Irregulars - lanyon Josh - Страница 49
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“All right.”
“That’s something I’d heard of but never seen demonstrated.”
“There’s a lot of Aztaw magic that could be useful to the division.”
“Does the mirror work only for those who’ve died?”
“No, anyone can use it,” Deven said. “It can even tell the immediate future, but that’s rarely useful since it shows only a few seconds, and those seconds are usually just putting the mirror back in your pocket.”
August smiled at that. Deven was startled by how such a small gesture could transform the man’s face, how it made him look, for one moment, beautiful.
But August’s smile vanished as quickly as it came. “I’m surprised the Irregulars have allowed such a gap in knowledge about another realm to exist.”
“Aztaw isn’t very forgiving to human beings. There would be little opportunity to collect data.”
“You survived it.”
“Yeah, but I’m not particularly better off for the experience.” Deven was quoting his therapist, since he had no idea whether or not he would have been a different person had he not moved to Aztaw with his father.
August studied him. “Is that where you had your throat cut?”
“Yes.”
“Who did it?”
“Lord Jaguar.”
“Why?” August asked.
Why was such a strange question to ask about anything, really. “I was his hostage. He decided to sacrifice me for my blood.”
“How did that happen?”
“My father was the first and last NATO Irregular Affairs ambassador to Aztaw and I moved there with him when I was ten. We were under the protection of Lord Knife, who was the most powerful of the lords at the time, and my father established lucrative trade agreements with Lord Knife’s house.”
“What did they trade?” August asked.
“Human blood in exchange for Aztaw-enchanted weaponry. My father thought it would reduce the number of humans kidnapped from the natural world and dragged down to fuel spells.”
“Did it?”
“I was too young to know at the time. And within two years Lord Knife’s supremacy was challenged. War broke out between him and Lord Jaguar’s dynasty, and Jaguar took me hostage and threatened to kill me if my father didn’t end his allegiance with Lord Knife and trade with him instead.”
August no longer looked sleepy. “What did your father do?”
“He told Lord Jaguar he’d rather have me killed than betray his allegiance with Lord Knife. He said it presented him an opportunity to prove his loyalty.”
August blinked. There was an uncomfortable silence.
“That’s pretty shitty,” August finally said.
Deven shrugged.
“So Lord Jaguar ordered your execution?”
Deven nodded. “I was held at his feet by a soldier and he slit my throat.”
August didn’t look at Deven with sympathy, which was a relief. Deven told this story to few people, and when he did, it usually led to displays of pity that made him uncomfortable. He didn’t want pity for something that wasn’t his doing.
“But you survived.” August eyed him keenly.
“Aztaws move slowly. I was able to kick the soldier restraining me and break free. I pulled his ankle and by luck he fell off the sacrificial dais, cracked open his skull, and died. Lord Jaguar was impressed with my reaction and speed and decided my life was worth more than a sacrifice in his ritual. He stopped my blood loss with a time trap and spared my life.”
“Is he still alive?”
“No.” Deven swallowed. “I regret I lost my opportunity to avenge his death when I fled Aztaw.”
August’s eyebrows came together. “He cut your throat and you feel guilty about not avenging his murder?” He snorted. “You’re more messed up than I thought.”
Deven felt his face flush with anger. “He was a great lord and I owe everything I am to him.”
“And what is that, exactly?” August’s mouth curved into a sneer. “You’re clearly not just an Aztaw magics expert. You keep reaching for that knife in your back pocket.”
Deven realized he was reaching for his knife and quickly let go, resting his hands in front of him.
“You’re a soldier then,” August continued, “or, worse, an assassin. When you are uncomfortable your instincts are violent. And clearly you lack the skills to blend in to normal society, otherwise you wouldn’t be taking shit consulting jobs for the Irregulars.” He shook his head. “You ever hear of Stockholm syndrome?”
Of course he had heard of Stockholm syndrome. His therapist had told him all about it. “You don’t know anything about me,” Deven said, his anger rising.
“True. Nor do I care,” August said coldly. “All I care about is finding out who killed my partner and my friend. If you have skills that help me, then you’ll be useful. If you’re just an under-socialized nut job who the division’s taken on as a charity case, I don’t have time for you.”
“I’m not a charity case.”
“Then why were you included on the guest list of the annual under-socialized nut job Christmas cookie-making party?”
Deven opened his mouth to respond, but August held out his hand. “We’re here.” He jumped out of the car before the driver had even put it into park.
Deven followed the agent out of the car, rage pulsing through him, deep and irrational.
For one thing, he’d hated that cookie party. It had felt demeaning.
And he despised it when anyone said anything about Lord Jaguar. He was too great to even be spoken of by the likes of these people.
He recalled his therapist’s shocked face when he’d first broached the subject of Lord Jaguar’s kindness to him. Everyone here saw him as a monster. They didn’t understand that, in a world of monsters, Jaguar had been Deven’s only friend.
They entered a mundane, industrial-looking L-shaped hotel. “Welcome to the wonders provided by government per diem rates,” August commented.
The Bristol Hotel was a nondescript cement structure overlooking a roundabout with a phallic statue in the center. The outward appearance resembled some sort of institution, but inside the hotel was clean and utilitarian. Tiled floors and white-painted walls lent the space an open air.
August gave their names to a young woman behind the counter. She smiled warmly as she handed over two plastic keycards. “You’ll be staying in room 210,” she informed them with a strong accent.
“We’re sharing a room?” Deven asked suspiciously.
August didn’t look very pleased himself. “Goddamn budget cutbacks!” He handed the receptionist his credit card. “Any chance it’s a non-smoking room?”
“All rooms are smoking rooms,” the woman told him.
“Of course they are.” August sighed. “I had my luggage dropped off here.”
The woman called someone in Spanish and a man returned with five suitcases.
“I had to bring equipment,” August snapped, seeming to think his luggage required an explanation.
“The branch office doesn’t have supplies for you?” Deven asked.
“I like using my own.” August nodded to the concierge, who wheeled his luggage to the elevator.
At the door to their room, August palmed the concierge a tip, grabbed his bags, and opened the door. He immediately threw his belongings on the closest bed.
Deven entered carefully, eyes darting to the corners and checking out the bathroom shadows. The carpet was a shocking purple. The bedspreads were plaid and there was a faux wooden headboard nailed to the wall behind each of the two twin beds. The beds themselves were separated by a narrow bedside table with only enough room for the massive lamp and a large-numbered alarm clock.
There was too much furniture for such a small room. Overstuffed plush sitting chairs were huddled around a large round wicker and glass table. There was a wicker counter with drawers and an old television perched on top.
Thick plaid curtains hung to the sides of the windows. Deven pulled these shut. He feared forgetting and having himself jarred awake by the unwelcome glare of morning sunlight pouring through the window.
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