Fresh Meat Read online

  "Right," Deacon agreed slowly. "That's why witches and all get tired so quickly—they're sacrificing their own energy to power the spell."

  Wyatt nodded. "Precisely. It's also why demons and imps are nearly impossible to stop—they have near-limitless energy. Demons from their territory, imps from their horns. Alchemists, though, we don't have the natural well of energy that sorcerers and witches possess. We have to supplement it, usually from our surroundings, but sometimes from items we have on us or gather specifically for whatever spell we're casting. These runes do that—the alchemist they hired is casting spells and using energy from his surroundings, or possibly the victims themselves, to make up for what they inherently lack. You'd never see these runes on a circle drawn by other magic users, unless they were doing a blood sacrifice or something like that."

  Deacon just kept feeling more and more tired. "So we've got an alchemist helping goblins kidnap and butcher people."

  "Basically."

  "Wonderful." It was sickening and infuriating. Goblins were murdering humans for food they didn't actually need, just really liked, and now there was a human helping them do it. Deacon wasn't certain which disgusted him more. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to come and take a closer look at the circle, tell me what else you can figure out?"

  The way Wyatt's face lit up made Deacon's chest ache, though heck if he could say why. "You want me to come help you?"

  Why in the world did he say it that way? "Is that weird?"

  Wyatt's too-beautiful face closed up. "I mean, you don't like me. It's weird you'd ask for my help and not just put up with me tagging along with Jackie. If you want me to call him, I can. He'd understand wanting help with goblins like this."

  "No, we can manage fine. It's not like we're doing much right now anyway—just going to inspect the spell circle." Deacon frowned. "I've never said I don't like you."

  Strangely, that just got him a bittersweet smile that was gone in the next breath. "I'll get my stuff!"

  Deacon rubbed his temples. "What in the world is going on?"

  Pentacle growled, partly in concern but mostly in amusement.

  "That's not a helpful answer, dragon," Deacon replied. "What am I being obtuse about?"

  Pentacle, naturally, didn't deign to elaborate. Deacon lifted his eyes to the ceiling and texted Heather an update.

  By the time he was done, Wyatt had reappeared, now in dark jeans and a dark blue, long sleeved t-shirt that did wicked, delightful things to his stupidly pretty eyes. He shrugged into a gray hoody with dark blue bands up the arms and tucked little boxes, bottles, and more into various pockets, including some pouches attached to his belt. He also wore some serious boots, the kind that could do some real damage with little effort. At least he didn't have a gun. The thought of Wyatt with a gun was terrifying. He'd probably shoot everything except his target. "All set, Captain."

  "You can call me Deacon."

  Wyatt grinned. "If I keep calling Jackie 'Sheriff' despite his orders, what makes you think I'll listen to you?"

  "You really just like being trouble, don't you?"

  Wyatt shrugged. "Not really. Just seems to find me. In the blood, I guess." For a moment, he seemed tired, but it was gone in the blink of any eye. Kid was more mercurial than spring weather.

  Deacon pushed to his feet and followed Wyatt out.

  "Which way?" Wyatt asked. "Do you mind if we stop for coffee?"

  "I never complain about coffee," Deacon said. "The body—what was left of it, anyway—was found just off Ivanhoe Street, down an alleyway next to the laundromat. Know it?"

  Wyatt scoffed, as though offended by the question, then turned sharply and headed down the block, turned right, and walked most of another block before pushing into a quaint, friendly little coffee shop. The baristas greeted him with enthusiasm, and Wyatt chatted animatedly, the way Deacon normally only saw him do with Jackie and the rest of their team, and the women in the club.

  Deacon hung back, feeling suddenly old and out of place. Pentacle growled low and gave him a hard shove from behind, sending Deacon nearly toppling right into the nearby food display case. He spun around, ignoring the looks he could feel from everyone else in the shop. "Dragon! Behave!"

  Pentacle simply prowled up to his side and stared inside the case. Deacon didn't have to look to know the object of his fascination. He'd met Pentacle when he was delivering groceries to one of his guards who'd been laid up recovering from a nasty curse. She'd been spending the downtime watching over several dragons whose worthless masters had been killed or run off.

