Suicide Kings, page 6
Honestly, I’m not sure if I ever really did.
But killing people? Fuck yeah, I know how to do that. Plus it gives me something else to focus on besides contemplating the realities of existence and identity like poking at a rotten tooth.
Last time I was here, this place was pretty much Willy-Wonka-land. Now it looks like a respectable English country estate. I can see the main building ahead surrounded by lush gardens and hedge mazes and can just make out the greenhouse dome of an arboretum and an observatory.
“Very Downton Abbey,” I say.
“More Game of Thrones, really. We’re expecting guests over the next couple of days. It’s going to be . . .”
“Interesting? Tragic? A nightmare?”
“Yes,” she says. “Family reunion. If we’re lucky some of us will survive the weekend.”
“Sounds to me like a good time to hit the Bahamas.”
“If only,” she says. “Otto’s not here yet. He’ll probably have someone with him. A lawyer. Maybe Reinhold, unless you killed him last night.”
“I did not kill him,” I say truthfully. I didn’t. Technically, I wasn’t even there at the time. She starts to say something, then stops, probably realizing that you’d better be prepared for the answer if you’re about to ask an awkward question.
She leads us to a black Mercedes. We get in the back. The doors close on their own and the car starts to roll. There’s a smoked glass partition between the driver’s compartment and us, so I can’t tell if there’s a driver. There probably isn’t.
I feel a small flare of magic and recognize the feeling of a privacy spell designed to block scrying or any other method of listening in on us. I’m a little surprised she feels the need to do it since this is her home, but given what she’s told me about her family situation, I really shouldn’t be.
“What’s the plan?” she asks.
“Depends. Is there anything you haven’t told me?”
“I don’t think so. Otto’s made the challenge. You set the conditions of the contest. All of them. Location, time, rules, everything. It doesn’t have to be fair, but if it’s blatantly not, Otto’s lawyer will likely throw a fit. The only actual requirement is that it happen within a week of my, fuck I hate this word, ‘champion’ declaring the conditions. Sooner would be better.”
“Oh, it’ll be sooner.”
“When?” she says.
“Sooner.”
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Which means I won’t like it,” she says.
“No. It means that I don’t know for sure yet. I’m waiting to hear on a couple of things. What’s with this family reunion? It can’t be a coincidence that Otto threw this at you now.”
“It isn’t,” she says. “It’s less a reunion and more of a conclave. Every ten years the heads of the different factions—Dad hates when I call them that, but it fits—get together for a weekend to discuss family business, debates over alliances, and shit like that.”
“And kill each other?”
“Yeah. Some of the conditions of the curse shift and a lot of restrictions are lifted. The last one was bad. Really bad. But I’ve heard of one where literally no one survived the first day. Caused a family war that lasted twenty years.”
“When was this?”
“Early eighteenth century,” she says. “I’m hoping this year is better.”
“You gonna have to kill anybody?” I ask. “It sounds like maybe you should set explosives in all their rooms and just set them off when they get here.”
She smiles. It’s barely a flicker, but it’s there. “You’re the second person to tell me that,” she says. “I’m seriously considering it.” The car glides to a halt. The doors pop open and we step out.
Up close the place is even more impressive. It looks a few hundred years old and should have a name like Rumsbottomsmythe Hall. It’s a sprawling Tudor monstrosity of brick and battlements, chimneys and towers. If Werther was going for imposing, he nailed it.
Amanda smooths out her dress and takes a deep breath, and we head toward the house. A tall, immaculately dressed butler opens the door for us.
“Miss Amanda,” he says. “And you must be Mister Eric Carter. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir.”
“Uh, likewise?” I say.
“Do you need anything, ma’am? Sir?”
“Not right now, Bigsby,” she says. “Thank you.”
“Very good, ma’am.” He disappears with a pop. One second he’s there, the next he’s not. Magical butler.
“That’s handy,” I say. “What is he?”
“Bigsby’s part of the estate. No matter what configuration Dad puts it in, he’s a constant. If you need him, just ask for him. You won’t take him away from anybody else. He can spawn off as many of himself as he needs.”
“Like ask him to get me a cup of coffee? Or murder an annoying cousin?”
“Yes to the first, no to the second,” she says. “I’ve tried. He’s as much a security system as he is a butler. If we try to kill each other he’ll intervene, unless my dad or I tell him not to.”
The country manor vibe extends into the house. The foyer is fucking enormous, with a high, arched ceiling and hanging chandeliers. I can’t decide whether it has a Bruce Wayne vibe or an Agatha Christie one. Given what Amanda’s been saying, maybe more Anne Boleyn.
“This won’t work,” Amanda says as she leads me into a dining hall with a table that will seat twenty people easy. “Dad! Room’s too big.”
I hear a distant “Sorry” from somewhere in the house, and the far wall and ceiling rush toward us like colliding freight trains. The windows get shorter and wider and the table shrinks down to seat six.
“Thank you,” Amanda calls out. “When he throws these things together, he always has rooms that he doesn’t pay much attention to or even know about.”
“Like putting something down and forgetting about it?”
