Blood Red (9781101637890) (8 page)

The Air Elementals whirling around him bore expressions of pain, and their postures were tortured. That was the last thing Rosa needed to solidify her decision. This man was everything the Water Mage claimed, for only an Elemental Master who was truly evil would cause his Elementals to suffer so.

He raised an eyebrow at the sight of the two of them. “What, Fritz? Hiding behind a lady's skirts now, are you?” He glanced aside at Rosa, then let his look linger, and licked his lips slightly. “Well I am glad you brought her. I shall enjoy her when I am d—”

He stopped speaking, and stared down with an expression of disbelief at the knife now quivering in his chest and buried in his heart. He had been so busy concentrating on his boastful speech he had never noticed her hands moving in her skirt.

The gale—stopped. The Air Elementals broke free of his coercions with gasps of joy, and fled. He brought both hands up to his chest, then held them out and stared at them, wet and red with his own blood.

Then he crumpled.

Rosa shook her head as the Water Mage—Fritz?—stared in as complete a state of disbelief as their enemy. “They never do think to guard against a simple physical attack,” she said aloud. “Do take note, if you intend to be serving your Lodge in this way in the future.”

She walked over to the corpse—as an Earth Master, she
knew
when someone was dead, and he had been dead before he finished falling. She removed her knife and wiped it carefully on his fine coat, making sure to get all the blood off. She sheathed it again in the sheath on her leg. It was where she usually wore her knife, but this gown had been tailored so that she could reach it through a special pocket on her skirt and a slit in her petticoat. She wondered what the maid had made of that—

Well, probably nothing. Some women, she had been told, kept most of their money in a purse hung beneath their petticoat rather than in their reticule. Presumably they, too, reached what they needed through cunningly concealed slits in their garments.

Then she put her hand to the ground, stilled herself inside, and called silently for a specific sort of Elemental. What she needed would be large and . . . somewhat amoral.

“What are you—” Fritz choked out. She glanced at him. He was as white as snow. Evidently he had never seen anyone die before. Or if he had, it had been genteelly, in a bed, with no violence.

Lucky Fritz.

“Hush,” she said, gently, as she heard the sound of heavy hooves approaching. “It is not wise to bring yourself to the attention of what I am summoning.”

The minotaur did not so much
appear
as
loom.
They had plenty of warning, hearing him crackling and thudding through the underbrush, but still, his appearance came as a shock. He seemed to somehow resolve out of the leaves and branches, but when he did, he was very
present.
He was roughly seven feet tall, and he gave off a scent of heavy musk.

But he bowed his heavy head to her, acknowledging her power as Master and Hunt Master.
“Lady,”
he rumbled.
“You call. I come.”

Behind her, she could hear Fritz's teeth chattering. Well, they should. Though a lesser being than the Wild Hunter, the minotaurs were similarly Great Ancient Things, and were not to be trifled with. Fortunately, what she was going to ask him to do would please him.

“Please to take this meat away,” she said, gesturing at the body.

The minotaur took a long, slow look, and began to chuckle, with a sound like distant thunder.
“I have leave to do as I please?”

“You have leave to do as you please,” she affirmed.

The massive creature bent down, picked up the body, and tossed it over his shoulder as if it weighed no more than a sack of grain. He retreated again into the forest, and then—into wherever it was that such creatures dwelled, when they were not actually
in
the world.

At any rate, the footsteps faded into the distance much faster than they “should” have done.

Rosa turned to see that Fritz was staring at her, aghast.

“That was a—” he spluttered.

“Yes, and?” she responded politely.

“But—but—it's going to—” he could not bring himself to say it.

“It's not
human,
” she pointed out, with impeccable logic. “It's not cannibalism. And now if that evil man had allies, they will neither be able to find out what happened to him, nor who slew him. Nor will the human authorities ever find a body or connect his disappearance with us.”

It was cold, calculating logic, the sort that Rosa had been forced to many times as a hunter and Hunt Master. She was sorry she had to force it on this poor young man, but . . . well . . . he had to learn some time.

She read the thoughts as they passed through his mind on his face, and finally saw his expression settle into resignation. “I don't like it—” he muttered.

“I hope you don't think I do,” she said tartly. “I would rather your enemy had been brought to answer for his crimes before the Court of the White Lodge. But this is why I am a Hunt Master; sometimes one is forced into positions like this, and when one is, one had better be prepared to cover all consequences.”

He heaved an enormous, shuddering sigh. “I hope, then, I may never become one.”

“So do I,” she replied, sincerely. “So do I. Now I think we should go back to the train.” She had a strong need for a glass of wine and perhaps a slice of cake.

It was well after dark by the time the train reached Munich, and she had long since given up any hope of catching the night train to Stuttgart. The steward had become increasingly anxious as the train had remained stationary and his monied charges had become restive. The cooks had been pressed into creating more food with what had been left on board, and the steward himself pressed more and more liquor on the passengers until the men, at least, mellowed. By the time they reached Munich, several were verging on tipsy. Rosa would have been amused, if she had not been concerned for herself.

Now, Munich was in Bavaria, and Bavarians liked their green spaces. Although Rosa could never have
lived
there, she knew she would be able to tolerate staying overnight. And once again, money would make things easier than if this delay had taken place on the outward journey; the fact that she was traveling first class meant that she would have plenty of help finding a taxi, and a hotel. But even with that help, this was going to be wearying at best, and would add one or two more days to a journey that was already too long.