  Deacon had only just started putting the groceries away when a bag of marshmallows went not so subtly sliding off the island counter. He'd gone around the island to playfully reprimand the mischievous thief and found himself with a dragon. It was one of the precious few days in his career that he'd called off work. He'd taken Pentacle home and let his dragon claim him. It had been quite the night, acquiring dragon and his first lover all at once, when he'd assumed he'd never have either.

  He might never have the partner and kids he'd always wanted, but he had a dragon, and that was more than any Mordred had ever dreamed of.

  Along the length of his back, cutting from the right shoulder to the left cheek, Pentacle's clinging mark seemed to tingle, and nearby Pentacle rumbled fondly.

  While Wyatt was waiting for his coffee, Deacon ordered an Americano with cinnamon and two of the marshmallow rice squares. He gave one of them over, then tucked the other away for later, smiling as Pentacle happily devoured the treat.

  Wyatt rejoined them a couple of minutes later, and Deacon eyed his drink, which smelled of sugar, cardamom, and vanilla. "What in the world is that? I thought you were getting coffee."

  Wyatt's face lit up. "It's called a vanilla spice latte! It's espresso, vanilla, and cardamom. They're the best. Did you want to try it?"

  "No, I'm not much for sweet. But thanks."

  "At least you didn't tell me I drink shitty fake coffee."

  "Heather lives off something that is bright pink and smells like sugar, but she swears it has white coffee or something in it. People like what they like." He sighed. "I just wish goblins didn't like eating humans."

  Wyatt only shrugged one shoulder. "At least they use them for food. There's an honesty in that, even if it's a grisly one."

  Deacon blinked. Stared. "What in the world does that mean?"

  "It means there's worse out there than goblins," Wyatt said, then gave another one of his blinding smiles, reverting back to reckless, crazy kid. "Let's get going, huh?"

  "…Yeah." Deacon followed him out, and they walked side by side in silence as they crossed the city. Pentacle prowled ahead of them, sometimes playing, sometimes sniffing and inspecting.

  Ivanhoe Street was guarded by four pairs of knights and dragons—two knight dragons, one tri-black, and one red. Deacon's favorite thing about his clan was that they accepted all dragons. As they should, since they'd helped create the elemental dragons. But the other clans should have done more over the years, instead of letting the problem fester into the syndicates.

  But whatever, Mordred was back, and they accepted everyone.

  He bid the knights good evening, and they replied congenially—then spied Wyatt and started chatting a mile a minute. Why did Wyatt talk-talk-talk to everyone else, but their whole walk together here, he'd barely said two words to Deacon?

  Then again, Wyatt had said he thought Deacon didn't like him. Nor had Deacon tried to break the ice, so he didn't have room to talk. He was forty-two going on fifteen tonight. Who the heck cared whether or not Wyatt talked to him?

  When they reached the alleyway after bidding the knights good evening, two more pairs stood at the mouth of it. They saluted as they saw Deacon, then smiled when they spotted Wyatt. "Hey, Thorne. Still on for Friday?" the leftmost one, Muhammed, asked.

  "You know it."

  "Dare I ask?" Deacon asked, squashing an irrational burst of annoyance that apparently his entire team wa
s buddies with Wyatt.

  "Pool," Muhammed replied. "We're 3-3 right now."

  Deacon cast him an amused look. "Does your mother know you're gambling?"

  Muhammed scoffed. "I would never gamble. We're just having fun, seeing who can win best of twenty. Anyway, betting and tournaments and such would be pointless, since nobody in this city—or out of it—can beat Ned. That demon is eerily good at pool."

  "I see," Deacon replied. "Anything unusual happen since you got here?"

  The men straightened, snapping back to work mode. The second guard, Richie, replied, "Everything's been quiet. The only ruckus was a couple of cats fighting over a scrap of something I didn't look too closely at, though I think it was a chicken nugget."

  "Okay. You can all head on home. Once we're done here, I'll have Wyatt ward the place so no one can mess with it." He looked to Wyatt for confirmation and got a shrug of 'duh, easy.'