“More like leaving a bunch of sawdust on the floor and not looking down. They’re leftovers.”
“Must make navigation a little difficult.”
“For guests, yeah. Bigsby can get someone where they need to be if they get lost, though. I never have a problem.”
“When Otto gets here, do I get to slap his face with a glove?”
“If you want,” she says. “As long as you don’t kill him until the fight you can do whatever you like. My head won’t pop.”
“Is that literally what happens when the curse triggers?”
“It’s not always the same, but head-popping is pretty common.”
Bigsby appears next to us. I find it a little jarring, but Amanda doesn’t even blink. “Excuse me, miss. Your cousin and his attorney have arrived.”
“Thank you, Bigsby. Can you show them to this room, and let my father know?”
“Absolutely, miss. I’ve already taken the liberty of informing Mister Werther. I’ll usher in the guests.” Then he’s gone.
“You know,” I say, “this would be an ideal location for an ambush.”
Amanda sits in one of the chairs and I slide into the one next to her. “There will be,” she says. “Just not the way you’re thinking. Otto’s expecting this to be a very different meeting.”
A moment later Bigsby leads in two men, one tall and blonde with a familiar chiseled face, the other almost as tall, with a Clark Kent vibe to him. Nondescript suit, nondescript haircut, nondescript glasses. It’s like he’s beneath my notice. My eyes want to slide off him and when he stops moving it’s like he becomes part of the background.
There is absolutely nothing remarkable about him at all, which sets off every goddamn alarm bell I have. I will be making sure I know where this man is at all times during this discussion. Unremarkable people are really good at sliding a knife into your ribs.
“Misters Otto Werther and Jonathan Salvatore, miss. Would anyone like a drink before the proceedings?”
“No,” Otto says. His kid looks just like him. Or did, until he was splashed all over the alley. Otto’s even got the same sneer. “We won’t be here long enough to finish it.”
“You can go, Bigsby. Hello, Otto,” Amanda says, oozing the sort of politeness that says “fuck you” and means it.
“I am here and I expect your concession,” Otto says. “Jonathan here has the necessary paperwork for you to sign. Your attorney can handle the rest of your affairs.”
He thinks I’m the lawyer. I know I’m not shabby, but unkempt at the very least. My tie’s loose, my tattoos are plainly visible. But then again, mage lawyers are mages first, so maybe it wouldn’t be all that surprising.
He hasn’t so much as glanced at me and I don’t say anything to disabuse him of that notion. I understand now what Amanda meant about an ambush. He doesn’t know about me.
“I’m not conceding,” she says. “Despite your best efforts, I have a champion.” She tilts her head toward me. I give him a little wave, then blow him a kiss.
“This is highly irregular,” Jonathan says. “We have it on good authority that your champion was killed last night. You can’t do anything but concede.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Amanda says. “A friend of mine was murdered last night, but he had nothing to do with this. When I find out who all were involved in his death, I’m going to end them. How do you know about that, Mister Salvatore?”
Salvatore turns a little green. He’s suddenly much easier to track. Interesting. Amanda has her full attention on him, and he doesn’t seem to be able to shake it.
“I must be thinking about someone else,” he says, lowering his eyes. Being the focus of all of Amanda’s attention must be like getting hit with a firehose. There’s just so much there.
“Yes, you must be,” Amanda says. “I never formally declared a champion. Eric Carter is my champion.” Otto still won’t look at me.
“I prefer hired ass-kicker, myself,” I say, “but y’all have your own fancy way of saying it.”
Otto’s very white skin begins to turn a lovely shade of pink. Between him and Salvatore it’s starting to look downright festive in here. “Jonathan?” he says. The lawyer is going through a briefcase filled with paperwork that I hadn’t noticed he brought in.
“Very irregular,” he mutters. “Very irr— Oh.” Crestfallen, he looks at Otto. “She’s right, sir. As she didn’t formally declare a champion, she can do so now. The duel continues.”
Otto bangs both fists on the table and stands up, ready to loom over everyone. I bet he’s a great loomer. He doesn’t get very far, though.
“Is there a problem, Otto?” Attila Werther says from the doorway. Otto is physically straining to keep his rage in check.
“No, Uncle. Everything is fine.”
“Excellent,” Attila says. He looks like he’s in his late fifties or early sixties. I’m not sure, but I think he looks younger than he did last time I saw him. But what the fuck do I know? I’m pushing fifty and look like I’m thirty.
“Hello, Eric. It’s good to see you.”
“Likewise,” I say. “Like what you’ve done with the place.”
“Thank you. I just threw it together from odds and ends. Nothing special. Family’s coming over, you know. No reason to get fancy.” There’s no love lost between these two sides of the family. “Now as I understand it, you get to set the terms of the duel. Have you come up with anything?”
“I have a couple of ideas.”
“This is the challenge,” Otto says. “If the terms are not made then the duel is forfeit.”
“Otto,” Jonathan says in warning, but Otto’s not listening.
“We can finally put to bed this whole ridiculous notion that you could find someone who could best me in a duel. Concede and this man won’t have to die.”
