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“That’s because I’m not a musician,” I said as Pansy licked my face one last, long, ear-to-chin sweep before getting off my lap and sitting next to Mirabel with his head cocked, tongue lolling, eyes more cloudy, less dangerously burning.
I stood up, brushing a ridiculous amount of dog hair off my black skirt/pants combo. Maybe I should toss it instead of sending it to the cleaner, except that if I was actually going to keep Pansy...
“Absolutely not,” I said, taking two large steps away from Mirabel and the dog. He was kind of cute, but I didn’t have the time or energy to deal with a dangerous unexpected addition to my life. If someone came over to my apartment only to get bowled over by a fire-breathing bulldog… Hm. Maybe having a guard dog wouldn’t be a terrible idea if someone really was hunting me down. It would change my stats dramatically and literally throw off the scent of anyone looking for me.
“On the other hand,” I said, taking his collar. “It wouldn’t be right to execute the sweetheart just because he’s no longer useful.” That resonated deeply. “I’ll keep him until you can find someone else, or until you raise the funds, but to be honest, I’d rather you got better snacks first. I know that morale would increase dramatically if we weren’t all starving with miserable options. Food is important. For instance, if you offered sushi, I wouldn’t be able to stay away. Do you have dog food for Pansy?”
She stared at me, her expression shocked, because I’d side-lined her with my easy acceptance of the clearly difficult animal. Her eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
“Me? I’m a budding new musician and temporary dog boarder. Will he be all right spending all day in my apartment without supervision? I guess it’s your place, so if he does damage, you’ll pay for it. That’s all right then. I’ll see you next Saturday, or maybe I’ll just see Tiago if you’re too busy with important music master business.” I unhooked the guitar strap and used it as a leash. “Show me where his food is and I’ll get going.”
She blinked at me a few more times and then led me inside the music hall, to a corner tower where a mostly empty bag of food was in a corner of the sad kitchen.
“And with that, the cupboard was bare,” she said, sounding glum.
I patted her shoulder. “Don’t look at it like it’s empty, instead it’s making room for more and better opportunities. Tomorrow night I’ll buy you sushi if you come to the Cat’s Pause. You are taking a huge task upon yourself, and the rewards are probably more spiritual than monetary.”
She raised a brow and squinted at me, which was a very strange look. “Why do I feel like you’re scamming me?”
“I love SingSong City because it has my library in it, and I love my library. What’s good for the city is good for me, and you want to improve the city. I’m on your team, and so are a lot of other people here who are too savvy to admit it. Be patient with yourself and with them. Also, chew slowly so you don’t choke.”
I left the music hall with Pansy, a guitar in one hand, and a bag of dog food tucked under the other, feeling weirdly optimistic. I was on my way to becoming someone who wouldn’t ever be suspected of being the one who destroyed Song, and I’d always secretly wanted a dog.
Chapter
Seven
Ispent Sunday playing guitar in spite of my fingers being red and swollen, because if I played, Pansy would sit at attention at first, and then fall asleep after a few minutes, which meant that he wasn’t chewing on my chair, the only piece of furniture in my apartment, unless bookshelves counted as furniture. It was a comfortable chair, a down-stuffed, wingback floral that I liked to pull close to the gas fireplace or the window to watch the sky or read old books, mostly read books. My window’s view wasn’t great, since my apartment was tucked behind the large corner apartment that I’d never be able to afford as a librarian, but the sky was still beautiful.
I felt almost content, spending Sunday in my apartment, walking Pansy when he got up and went to the door, and getting smiles from women and children instead of men. I liked the changed dynamic. Why hadn’t I gotten a dog sooner, one that wasn’t a fire hazard? Maybe I still hadn’t shifted my mental state from that of a soldier to a civilian, and soldiers didn’t get pets when they probably wouldn’t be around to take care of them after they died. Death was always imminent.
Monday wasn’t nearly so relaxing, because when I went up the steps to the library, the door was ajar, and Bert’s body was lying on the floor three feet inside. For a moment I froze, my whole body paralyzed, but I shook it off and ran to drop down beside him, taking his pulse. He hadn’t been there long, and he wasn’t dead. Barely. I looked around desperately for help or danger, then saw Horace.
He was wrapped in a cocoon and hung between the two chandeliers from big black chains ten feet above the floor. For a second I just stared at the impossible sight then I ran to the main desk, slid over the top, rolled over the edge and then pushed the emergency button while I crouched out of sight, breathing hard, turning off my emotions so that I could act. Was whoever had done that still here? Did the button still work?
Horace had been a very high-level magician, trained in the military in addition to his more scholarly arcane knowledge, but there he was, probably dead, wrapped up like he was a spider’s dinner. I knew a spell that could suck the moisture out of a monster, which would probably kill a spider-like creature, but I hadn’t practiced it in years. I knew so many death spells, but I had no idea what I was up against. That’s why it was best to be the hunter instead of the prey. I felt like prey with my rapidly beating heart thrumming in my chest.
I pushed the button again, but I needed to get help for Bert right now, which meant crossing the empty floor to the outside where I could get cell service and call an ambulance.
I was halfway to his body when a clank of metal had me looking at the stairs that led down towards the lab, an area entirely blocked off by a silver coated wrought-iron gate. Coalescing darkness buzzed through the barrier and then took shape in the form of the Scholar. He took in the situation at a glance, snapped his fingers and then leapt up, turning once more into that buzzing blackness before he reformed on a chain holding Horace. The chandeliers swayed dangerously as he sliced through the substance wrapped around my boss with his claws, then he tried the chains with his teeth, flinching back shocked in a bright flash of blue-black light, which were made out of some kind of infernal metal.
I’d had to break chains like that, and it had taken a lot of time and a lot of magic. I shook my head and ran for the door. I needed to get help for Bert before I did anything else. As soon as I was outside, I called 911 and then told the woman that someone had attacked the Library of Antiquities, then hung up and went back inside to see what I could do for the guard. I was a killer, not a healer, but still, I knew some small spells that might help.
I hummed the maintenance spell while I wrote a healing rune across his forehead with my best pen. It glided well, but a marker would be better. When I looked up at Horace, he was hanging above a circle of monsters just standing around in suits, some with barbed tails, others with more hair on their heads than you’d expect from monsters.
Just then the chains exploded as the vampire transformed them into bits of glass that came raining down on the monsters, none of whom flinched in the slightest. Horace fell almost instantly, and the vampire disappeared in another burst of black before he reformed next to the group who had caught Horace and was carrying him towards the gate to the lab and the undercity. I hadn’t heard them come in, probably because I’d been singing and focusing so hard on Bert.
“You can’t move him! Medics are on the way.” I scrambled to my feet, leaving Bert who may or may not have been helped by my efforts.
“He’s dead, Miss Morell,” the vampire scholar said with flat, black eyes. “There isn’t anything a medic can do for him.”
I broke through the group of monsters. Well, I approached and they fell back, until I was alone with Horace on the ground, looking truly awful. His eyes were glassy and blank, his chest ruptured, skin chalky, but I didn’t recoil, not when he had marks on his body, runes that I recognized, but that were clearly demonic.
I hesitated on a different mark, half-formed, incomplete, and then his death mark that looked self-inflicted.
“Do you know this language as well, Miss Morell?” The Scholar asked in a low voice at my ear.
It gave me goosebumps that I ignored as I studied those last two marks. “He killed himself.”