  The guards hesitated, but when Deacon jerked his head, departed, already calling the other guards to let them know what was up.

  "Why did you want them gone?" Wyatt asked, pulling off his wool gloves and stuffing them into a pocket from which he pulled a second pair. They were black, soft-looking leather with an open back, and seemed to fit him like a second skin. Smooth, supple, and unreasonably distracting as he flexed his fingers.

  "—Deacon?"

  "Huh? Sorry, got lost in thought." Of those hands. In those gloves. Touching him.

  "I asked why you sent your guys home?"

  "They're already spooked, and whatever we find here will make it worse. I've gone up against goblins like this before." His stomach churned with the memory and threatened to dump its contents. "I shouldn't even be including you. Are you sure you're okay with this?"

  He expected one of Wyatt's usual indignant, cocky replies. Instead, he a got a strange, sickly smile that sent shivers down his spine. "I can handle goblins, Captain. I might look like a kid or some twit pretty boy only fit for the cover of a glossy magazine, but death and gore aren't new to me. I told you, there's worse than goblins out there. Now let's get to work."

  He stepped past Deacon into the alleyway, the darkness swallowing him up—no, that wasn't right. It was more like the darkness seemed to wrap around him like a lover.

  Then the air thrummed softly with magic, and two floating orbs of golden light banished the night—and revealed a nightmare.

  There was blood everywhere: the ground, the walls, the garbage, and other refuse scattered about. Deacon spied a few teeth in the mess, and other stuff he didn't want to look too closely at unless he had absolutely no other choice.

  In the middle of the mess was a spell circle, blindingly white in the gloom and shimmering. That was more than a little strange, since nearly all circles were drawn with chalk.

  Wyatt crouched down and gingerly touched it. He rubbed residue from the shimmery white substance between his gloved fingers, frowning intently, a furrow between his eyes. He muttered quietly to himself, occasionally jotting things in a notebook as he wandered all over the spell circle, examining it with single-minded thoroughness.

  Shame ran through Deacon, as cold and miserable as the wind that occasionally kicked up. Jackie had told him once that Wyatt was more than he seemed and not remotely a kid, not really. But Deacon hadn't listened, then or since.

  But the young man in front of him moved and acted with ease, unaffected by the grisliness of his surroundings, clearly knowledgeable regarding the circle, and used to working in unpleasant conditions. No wonder he always got so upset at constantly being dismissed as a kid, if he was this impressive so far.

  Deacon let him work and motioned for Pentacle to do his own exploring, see what his senses could pick up. Deacon, meanwhile, remained at the mouth of the alleyway, taking up the role of guard, his gun at the ready in his right hand, with other weapons for close combat, including knives and the sap gloves he currently wore. If anything came at them, hopefully he'd see it in time to stop it, or at least slow it down enough for Pentacle to come and finish the job.

  Wyatt stood, and Deacon turned slightly more toward him, though he still kept one eye on the mouth of the alleyway. It was highly unlikely the goblins would come back, but better safe than sorry. "So what have you figured out?"

  "That whoever we're messing with is a good alchemist," Wyatt said, flipping through his notebook. "Nowhere near as good as me, but probably worth whatever they're being paid."

  "Not as good as you, huh?" There was the expected cockiness. "Why do you say that?"

  "Because if I had done this circle, I could have done it with a third less runes. They don't build and combine properly; there are too many simple runes where they should be using complex runes. It's amateurish, even if the end results are impressive."

  "I see." That much, he really did. There were base runes, the original twenty-one. Simple runes, which were runes built from one or two of those base runes—like inverting 'life' or combining 'life' and 'need' into one of the parts of a healing spell. Complex runes were built from three or more. Master runes were well-established super-complex runes often used as anchors and such in spell work. "So what is this spell circle meant to do?"

  "Hard to tell entirely right off the bat," Wyatt said, eyes still on his notes. "But I think, examining all the anchors and a few other key runes, and the fact it's a three-layered, interlocked circle, that it's meant to kill, preserve, and transport all at once. But those are a lot of things to combine in one circle, and I'm only skimming it right now. I can tell you for sure in a few days, once I can break down some of these rune chains. At least he's making it easy for me by using all these simple runes."

