Shadow's Blade Read online

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Book #3 in The Case Files of Justis Fearsson, the critically acclaimed contemporary fantasy series from fantasy all-star David B. Coe. A hardboiled, magic-using private detective fights dark sorcerers in Phoenix, Arizona.

  Justis Fearsson is a weremyste and a private detective. He wields potent magic, but every month, on the full moon, he loses his mind. His battles with insanity have already cost him his job as a cop; he can’t afford to let them interfere with his latest case.

  Phoenix has become ground zero in a magical war, and an army of werecreatures, blood sorcerers, and necromancers has made Jay its number one target. When he is hired to track down a woman who has gone missing with her two young children, he has a hunch that the dark ones are to blame. But then he’s also brought in by the police to help with a murder investigation, and all the evidence implicates this same woman. Soon he is caught up in a deadly race to find not only the young family, but also an ancient weapon that could prove decisive in the looming conflict. Can he keep himself alive long enough to reach the woman and her kids before his enemies do? And can he claim the weapon before the people he loves, and the world he knows, are lost in a storm of flame, blood, and darkest sorcery?

  Books by David B. Coe

  The Case Files of Justis Fearsson

  Spell Blind

  His Father's Eyes

  Shadow’s Blade

  The Thieftaker Chronicles

  Thieftaker

  Thieves’ Quarry

  A Plunder of Souls

  Dead Man’s Reach

  SHADOW’S BLADE

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by David B. Coe

  A Baen Books Original

  Baen Publishing Enterprises

  P.O. Box 1403

  Riverdale, NY 10471

  www.baen.com

  ISBN: 978-1-4767-8125-9

  Cover art by Alan Pollack

  First printing, May 2016

  Distributed by Simon & Schuster

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Coe, David B., author.

  Title: Shadow's blade / by David B. Coe.

  Description: Riverdale, NY : Baen Books, 2016. | Series: Case files of Justis

  Ffearsson ; 3

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016004612 | ISBN 9781476781259 (hardback)

  Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Fantasy / Paranormal. | FICTION / Fantasy /

  Urban Life. | FICTION / Fantasy / Contemporary. | GSAFD: Fantasy fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3553.O343 S529 2016 | DDC 813/.54--dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016004612

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Dedication

  For Alex and Erin,

  Who make me so proud, who make me laugh,

  And whom I love more than I can say.

  CHAPTER 1

  They’re close, and getting closer by the minute. She’s made a mistake by coming inside. The drive-through; that would have been safest, the best way to get food in the kids and return to the interstate before any of the powers pursuing them took notice.

  Gracie scans the restaurant, her gaze skipping over garish plastic fixtures of red and yellow, seeking out faces, searching for the tell-tale blur of features. Not here yet. They may be near, but there’s still time.

  “Mommy, I have t’go potty.”

  “Me, too.”

  Panic rises in her heart, and her hands start to shake. Emmy stares back at her, dark eyes framed by dark hair in a face that is warm brown and oval like Gracie’s. Her burger is mostly gone, but she’s taken only a sip or two of her cola. Smart girl.

  Zach’s eyes, hazel like his father’s, roam the restaurant, his mouth full of fried, processed chicken. His Sprite is gone. A trip to the bathroom now won’t forestall the need for another thirty minutes down the road.

  She wants to scream, to sob. But she stands and holds out her hands, a mom to the very end.

  “Come on, then,” she says. “But when we’re done we have to get back in the car, understand?”

  Emmy nods, wide-eyed and solemn. She does understand. Too well.

  “I want d’sert,” Zach says.

  Emmy shakes her head. “Not now, Zach.”

  His expression darkens, brows gathering like storm clouds. So much like his father.

  “We’ll have to stop for gas in a while,” Gracie says. “We’ll get you candy then.”

  She leads them to the ladies’ room—two stalls, and one is taken. She waits while they go, and then, begrudging the time, but hoping against hope they can somehow escape another stop for an hour or two, takes a turn herself. She can hear Emmy coaching her brother on how to wash his hands. They giggle at something, and tears well in her eyes.

  It shouldn’t be like this.

  She finishes, joins them at the sink. Zach has drops of water on his nose and chin and forehead. They both wear impish grins.

  “All right, you two,” Gracie says with mock severity. “Time to get going.”

  Emmy’s smile slips, and all color drains from her cheeks. “Mommy . . .”

  “They’re here?”

  “Who is?” Zach asks, looking from his sister to Gracie. “Daddy?”

  God, no. Don’t let Neil be with them. That would be too much for the kids, not to mention what it would do to her.

  “Where are they, sweetie?”

  Emmy chews her lip before pointing toward the back wall of the restroom. It takes Gracie a moment to orient herself, but when she does, she sags. Of course. Precisely where the van is parked.

  The van, which has all their belongings, and which, to those tracking them, probably lights up the desert sky with magic.

  “I wanna see Daddy.”

