Sweep in Peace

  Sweep in Peace

  Ilona Andrews

  Prologue

  Come With Me

  A man walked into a darkened room, moving on silent feet. He stopped by the round table, poured a glass of red wine from a bottle, and drank. A refined, slightly oaky taste washed over his mouth. He savored it, watching the stars rise outside an enormous window past the stone balcony. Muffled sounds of a ball filtered through the floor from below. It would be a good twenty minutes, perhaps half an hour, before anyone would discover the body in the office, neatly tucked in behind the desk. By that point he would be long gone.

  He almost never did field work himself anymore. But this one, this one was special. Politically insignificant now but personally deeply satisfying. A hint of a smile curved his lips. He supposed some would call him cruel for killing an old man ravaged by magic and disease, and some would call him kind. He was neither. It was simply a thing that had to be done and he did it.

  If his old mentor still ran things, he would have caught heat for this little outing. The smile dripped down into a narrow, sardonic frown. Nobody told him what to do anymore. Nobody had the right to berate him. Not even the Crown. He had accomplished far too much for any rebuke. In fact, if the current ruling family had any ambition, they would murder him out of principle, just to maintain power. Thankfully, they were far too civilized and complacent.

  At twenty eight he had climbed the ladder of his chosen profession as high as he could. Life was no longer a challenge.

  He was so mercilessly bored.

  A pale star detached itself from its neighbors, curved over the sky, and drained down in a shower of pale glow onto the balcony. A dark-haired man stepped out of the light. Interesting. The spymaster sipped his wine.

  The man wore jeans and a tattered cloak. Not from around here.

  “I’m so glad I caught you,” the dark-haired man said. “You’re a hard man to get alone.”

  Interesting choice of words. “Wine?”

  “No, thanks. I’m on the clock. I’ll come straight to the point. Are you bored?”

  The spymaster blinked.

  “With this, I mean.” The man indicated the lavish room. “Shifting the future of countries and colonies. Rather small potatoes, don’t you think?”

  “It has its moments.”

  “How would you like to raise the stakes?” The dark-haired man smiled. “I represent a small but powerful organization. We’re known as Arbitrators. We specialize in dispute resolutions. You’re aware that Earth is but one of the planets in the solar system. There are many star systems and many planets out there. Many dimensions, many different realities even, to be specific. Once these inhabitants of the Greater Beyond decided to have a war. It went rather badly, so when the proverbial nuclear explosions settled, it was agreed that a powerful but neutral body for settling conflicts should be established. We would like to recruit you to be member of that fine body.”

  Perhaps the man was insane. But if he weren’t…

  “You will receive extensive training and granted funds to maintain your own staff. Sadly you will be forbidden from seeking independent sources of income until your terms of service is over. Nor can you return to your home planet until the expiration of your term.”

  “How long is the term of service?”

  “About twenty standard years. Most people prefer to do more. Nothing compares to preventing an interstellar war knowing billions of lives hang in the balance.” The man grinned. “It’s a bit of a rush.”

  The spymaster felt his pulse rise and strained to hold it in check.

  “We recruit only the best and I’m afraid the offer is made only once. You do not get to say goodbye.”

  “So I must decide now?”

  “Yes.”

  The spymaster drained his glass.

  Below someone screamed.

  “And that’s our cue.” The dark-haired man smiled again. “Yes or no?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great.”

  “My brother comes with me. I’d like to extend an offer of service to two others.”

  “We can arrange that. Of course, you realize that the decision is up to them. We do not compel. We only entice.”

  “I’m sure they’ll join me.”

  A sound of feet thudding up the stairs rushed from the hallway.

  “Very well. We should be off then.” The man offered him his hand. “As corny as it sounds, please take my hand.”

  The spymaster held out his hand and the dark-haired man clasped it in a firm handshake. “Welcome to the service, George Camarine. My name is Klaus Demille. I will be your guide for this orientation.”

  The door burst open.

  Pale glow coated George’s eyes. The last thing he saw were guards lunging at him in a vain attempt to avenge the murder of their master.

  “Rest in peace, Spider,” he murmured before the light swallowed him whole.

  Chapter 1

  Some visitors from out of state were convinced that Texas was a dry rolling plain studded with longhorn cattle, oil derricks, and an occasional cowboy in a huge hat. They also believed that our state had only one type of weather – scorching. That wasn’t true at all. In fact, we had two types: drought and flood. This December the town of Red Deer was experiencing the latter kind of weather. The rain poured and poured, turning the world grey, damp, and dreary.

