Brother Marshall replied.

  Stark’s finger tensed. But then he heard more rustling among the trees, and that rustling wasn’t coming from his people.

  His eyes flicked around the forest.

  It took him a moment to see what was moving. They blended in too well with the earth, and with extra moss and leaves draped over them, they were virtually invisible.

  Gargoyles.

  Stark could see three of them. Each was at least double the size of a gorilla. Their bodies were solid rock animated by magic, which meant that they felt pain about as acutely as a stone did, and would be as impossible to kill.

  He hadn’t seen them coming, dammit. He hadn’t kept his pack close enough either.

  And now he was separated from his shifter allies by a ring of gargoyles.

  That explained why Brother Marshall didn’t look worried.

  He leaned on his staff casually, cheek pressed to the glowing runes. “Lower the gun, Stark. You came back to look for my cathedral for a reason. Let’s talk.”

  It was almost painful to lower his sidearm. Stark didn’t do it as a gesture of surrender, though. He just knew that his shapeshifted form would be far more effective against the gargoyles than any number of bullets.

  “What do you want?” Brother Marshall asked.

  “I want your access to the Winter Court,” he said.

  Brother Marshall scoffed. “You want what?”

  “I know where those came from.” Stark jerked his chin toward the gargoyles. “I recognize unseelie magic when I see it. You’ve been to the Winter Court. You must have friends there because they made these for you. How did you do it? What did the queen want in exchange for some of her arcane magic? Did you give her blood or flesh or sex, or a little of each?”

  Brother Marshall looked offended. “I’m a holy man.”

  “You worship false idols.”

  “I wish I could live in ignorance as profound as yours.”

  Stark bristled. Impatience clawed at him, and it manifested in the itch of shapeshifting energy. If he let it seize him, if he allowed that power to roll through his body, he would soon have fangs and claws to show Brother Marshall exactly how ignorant he was.

  But if he slaughtered the monk—tempting as it was—he wouldn’t have the information he needed.

  “Those are unseelie work,” Stark said, enunciating each word carefully, “and I don’t care if you screwed every sidhe in the Middle Worlds to get them, but I need to know how you got into the Winter Court in the first place. I will get that from you.”

  “I’ll save you the effort. This isn’t worth the fight,” Brother Marshall said. “Holy Nights Cathedral sat on a ley line. I pulled the building through the lines to another location. Then I shut down my access. I don’t have a way into the Middle Worlds anymore. You’re about twelve hours too late.”

  A breeze stirred the monk’s robes. He didn’t just smell like cherries. He smelled like silver, too.

  He had a gun in his robes.

  “You don’t want to get into the Winter Court anyway,” Brother Marshall went on. “As I said, I had to shut down my access point to the ley lines. They sent out a crawler.”

  “Crawler?”

  “It’s something that follows the ley lines, like a spider in a web. Could be anything from the Winter Court. Could be a sidhe assassin, could be the sluagh, could be some kind of elaborate spell—I don’t want to find out what it is, and neither do you.” Brother Marshall gave Stark an appraising look. “I’m surprised you don’t already know.”

  The monk lifted his staff. Stark took a quick step back.

  “Relax,” Brother Marshall said. “I’m only going to show you something.”

  He swirled his staff through the air, as though stirring an invisible cauldron.

  Magic illuminated the forest. The gargoyles glowed like beacons, as did the staff itself.

  “Your pocket,” Brother Marshall said.

  Stark extracted the stone he’d taken from Chadwick Hawfinch. It was glowing, too. Its magic was identical to that of the gargoyles. Drenched in unseelie spells.

  But that wasn’t the only thing on Stark that was glistening.

  Light radiated from above him, though when he lifted his head, he couldn’t see where it was coming fr
om.

  “It’s on your forehead,” the monk said. “You’ve been marked.”

  Stark ran his fingers over his forehead. He couldn’t feel anything. “You’re telling me that this…crawler thing can track this?”

  “It can, but you’re not the crawler’s target or it would already be on you.” Brother Marshall drove the point of his staff into the ground and the light extinguished. “For now.”

  Rhiannon must have used real power to unleash an assassin that could crawl the ley lines. Monsters like that came at a high price.

