Magic Slays

TWO MEN AND A WOMAN KNELT ON THE GROUND, their hands on the back of their heads. Around us an empty field stretched. The blast zone lay just a few yards away, behind the tattered ribbon of the crumbling highway.

 

The boudas circled the captives like sharks. They wanted blood. I wanted blood.

 

Curran reached down and picked up the larger of the men by his throat. The man dropped his hands, letting his arms hang limp by his sides. Curran brought his face up close and peered into the man’s eyes.

 

The man shivered.

 

“Why?”

 

“Why not?” the smaller of the men said.

 

He didn’t look like a monster. He looked perfectly ordinary, just like the hundreds of people on the street. Wheat-colored hair. Clear blue eyes.

 

“You killed the entire town,” I said. “There are dead children lying in the street.”

 

He looked at me. His face was calm, almost serene. “We simply turned the tables.”

 

“How did these dead children hurt you? Enlighten me.”

 

He raised his chin. “Before the Shift, our society functioned, because to gain power, you had to work.

 

Success was paved with labor. You had to use your mind and your hands to climb the ladder, so you could live the American dream: work hard, earn money, live better than your parents. But now, in this new world, brains and hard work count for nothing, if you have no magic. Your future is determined by pure accident of birth: if you’re born with magic, you can rise to the very top with no effort. The safeguards that were meant to keep the dangerous and unbalanced from gaining power have failed.

 

Anyone can be in charge now. They don’t have to go to the right college, they don’t have to learn the rules, they don’t have to prove that they are good enough to be welcomed in the circles of power. All they have to do is be born with magic. Well, I have no magic. Not a drop. Why should I be disadvantaged? Why should I suffer in your world?” He smiled. “We don’t want to kill anyone. All we want is a chance to have the same opportunities as everyone else. To restore order and structure to the society. Those who can’t survive in our world, well, they are regrettable casualties.”

 

The boudas snarled in unison.

 

A woman walked out from behind the brush bordering the road. Her dirty dress waved about her, like a grimy flag. She came toward us, wiping her nose with a dirty hand. One of the wolves detached from the pack and moved to flank her.

 

I leaned closer. “One of your people attacked my office and tried to kill a child. My child. She had done nothing to you. Is she also a regrettable casualty?”

 

The man nodded. “It’s tragic. But look at it from my point of view: your child will grow up and prosper, while me and my children will be forced to struggle. She is no better than me. Why should your child take my spot under the sun?”

 

Nothing I could say would penetrate his skull, but I couldn’t help myself. “That’s nice. They taught you very well. But in the end, you’re scum. A common thug might murder a man for money, but you murdered dozens out of selfish hope. This better life you’re hoping to get for yourself will never happen, or you would be living it already, magic or not. You can’t think for yourself. You want an excuse for your failure and so you found someone to blame. If you survived, you would always be dirt, ground under someone else’s boot.”

 

The man raised his face. “Say what you want. I know my cause is just. You didn’t stop us. You just delayed the inevitable.”

 

He didn’t do it because his religion told him to murder people. He didn’t do it because he couldn’t control himself. He did it out of pure selfish greed, and he didn’t feel the least bit upset by it. I’d rather take on a demonic horde any day.

 

The woman reached us. She was past thirty, maybe thirtyfive. I looked into her eyes and saw nothing.

 

A painful empty void. She wasn’t a threat. She was a victim.

 

The woman stopped and looked at us. “Is it them?” she asked. Her voice was hoarse. “Is it them who did it?”

 

“Yes,” Curran told her.

 

She sniffed. Her gaze fixed on the three people kneeling in the dirt. “I want a turn.”

 

 

 

Andrea stepped close to her.

 

“They killed Lance,” she said. “They killed my babies. My whole family is dead. I want a turn.”

 

Andrea put a hand on her arm. “Ma’am . . .”

 

“You give me my turn!” The woman’s voice broke into a sob. She clamped her hand on Andrea’s fingers, trying to wrench them open. “I’ve got nothing left, you hear! Nothing. My whole life’s gone. You let me at these sonsabitches, you—”

 

Curran walked over to her. She went quiet.

 

“If you wait,” he said, “I promise you’ll get your turn.”

 

She sniffed again.

 

“Come on,” Andrea told her, leading her to the side gently. “Come with me.”

 

“Where were you taking the device?” Jim asked.

 

The smaller of the men raised his head. “We’ll tell you nothing. We are not afraid of death.”

 

Curran glanced at the boudas. A large spotted hyena moved forward, her strides slow and deliberate.

 

Jezebel. She dipped her head and stared at the three captives with unblinking predatory focus. She would kill them. We wouldn’t get much out of whoever she attacked. She needed to avenge Joey. After she was done, nothing would be left of them.

 

I wanted to join her. I wanted to hurt them. I wanted to mince them to pieces, slice by slice, and watch them suffer. But if we didn’t squeeze every drop of information out of them now, I’d have to look at more dead bodies.

 

No. No, this ended now. They might not be afraid of death, but they were terrified of magic, of being enslaved by those who wielded it. They’d given me all the ingredients for their own personal nightmare.

 

I looked to Curran. He raised his hand. Jezebel halted. She didn’t want to, but she stopped.

 

I turned to Jim. “Which one of them is the least valuable?”

 

He glanced at the smaller man. “He probably knows the most.”

 

I stopped before the larger man. “We’ll start with him, then.” Anticipation of the terror was always worse. I wanted the smaller man to stew in his fear a bit.

 

The captive stared at me. “What are you going to do to me?”

 

“You think we’re abominations.” I pricked my palm with the point of my throwing knife. A drop of red swelled. I squeezed my hand, letting the drop grow. “Let me show you just how abominable magic can be.”

 

 

Ilona Andrews's books