  “Daddy’s not with them, goober.”

  “I am not a goober!”

  “Are you sure, Emmy? You don’t feel Daddy at all?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Mommy, tell her I’m not a goober!”

  “Don’t call him that, okay?”

  Gracie stares at the tiled wall, ignores Zach when he sticks his tongue out at his sister.

  All their things. But aside from the booster seats, how much do they really need? And after all, can’t they drive some distance without the boosters?

  “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” she says. “We’ll go out the door that’s right by the potty, and then . . . then we’re going to drive a different car out of here.”

  Emmy’s eyes widen. “We’re going to steal a car?”

  “We’re going to borrow one.”

  “What about Zeeber?” Zach asks. “And my blankie?”

  “You don’t have Zeeber?” Gracie asks, voice rising.

  He shakes his head. “You always tell me not to bring him to rest’rants, ‘cause I’ll get food on him.”


  Gracie exhales through her teeth and rakes a rigid hand through her hair. Zeeber and that stupid blankie. She knows he’s right: She hates it when he brings that stuffed zebra into restaurants. But she wants to shake him and ask why he chose this time to listen. The blanket she might be able to replace, but Zeeber . . . Zach’s had it since his infancy, and even if this one could be replaced, she wouldn’t know where to find another. She’s never seen a stuffed zebra like it. It’s a damn miracle that he didn’t drag it into the restaurant with them. A miracle that could get them all killed. Or worse.

  A transporting spell might work, but the men who are after them will feel the magic. They would only have one chance at this.

  “We can find you another blankie—”

  “No!” His voice echoes off the bathroom walls. “No, no, no, no!”

  She puts her hands on his shoulders. “All right, all right. Quiet down.” Too late she realizes that there is still someone in the other stall. Stealing the car would have been a bad choice anyway, but that leaves them with few options.

  “Okay.” She straightens, squares her shoulders. “Stay close to me. Do exactly as I say.”

  “What are we going to do?” Emmy asks.

  “We’re going to get in the van and drive away.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Emmy gives her best “whatever you say, Mom” eye roll, but she keeps her mouth shut, which Gracie appreciates.

  “Hold your brother’s hand. Don’t let go, no matter what.”

  Emmy takes Zach’s hand, as grim as a warrior. For once, he doesn’t complain.

  “Ready?”

  Emmy nods. Zach shoves his thumb in his mouth, something Gracie thought he’d stopped doing half a year ago. Leaving Neil has taken a toll on all of them.

  Gracie pulls the restroom door open and ushers the kids out, keeping them close and squarely in front of her. She picks the weremystes out of the lunchtime crowd and they spot her at the same time. Two remain in the parking lot, visible through the glass doors, but less of a threat for now. Two more are in the restaurant, their features blurred, though she can still make out the predatory grins that curve their lips at the sight of Emmy and Zach. She has warded herself and the kids a dozen times already today, and yet she has to resist the urge to waste valuable seconds on still another protective spell.

  Instead, she attacks. She doesn’t want to hurt the people around her, but she doesn’t have time enough to be careful. She lashes out, drawing on the electricity humming in the walls and ceiling of the restaurant. Bolts of magic, writhing and twisting like twin snakes, fly from the palms of her hands. The restaurant lights flicker and then burst. Glass and sparks rain down on them. People scream. And the two men before her are tossed backward like ragdolls. They land on tables, slide across them, and tumble into the laps of diners, eliciting more screams.

  Zach lets out a low, “Whoa!”

  She pushes the kids to the door, yanks it open and steps onto the sidewalk out front. Two more men face her there. One is young, his magic a soft blurring at the edges of his face. He is nothing.

  But the other . . .

  Gracie halts, her breath catching. Power like this shouldn’t be possible. Not for a mortal. She gets a vaguely familiar impression of sharp, handsome features, silver-white hair and a trim goatee and moustache. He wears dress pants and a button-down shirt. She senses age, wisdom, and all that power.

  “Hello, Engracia.”

  She knows better than to attack him head on. He can defeat any spell she might cast, and she won’t have time for a second attempt.

  “What have you done with it?”

  She tries the unexpected. Her casting lifts the younger man off his feet and slams him into the older gentlemen. Both mystes go down in a heap. For good measure she casts again, dropping a trash can on them. One of those big, rectangular faux stone ones that restaurants keep near their doors. It’s full, and it lands with a satisfying crash.

  “Run!” she says.

  The kids stare at her.

  “Run!” She yells it this time. They sprint toward the van.

  She pulls the fob from her pocket and thumbs the doors open. She checks again on the two men and casts one last spell—a second garbage can soars at the mystes from several yards away and drops onto them much as the first did. Her head is starting to hurt, and her vision swims. She’s going to be in no condition to drive.

  She dashes to the van, pulls the door shut, and fumbles with the keys, trying to stick the right one in the ignition.

  “Hurry, Mommy!”