  I looked outside the living room window and hugged myself. I could see a section of a flooded street, and past it, the Avalon subdivision, hunkering down under the cascade of cold water. The inside of Gertrude Hunt Bed and Breakfast was warm and dry, but the rain was getting to me all the same. After a week of this downpour, I was ready for a clear sky. Maybe it would let up tomorrow. A girl could hope.

  It was a perfect evening to snuggle up with a book, play a video game, or watch TV. Except I wanted to do none of those things. I’ve been snuggling up with a book, playing video games, or watching TV every night for the last six months with only my dog, my inn, and its lone guest for company and I was a bit tired of it.

  Caldenia exited the kitchen, carrying her cup of tea. She looked to be in her sixties, beautiful, elegant, and cloaked in an air of experience. If you saw her on the street in New York or London, you’d think she was a lady of high society whose days were filled with brunches with friends and charity auctions. Her Grace, Caldenia ka ret Magren was indeed high society, except she preferred world domination to friendly brunches and mass murder to charity. Thankfully those days were behind her.

  On this evening she wore a sweeping kimono the color of rose wine with gold accents. It flared as she walked, giving her thin figure a suitably regal air. Her silver hair, usually artfully arranged on her head into a flattering hairdo, drooped slightly. Her makeup looked a little smudged and just a hair short of her typical impeccable perfection. The rain was getting to her as well.

  She cleared her throat.

  What now? “Your Grace?”

  “Dina, I’m bored,” Caldenia announced.

  Too bad. I guaranteed her safety, not her entertainment. “What about your game?”

  Her Grace gave me a shrug. “I’ve beaten it five times on the Deity setting. I’ve reduced Paris to ashes, because Napoleon annoyed me. I’ve eradicated Gandhi. I’ve crushed George Washington. Empress Wu had potential, so I eliminated her before we ever cleared Bronze Age. The Egyptians are my pawns. I dominate the planet. Oddly, I find myself mildly fascinated by Genghis Khan. A shrewd and savage warrior, possessing a certain magnetism. I left him with a single city and I periodically make ridiculous demands which I know he can’t meet so I can watch him squirm.”

  She liked him, so she was torturing him. Her Grace in a nutshell. “What Civilization did you choose?”

  “R
ome, of course. Any title other than Empress would be unacceptable. That’s not the point. The point, my dear, is that our lives are beginning to feel dreadfully dull. The last guest we had was two months ago.”

  She was preaching to the converted. Gertrude Hunt required guests, for financial and other reasons. They were the lifeblood of the inn. Caldenia helped some, but for the inn to thrive, we needed guests, if not a steady stream, then a large party. Unfortunately, I had no idea how to get those guests. Once upon a time, Gertrude Hunt sat on a crossroads of a busy road, but decades passed, the world had changed, the roads shifted, and now Red Deer, Texas was a small town in the middle of nowhere. We didn’t get much traffic.

  “Would you like me to pass out fliers on the corner, Your Grace?”

  “Do you think it would help you drum up business?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Well then, that answers your question. Don’t get snippy, Dina, it really doesn’t become you.”

  She glided up the stairs, her kimono waving behind her like a mantle.

  I needed tea. Tea would make everything better.

  I went to the kitchen and reached for the cup to make myself some tea. My left foot landed in something cold and wet. I looked down. A small yellow puddle greeted me. Well, doesn’t that just take the cake?

  “Beast!”

  My tiny Shih-tzu dashed into the kitchen, her black and white fur waving like a battle flag. She saw my foot in the puddle. Her brain decided to beat a hasty retreat, but her body still kept going. She tripped over her own paws and smacked head first into the island.

  “What is this?” I pointed to the puddle.

  Beast flipped onto her feet, slunk behind the island, and poked her head out, looking guilty.

  “You have a perfectly good doggie door. I don’t care if it’s raining, you go outside.”

  Beast slunk about some more and whined.

  Magic chimed, a soft not-quite sound only I could hear – the inn letting me know we had guests.

  Visitors!

  Beast exploded into barks, zooming around the island in excited circles. I hopped on one foot to the kitchen sink, stuck my foot under water, and washed my hands and my foot with soap. The floor under the puddle split, forming a narrow gap. Tile flowed like water and the offending puddle disappeared. The floor resealed itself. I wiped my hands on the kitchen towel, ran to the front door, Beast bounding at my heels, and swung it open.

  A white Ford Explorer was parked in the driveway. Through the screen door I saw a man in the driver seat. A woman sat next to him. Behind them two smaller heads moved back and forth – kids in the back seat, probably stir-crazy after a long trip. A nice family. I reached forward with my magic.

  Oh.