She'd had several hours to contemplate her actions regarding the renegade Air Master, and no matter how she considered her situation, she could not come to any other solution than the one she had taken. So be it. He had not been the first rogue magician she'd been forced to kill in cold blood, and he certainly would not be the last. Her first had been when she was only fourteen years old; although she had been with a Hunting Party and was not even close to being a Hunt Master, it had been her hand that had struck the blow. She could not regret it. The Fire Master had been within moments of murdering her mentor, her second father, Gunther von Schwarzwald. The wretch had, as had happened time and time again, dismissed her as unimportant, a mere female child, and had allowed her to get behind him. The silver ax that took off his head from the rear didn't care whose hand wielded it.

She could not regret that, and did not regret this.

She descended from the railway carriage, already braced against the stifling weight of the railway station, and the faint sickness of the earth beneath it. She pitied any Air Master that had to pass through a station; the smokes and soot would be as nauseating to him as industrial and urban poisons in the earth were to her. But her shields were good, and she was as well rested as someone could be after a long journey, so for now the station didn't really affect her.

Taken impartially, the place was very dramatic—the great black dragons of the engines with their trains of cars, the smoke, the gas and electric lights reflected in the high, windowed ceiling—the people looking very small inside a place meant for “creatures” much larger than human. She wished she was an artist; such a scene would make for a fine, moody painting.

She waited patiently beside the parlor car as porters appeared with the first class passengers' baggage and the owners of said baggage sailed off to their carriages or taxis like generals leading troops. Eventually a porter appeared with her baggage on a trolley, and one of the conductors approached to give her much needed direction. At this point, she had no notion of where to go, and would welcome his advice—even if he was probably going to be paid by some hotel to recommend it. Any direction was better than none.

But then, something altogether unexpected occurred.

Just as the conductor began to give her advice on hotels, a handsomely dressed young man approached them both. He wore an immaculately tailored suit with a brocade weskit beneath it, a white shirt and conservative tie. He himself was lean and dark haired, with muttonchop whiskers and a small moustache. He stopped at her side, with a slight bow in her direction. “I beg your pardon for interrupting, dear lady, but would you happen to be Frau Rosamund von Schwarzwald?”

Blinking in utter astonishment—even more so when she realized this young man, by the energies flowing around him, was a Fire Mage—she acknowledged that she was.

The fellow clicked his heels together and bowed more deeply to her in the Prussian manner. “I am Graf von Stahldorf's private secretary. The Graf is a great friend of your father, Gunther, and would be exceedingly pleased if you would be his guest tonight rather than putting up with the dubious comforts of a hotel.” He reached into his coat and produced a square of pasteboard. “My card.”

Rosa took it. It certainly was the card of the Graf's private secretary, the Honorable Rudolf Weiss. At least, as far as she could tell. And the young man knew Gunther's name and certainly was a Fire Mage. She vaguely recalled that the Lodge Master of Munich was a count. “The Graf has sent his carriage,” the young man continued. “If you would care to accompany me?” He waited a moment, then added, “The Graf also regrets to say that the Hunting is poor hereabouts, and hopes that will not deter you from becoming his guest.”

Well that decided her.
The Hunting is poor
was the password from one Hunt Master to another to say that things in the area were quiet. (Conversely,
the Hunting is good
meant the opposite, and that any magician should take great care lest he attract attention he would not want.) “Thank you, Herr Weiss,” she said with all the dignity she could muster. “The Graf's kindness solves many problems.” With a nod of thanks to the conductor, Herr Weiss beckoned to the porter to follow, and they made their way out of the station.

Munich, it seemed, was even greener than Vienna. She felt a sense of relief pass over her as they reached the street and exited the enormous train station. The feeling of healthy, growing spaces all around her was palpable, even though she couldn't actually see much of them except for the silhouettes of trees in the dim lighting from the handsome streetlights. But there was a good, fresh breeze, blowing away the exhaust of the motor-taxis, and it carried with it the scent of flowers.

There was an
enormous
carriage waiting at the curb, looking old-fashioned and quaint with all of the motorized taxis about it. Another relief, since a motorcar would have caused her a little discomfort; being that close to an engine was difficult for Air and Earth Mages. The wooden carriage pulled by four beautiful horses was highly welcoming. The young secretary handed her into it, then went to deal with the porter and the luggage.

And she discovered as she entered the vehicle that she was not alone. In the warm light from a couple of lamps inside the carriage, the young Water Mage from the train waited. “I hope you do not mind that I spoke to the Graf on your behalf—” Fritz said tentatively. He looked worried, as if he was afraid he had overstepped himself.

She laughed in surprise and pleasure to see him and hear his apology, and settled herself into a plush velvet seat opposite him. “Not at all, in fact, it is I who should thank you! You know, you never told me your full name. I am at a disadvantage since you already know mine, it seems.”

“The
Graf
knows yours,” Fritz corrected. “I only described you and he knew who I was speaking of.” His voice carried tones of embarrassment. “We never actually . . . things happened so quickly, and you took charge of the situation so . . . I still do not actually know who you are.”

Poor man! It had never occurred to her that this city fellow might feel the want of finer manners than she was used to showing in an emergency. And when she remembered his discomfiture at the way she had simply taken over the situation, she realized that he had probably never had a woman take charge of matters before. That made her laugh again, as the secretary came back around and entered the carriage with them, seating himself beside Fritz. “If you would be so kind, Herr Weiss,” she said as he seated himself. “Would you give the two of us a proper introduction?”