  Gracie glances back through the rear window. Already the older man is stirring. She shoves the key in place, starts the car, and backs out of the space with a squeal of rubber on pavement.

  She hits the curb as she turns onto the street, has to swerve to avoid being hit by a pickup. The driver hollers an obscenity.

  But Gracie is watching through her rearview mirror. The silver-haired man is on his feet by now. A young woman emerges from the restaurant and glares after her. The gentleman lays one hand on the woman’s shoulder and holds the other out toward the van.

  “Mommy!” Emmy says, her voice rising.

  “I see him.”

  She casts a warding on the van. Her stomach heaves, and she fears she might be ill.

  An instant later, his spell hits. The van swerves again, tips onto its right wheels. Emmy screams. Zach starts to cry. She fights it, trying to hold the steering wheel steady, and at the same time casting another warding, an answer to the silver-haired myste’s assault. And still she fears it will not be enough. She feels faint; her grip on the wheel slackens. But then the van rights itself, dropping back onto all four tires with an impact that jars her and the kids.

  She chances one more peek at the mirror and sees the silver-haired myste release the woman. She crumples to the pavement.

  Gracie runs a red light, barely missing an SUV. Horns blare at her, but she ignores them, steers the car down the ramp toward the interstate.

  The myste will have seen her take the southbound ramp. That can’t be helped. But she’ll leave the interstate at the next opportunity and strike out into the desert. He won’t expect that, and by the time he figures out what she’s done, she and the kids will be far away, sheltered somewhere he doesn’t know, laying low until it’s safe again.

  That’s the plan, anyway. But even as she hurtles down the freeway, headache building behind her eyes, she glances at her mirrors, expecting to see the dark ones coming for them.

  CHAPTER 2

  I sat low in the leather bucket seat of the Z-ster, my silver 1977 280Z. The driver’s side window was open, a camera balanced on the top of the car door, its lens trained on a motel room door some twenty yards away.

  This wasn’t any old camera. It was the latest high-end Canon DSLR, with a twenty-plus megapixel APS-C CMOS sensor—1.6 crop factor—mounted with a four-hundred-millimeter “L”-class telephoto lens and a 1.4-times teleconverter. In short, this was a ridiculously nice piece of equipment with some serious magnification. There was no way I could have afforded to buy the thing; I’d rented it for a few days, at the expense of my current client.

  I knew that there were professional photographers working out in the Sonoran Desert with set-ups a lot like this one, snapping amazing photos of the Southwest’s stunning wildlife.

  Me? I was sweating in my car, waiting to get a shot of a cheating husband as he emerged with his mistress from the Casa del Oro Motel near Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport. Another day in the glamorous life of a private investigator.

  In all honesty, I could hardly complain. Over the past few months, I had brought down the Blind Angel Killer, the most notorious serial murderer ever to haunt the streets of the Phoenix metropolitan area, and I had battled a cadre of dark sorcerers and the necromancer who led them. That was more excitement and glamor than most PIs experience in a lifetime, and I had crammed it all into one nearly fatal summer. I should have been
grateful for work that wasn’t likely to get me killed.

  Instead, I was bored out of my mind, which probably makes me sound insane.

  But what else is new? I sound insane on a regular basis. In fact, I am insane on a regular basis. I’m a weremyste. For three nights out of every month—the night of the full moon, and the nights immediately before and after—I lose control of my mind, even as the magic I wield is enhanced by the moon’s pull. What’s more, these phasings, as they’re called, have a cumulative effect; sooner or later—I have a strong preference for later—I’ll go permanently nuts and will suffer from the same kind of delusions, hallucinations, and neuroses that plague my father. He’s a weremyste, too.

  The full moon, though, was still seven days away, and for now I had a case to work on, distasteful though it was.

  I hated these kinds of jobs. Of all the work I did as a PI—which included uncovering corporate espionage, finding teen runaways, even investigating insurance claims—nothing was worse than these trashy failed-marriage cases. I’d started my business well over a year ago, after losing my job as a homicide detective with the Phoenix Police Department. And in the months since, I’d come to realize that regardless of whether I was hired by the disgruntled husband or the wronged wife, when all was said and done, I could find fault in both of them.

  I like clarity in my cases. I like there to be a good guy and a bad guy. Helping one slimeball duke it out with another slimeball was not exactly my idea of the perfect job.

  But as owner and president of Justis Fearsson Investigations, Incorporated, and as a guy with a mortgage, I was glad to have the work. My client, Helen Barr, was paying me well to track her tomcatting husband, whose name happened to be Thomas. The Barrs lived in one of the wealthier sections of Scottsdale and she could afford my new prices: $350 per day plus expenses. To be honest, I was a little disappointed by Tom’s choice of this motel for a tryst. It wasn’t as though he couldn’t have sprung for a room in one of the fancier downtown hotels. Then again, if the woman he was sleeping with—one Amanda Wagner—didn’t mind, who was I to complain?