  Why would she use a crawler if not to assassinate Stark? Who else was worthy of that kind of targeting?

  The only other person who knew that Rhiannon’s blood was red.

  “How do you manipulate the ley lines? The staff?” Stark asked.

  Brother Marshall’s grip tightened. “If you try to take this from me, I’ll release all kinds of holy mayhem on you. My gargoyles are far from the worst of what I have.”

  “What if I told you the crawler is heading toward Rylie Gresham right now?” Stark asked.

  It was a gamble, assuming that the monk would care about what happened to the werewolf Alpha. He was a human, probably not even a proper witch, wielding unseelie magic.

  But a grim expression darkened Brother Marshall’s features. “That’s not possible. Her bodyguards wouldn’t let a sidhe tag her like that.”

  “They don’t have to tag her. They tagged my Beta, and she’s on her way to Rylie Gresham right now,” Stark said.

  The monk raked a hand through his hair. “Jesus.”

  “Give me the staff. I’ll hunt this crawler down before it reaches them.”

  The gargoyles shifted on their clawed feet, stone groaning against stone, sending dust spraying from their joints. “No,” Brother Marshall said. “We’ll go together.”

  Deirdre and Rylie weren’t alone when they walked onto the open deck of the airship, but they had slightly more privacy than they had before. They left the OPA agents in the meeting room and only took the seelie guards, Trevin and Violet.

  Magic shimmered around the railings, making the heavy gray clouds beyond look like they were under water. That magic shielded them from the worst of the wind, though the air was still miserably damp.

  The sidhe guards didn’t follow Rylie and Deirdre to the railing. They stood back by the doors, watching, arms folded over their chests.

  “The OPA doesn’t know about the Ethereal Blade, do they?” Deirdre asked under her breath. The wards shielded them from the physical effects of the wind, but not the noise. It drowned out her words. Even the sidhe wouldn’t be able to hear them.

  “Some of them do know about the Twin Blades. The people who matter know. But it’s not public information, and I don’t know who among their agents I can trust.”

  “But you’re trusting me? The Omega you want to put under arrest?”

  “I know where you stand. That’s the difference.” Rylie gazed over the side of the ship. The UN building was behind the dirigible, so all they could see from their perspective was misty ocean. “I’m angry, Deirdre. I’m angry about so many things. But I don’t blame you for aligning yourself with Stark. After everything you’ve endured, it’s not surprising that you’d look for a strong leader to follow, and he’s incredibly charismatic.”

  “That’s not at all condescending,” Deirdre said.

  “God, but you’re so young.” Rylie’s hand lifted, as though she were thinking of touching Deirdre’s face, but it fell to her side again as quickly. “When I sent you after him, this wasn’t in the plan. I didn’t want you to become his Beta.”

  Deirdre rubbed her eyes. She felt suddenly exhausted. “Why did you have the Ethereal Blade?”

  “Why did you release those people from the safe house?” Rylie countered.

  “What does that have to do with anything? Are we playing twenty questions now?”

  Rylie folded her arms, drumming her fingers on her elbow. “Why, Deirdre?”

  Because Stark had told her that was what they were going to do, and she had learned to pick her battles with him. “We freed those people. That’s all. We were helping.”

  “By freeing those people, who willingly entered OPA custody, others died. Three people were murdered by the shifters before we could catch them and restrain them.”

  She hadn’t given a lot of thought to what would happen once they released shifters from the safe house.

  “Oh,” Deirdre said.

  “Yeah.” Now Rylie was getting worked up. “There are people pushing for a new Preternatural Registration Act. Do you remember what happened with that the first time?”

  Deirdre had only vaguely been aware of politics around that time. She’d been a child. Maybe seven or eight years old, and human. Policing preternaturals hadn’t mattered to her.

  “The OPA did insane things to our people. Preternaturals had to get permission to travel. We couldn’t keep our own children. We had to do miles of paperwork for stupid things and the smallest violation got us killed. Not arrested. Killed.”

  “That’s ancient history,” Deirdre said.

  “Not as ancient as you think. This was only twelve, thirteen years ago. Most of the people who legislated for that are still alive. And they want to bring it back—globally. That’s another reason why I’m meeting the secretary of the OPA today. Because you and Everton Stark released moon-sick shapeshifters onto the streets of New York City, and three mundane humans died for it. It’s another weapon in the toolbox of people who want to hurt us.”

