I PUT GRENDEL IN THE BATHROOM AND OPENED the door.
Erra stood on the landing, wrapped in a fur cloak, her face hidden by a hood. I was about five seven. She topped me by at least ten inches.
Would it have killed her to wait a couple hours and let me catch my breath?
I held the door open. “I get a visit in person. I’m so honored.”
“You should be. There is a ward on the door. Yours or did you pay someone?”
“Mine.”
She held out her hand, giving me a glimpse of calluses at the base of her fingers—from sword use. Man-hands, Bob had said. I could see why he’d think that.
The ward clutched at her skin in a flash of blue. It had to hurt like hell.
She clenched her fist.
The blue glow solidified around her hand. Hairline cracks dashed through it. For a long second it held, like a pane of translucent blue glass, and then it broke. Magic boomed inside my skull, exploding into a crippling headache.
Message received. Whatever I could make, she could break. Subtle “R” Us.
Pieces of the ward fluttered down, melting in midair. Erra shook her hand with a grimace. “Not too bad.”
My skull wanted very much to split open. “Shall we fight now or fight later?”
“Later.” She strode into my apartment. Apparently she wanted to talk. That was fine. I could always make her bleed later. I closed the door.
Erra pulled back the hood, revealing a mass of dark brown, nearly black hair, slipped her cloak off, and tossed it on my bed. She wore loose black pants and a tailored leather jerkin studded with metal. A simple longsword hung at her waist. No frills, functional hilt, double-edged blade about twenty-eight inches long. Good for thrusting or slashing. The kind of sword I’d carry. Her calluses said she knew how to use it. My vision of facing a spear fighter just went up in flames. She cracked wards like walnuts, she was a giant, and she was good with the blade.
“You don’t spit fire, do you?”
“No.”
“Just checking.”
Erra faced me. She looked older than me by about ten years. Her sharp nose protruded farther, almost Roman in shape, and her lips were fuller than mine. Looking into her dark eyes was like being shocked with a live wire. Magic churned in her irises, fueling towering arrogance, intelligence, and white-hot temper. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck rose.
Her eyes narrowed. She scrutinized me.
I raised my chin and stared back.
Erra laughed softly. “What do you know? Blood ran true. A little remainder of my own mortality. Thousands of years and godlike power, and here I am, getting challenged by a babe who looks like me.”
She had me there. Nobody with an iota of sense would have any doubt that we were related. Same skin tone, same eyes, same shape of the face, same smirk, same build, except she was huge. We even wore similar clothes.
The Dubal ritual suddenly made sense. I hadn’t seen myself in the smeared cloudy liquid. I’d seen her. The second anyone viewed us side by side, the jig would be up.
Erra surveyed the apartment. “This is where you dwell?”
“Yep.”
“It’s a hovel.”
What was it lately with everyone commenting on my accommodations? My office was shabby, my apartment was a hovel . . .
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-six.”
She blinked. “You are just a baby. When I was your age, I had a palace. Servants and guards and teachers. You never forget your first one.”
“First what?”
“Your first palace.”
I rolled my eyes. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Erra strolled into the back and glanced into the library. “I like your books.” She picked up Julie’s picture off the shelf. “Who is the child? She isn’t of the family.”
“An orphan.”
Erra’s fingers slid across the black ribbon. “What happened?”
“She died.”
“Children often do.” She turned and nodded at the kitchen. “It’s cold. Do you have anything to drink?”
“Tea.” This was surreal. Maybe if I fed her some cookies, she would postpone turning Atlanta into a wasteland.
“Is it hot?” Erra asked.
“Yes.”
“That will do.”
I went into the kitchen, made tea, poured two cups, and sat. Slayer was waiting for me on the chair. I slid it on my lap and looked at Erra. She folded herself into a chair across from me and dumped half a cup of honey into her tea.
Of all the people I knew, I had the best shot at taking her down. I wasn’t at my best right this second, but we don’t get to pick the time to fight for our lives.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
Thinking that you have better reach but I’m faster. “Why a sword and not a spear?”
“The spear is good to pin things in place. Swords tend to break under the weight. I’ve seen you fight and you deserve a sword.” A corner of her mouth crept up. “Unless you plan to stand still while I skewer you.”
I shrugged. “The thought did cross my mind, but I have a reputation to uphold.”
Erra chuckled. “I figured out who you are. You’re the lost child Im carries on about, when he gets his attacks of melancholy.”
Melancholy, right. He mourns the fact he failed to kill me—how charming. “Im?”
“A childhood nickname of your father’s. Do you know who I am?”