My phone rings. “Excuse me. It’s the caterer,” I say. I turn away like that’s going to keep anyone from hearing the conversation, but it gives Otto my back. I may not know rich mage etiquette, but I am a master at pissing people off.
“Alice. Good to hear from you. Do we have—Fantastic. I’ll talk to you soon.” I hang up and slide the phone into my pocket. I turn back to everyone staring at me.
“Last minute details,” I say. I let the silence go on too long to see who breaks first. Unsurprisingly, it’s Otto.
“What are the terms? Tradition suggests a single attack with a spell from twenty paces. Or a fight with ensorcelled rapiers. Or—”
“Pit fighting,” I say.
“What?”
“Pit fighting,” Amanda says, not missing a beat, as if she’d been in on the plan the whole time. “You know, Thunderdome, the Octagon?”
“Two men in, one man out,” I say. “Goes on until one of us taps out or dies. The rules are pretty straightforward. No holds barred. We go in wearing pants—I’d suggest MMA shorts or gi pants. Nothing else comes in with us. No hidden knives, guns, saps, rhinos, whatever. Not that that matters for mages. I mean, if you don’t try the whole sword-of-swirling-energy trick, I’ll honestly be disappointed.”
“Where will this be?” Jonathan says.
“Quick Change Alice’s Bar and Brawl,” Amanda says. I’d hoped she’d figure out where I was going with this when I answered the phone. “It’s in Long Beach in a space-shifted airplane hangar.”
“This is outrageous,” Otto says. “I will not—”
“Yes, you will,” Attila says, his voice filled with warning. For a second I think Otto’s going to challenge Attila, but apparently he’s not that stupid.
“Of course, Uncle. I take it this space is adequate and private enough for this”—he makes a face like he’s blowing a warthog—“pit fight.”
“Adequate? Absolutely,” I say. “Private? Oh hell no. This is gonna be the event of the year, my friend. They’re already starting to make book on this one and it doesn’t start for another twelve hours.”
“It’s tonight?” Jonathan says. “But he needs time to prepare.”
“Well, if he can’t meet the terms of the duel—” I say.
“Tonight,” Otto says, standing and walking away. “Call Jonathan with the details.” All this time and he still hasn’t looked at me.
“Oh, hang on,” I say. “I know I’ve got it here somewhere. I think this belongs to you.” I toss him a plastic baggie with Reinhold’s ring in it. “Sorry. I couldn’t get it off the finger.”
He picks up the bag and stares at Reinhold’s severed finger for a long moment, then finally looks me in the eye. I can see murder in that look. I give him a wink and a smile. He stalks out without saying a word, and if he hadn’t already been the angriest he’d been in his entire life, I think that might have pushed him over the edge.
Like I said, I am a master at pissing people off.
Chapter 6
“Pit fighting?” Attila says.
“I was leaning toward lucha libre, but I need to get my mask and cape dry-cleaned.”
“Being a smart-ass isn’t going to save you, boy,” he says.
“No, it won’t,” I say. “But it will keep him on his toes. I need any edge I can get. If he can’t think straight because he’s too pissed off at me, I’ll take it.”
“Understood,” Attila says. “One last thing. I take it Alice is expecting my call.”
“They’re expecting somebody to call to make final arrangements. Seating for the Emperor, shit like that. I was planning on doing it, but you might not like what I come up with.”
“Indeed. It’s been too long since Alice and I have chatted. I’ll give them a call. And here my involvement must end. I can’t offer advice or be privy to any discussions on either side. I’m the one who has to judge this debacle. All I can say is what I’m obligated to say to my nephew. Good luck.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Amanda says. Neither one of them is happy about this situation.
“I’ll leave you to it,” he says and leaves the room.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Amanda says.
“Me too. Look, when it comes down to it, whether we’re flinging fireballs at each other atop a mountain range or trying to stab each other with lawn darts, this is to the death. I don’t know that I’ll win. I might not walk out of there. But if I don’t, I promise you, neither will he.”
“Thank you,” Amanda says. She looks at me like she’s trying to figure out a troublesome piece of machinery and not getting very far with it. “Last night you said you didn’t want anything for this.”
“I still don’t. You’re having trouble with this idea. Why?”
“Everything’s got a price,” she says.
“Maybe some things shouldn’t. Why was Freddy going to do it? What did he want?”
“Nothing,” she says. “I’d known him since I was a kid. He and Dad knew each other. He came over all the time and taught me how to fight. He was like an uncle. More family than my family ever has been.” Amanda’s voice cracks but snaps back just as quickly. She’ll do her grieving in private.
“And we’re not friends is what you’re saying.”
“No, not like—”
“I get it. We barely know each other. You’ve known me for a month. Hell, I’ve only known me for a month. I just came back from the dead, so why am I risking dying all over again to take on some Aryan asshole over wizard politics? You’re thinking maybe this is some kind of trap. That I want to have something to hold over you, and by extension, your dad.”
“Is that what you want? A favor? More than one? Done. Anything you want.”
“No. If I wanted that, I’d have told you. It’d be stupid not to,” I say. “Amanda, you don’t have anything I want.”