  Deirdre’s chest was aching. “I didn’t know.”

  “If you think the worst consequence of Stark’s public acts of violence is a handful of deaths—or my death—then you’re wrong,” Rylie said. “Stark’s compelling. He’s a visionary. I understand why people are following him, but it’s naïve and wrong to think that he can do anything to save our people in the ways that matter.”

  “Rylie—”

  The Alpha talked over her. “Why did I have the Ethereal Blade? Who else do you think should have it? Do you think that the OPA should guard the Twin Blades, or some foreign government, or…who, Everton Stark?”

  “That doesn’t explain how you got one of the swords.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Deirdre, but you haven’t earned the right to know about that.” Rylie lifted a hand to keep her from interrupting. “I know I’m approachable. I’m friendly. I don’t act like an authority figure.” She stepped forward, and even though the woman was slight, Deirdre couldn’t help but step back. “That doesn’t mean we’re friends. It also doesn’t mean I owe you anything.”

  A lump formed in Deirdre’s throat. She swallowed hard, digging her fingernails into her palms. “Gage died for you.”

  “Yes. Gage did, and he knew everything about me. You’re not Gage.” Rylie folded her arms. “Where’s the sword? Did you give it to Stark?”

  “I tried.” She swallowed hard. “It was stolen by—” The deck of the airship rocked underneath her feet. Deirdre grabbed on to the railing reflexively, riding out the shudder. “What is that? Are we going somewhere?”

  Rylie balanced easily, knees bent, hands outstretched. Her eyes suddenly seemed very bright. “Airships don’t move like this.”

  The dirigible shuddered again, its nose pitching down below the clouds. Deirdre wasn’t ready for it. Her feet slipped toward the railing. Her head spun as the city below came into view. The streets far below were barely more than lines etched on the earth.

  She almost tipped over the rail when the airship shook harder, but reassuringly solid magic pushed back against her. The wards that protected them from the harsh blast of wind also protected her from falling off of the airship.

  “Who did you say took the sword?” Rylie asked.

  Magic foamed off the port side of the airship, silvery and cruel.

  “The unseelie,” Deirdre said.

  Rylie shed her bathrobe and kicked off her white pumps. She was shape
shifting quickly, slipping into her werewolf form as her sidhe guards flanked her.

  A black shape appeared in the clouds beyond the airship. The shadowy form grew quickly, increasing from a pinpoint to double the size of a human being. Deirdre could discern the outline of wings and clawed feet.

  “That’s a portal cut into a ley line,” Trevin said. “There shouldn’t be a ley line here.”

  Rylie looked like she wanted to respond, but she no longer could. Her mouth had already rearranged into a wolf’s muzzle.

  Deirdre reached for her gun and found nothing where it should have been holstered. She’d had her weapons confiscated by the OPA. She was unarmed.

  The black shape sliced through the portal, clouds billowing around it as it broke through.

  It was like a hawk. A really big hawk with a woman’s head.

  “Harpy!” Violet shouted.

  Clinging to the railing of the airship’s deck, Deirdre watched as the giant black bird wheeled around the other side of the envelope to find a better angle for attack. Red curls whipped back from the woman’s head.

  Niamh was finally flying again—not as a swan, as she was meant to be, but as something a thousand times more monstrous.

  And she was angling toward Deirdre.

  “I need a gun!” Deirdre shouted, trying to get the sidhe to hear her over the wind. “I can help!”

  “No way!” Trevin called back.

  Rylie growled, crouched down on her forelegs, tracking the motion of the harpy through the sky.

  Niamh folded her wings, plummeting toward them.

  She smashed into the wards.

  The harpy’s body ricocheted off of the magic.

  Niamh couldn’t get through the magic protecting the airship. As long as they were within those wards, they were safe from the harpy. At least, they should have been. But the dirigible was still falling. They were still under attack.

  Violet hauled Deirdre toward the door leading back into the airship.

  “Get inside!” the sidhe guard ordered. “Stay with the OPA agents!” She slapped the lock. The door slid open.