  "That would certainly fit, if it's goblins. It would also explain how they've been snatching people so easily, if all they're doing is slinking around with an alchemist to lay traps. So what happened here that there's goblin blood all over the place?"

  "Don't know, but I suspect that the unfortunate person they tried to take tonight was less human than everyone involved expected, and that messed with the spell somehow. From there, it just turned into an ugly fight," Wyatt said. "I also wonder if whatever was used to draw the spell might have contributed. It's chalk mixed with something, but I can't puzzle it what. I've got samples collected, though, so I'll figure it out soon."

  "Heather didn't mention anything about it, so get some samples for us too."

  Wyatt rolled his eyes but moved to comply—and froze as Pentacle growled softly, low and mean.

  Deacon snapped to attention. "Get back. Pentacle, to me."

  Wyatt looked like he wanted to argue, but he doused his lights and slipped into the shadows. Deacon did the same, tucking his gun away in its shoulder holster because this was clearly going to be a close-combat venture and a gun would just cause problems.

  Pentacle took up position in front of him in a defensive crouch that could swiftly turn offensive.

  Voices slowly trickled in, indistinct at first but rapidly sharpening.

  "Stop your bitching," said a querulous tenor. "I need to know what went wrong, unless you want to bring those cultists down on all our heads."

  Deacon swore he heard a soft 'shit' from the furthest corner of the alleyway, but before he could figure out how to tell Wyatt to shut up, the mouth of the alleyway was overtaken by four figures: three goblins and a human in a puffy winter coat who was panting loudly from the walk. He shone a thin, useless penlight over the circle as he approached it.

  One of the goblins said, "I smell dragon. Fresh. Someone was just here."

  They all stilled, and Deacon swore silently. Now was his chance to possibly nip this whole thing in the bud, but a close fight with this many people in a narrow alleyway was a fool's game even with a dragon. And killing them wouldn't lead him to the rest.

  "Great," said the alchemist. "I told you we should have come here sooner, cleaned the whole damn mess up."

  "Walking around in daylight is guaranteed to draw Mordred's attention," snapped one of the other
goblins. "Just hurry the hell up."

  "Yeah, yeah," the alchemist groused. "God, this is gross. It smells like ass."

  "It smells like bad blood," replied the third goblin. "Whatever went wrong, it had to do with that human. He wasn't just human. But I don't recognize the smell, only that it's bad. Not good meat. Pity, he was of a good size, would have gotten plenty of cuts from him."

  The alchemist just grunted, while the goblins stood watch and muttered amongst themselves, slipping out of the English that most paranormals in the States used and into their own language.

  Deacon weighed his options. He could attack now, maybe capture one or two of them—but it was the alchemist he needed most, and there was little chance he'd get to him before one of the goblins got him away. These guys were long, lean, and mean, clearly a protection detail. They wouldn't win against Pentacle, but they'd go down hard. And they might take a fight with Mordred as a sign to pack up and move elsewhere, which meant this problem would just continue.

  But when was he likely to get such a good chance at getting information?

  It was a miracle the goblins hadn't sniffed them out. They weren't good for much more than smelling meat that was already dead, at which point they were the kings of the carrion eaters, but if they got curious enough, it wouldn't take them long to find Deacon, Pentacle, and Wyatt.

  There was a sharp, small burst of dazzling light, then the alchemist screeched in pain and jerked back, stumbling over his own feet, tripping, and landing in a pile of rancid-smelling garbage bags.

  "What the hell was that?" one of the goblins hissed.

  "Somebody booby-trapped my circle," the alchemist snarled. "I know this trap. That bitchy little psychopath was here. Thorne. I'll kill him when I find him. Nobody told me he was in town." He lifted his burned left hand, scowling at it. Deacon's brow rose: the second two fingers were missing, and from the looks of it, they'd been neatly cut away. Not surgical precision, which would make more sense; no, this looked like someone or something had chopped the fingers right off.