  I thought the chime didn’t sound quite right.

  The man got out and ran to the front door, shielding his glasses from the rain with his hand and stopped under the porch roof. About thirty five, he looked like a typical suburban dad: jeans, T-shirt, and the slightly desperate expression of someone who had been in a car with small children for a several hours.

  “Hi!” he said. “I’d like to rent a room.”

  This is exactly why Gertrude Hunt had no listed phone number and no online listing. We weren’t on any tourist brochures. How did they even find us? “I’m sorry, we have no vacancy.”

  He blinked. “What do you mean, you have no vacancy? It looks like a big house and there are no cars in the driveway.”

  “I’m sorry, we have no vacancy.”

  The woman got out of the car and ran over. “What’s the hold-up?”

  The man turned to her. “They have no vacancy.”

  The woman looked at me. “We drove six hours in this rain from Little Rock. We won’t be any trouble. We just need a couple of rooms.”

  “There is a very nice Holiday Inn only two miles from here,” I said.

  The woman pointed at the Avalon subdivision. “My sister lives in that subdivision. She said the only person who ever stays here is some old lady.”

  Ah. Mystery solved. The neighbors knew I ran a Bed & Breakfast, because that was the only way I could explain the occasional guests.

  “Is it because we have kids?” The woman asked.

  “Not at all,” I said. “Would you like directions to the Holiday Inn?”

  The man grimaced. “No, thanks. Come on, Louise.”

  The turned and went to their car. The woman was mumbling something. “….outrageous.”

  I watched them get into the car, reverse down the driveway, and leave. The inn chimed softly, punctuating their departure.

  “I thought we had guests!” Caldenia called from the stairs.

  “Not the right kind,” I said.

  The inn creaked. I petted the door frame. “Don’t worry. It will get better.”

  Caldenia sighed. “Perhaps you should go on a date, dear. Men are so attentive when they think there is a chance you will let them into your bed. It does wonderful things to lift your spirits.”

  A date. Right.

  “What about Sean Evans?”

  “He isn’t home,” I said quietly.

  “Too bad. It was so much fun when he and the other fellow were around.” Caldenia shrugged and went up the stairs.

  About five months ago, I watched Sean Evans open a door and step through it to the greater universe beyond. I hadn’t heard from him since. Not that he owed me anything. Sharing a single kiss could hardly be called a relationship, no matter how memorable it was. I knew from experience that the universe was very large. It was difficult for a single woman to compete with all its wonders. Besides, I was an innkeeper. Guests left to have exciting adventures and our kind stayed behind. Such was the nature of our profession.

  And telling myself all those things over and over didn’t make me feel better. When I thought about Sean Evans, I felt the way a business traveler from Canada might feel about an overnight trip to Miami in the middle of February. It was like seeing the sea and the beach from a car window. It might have been great, if only we had more time and now we would likely never know if that beach would’ve turned out to be paradise or if we would’ve found jellyfish in the water and sand in our food.

  It was for probably for the best. Werewolves were nothing but trouble anyway.

  I was about to close the door, when magic tugged on me, like ripples from a stone cast into a calm pond. This tug had a completely different flavor. Someone had entered the inn’s grounds. Someone powerful and dangerous.

  I reached for my broom, resting in the corner by the door and stepped out onto the front porch. A figure in a grey rain poncho stood by the hedges, just on the edge of the inn’s grounds, politely waiting to be invited inside.

  We had a visitor. Maybe even a guest, the right kind this time. I inclined my head, more of a very shallow bow than a nod.

  The two doors behind me opened on their own. The figure approached slowly. The visitor was tall, almost a foot taller than me, which put him around six two, maybe six three. He walked into the inn. I followed him in and the doors closed behind me.

  The figure pulled the cord securing his hood and shrugged off his rain poncho. A tall man stood in front of me. He was muscular, but lean, his shoulders straining his white shirt with flaring sleeves. An embroidered vest hugged his frame, black accented with blue. His long legs were clad into dark grey trousers. He wore supple black boots that came midway up his calf. A leather sword belt graced his narrow hips, supporting a long slender scabbard with an elaborate basket hilt protruding from it. He looked like he probably owned a wide-brimmed hat with some fluffy white feathers and possibly a cloak or two.

  The man looked at me. His shoulder-length blond hair was pulled back haphazardly into a horse tail at the nape of his neck. His face was shocking. Masculine, well-cut, but not at all brutish, with strong elegant lines people usually called aristocratic: broad high forehead, straight nose, high cheekbones, square jaw and a full mouth. His eyes, wide and tinted with a hint of quiet
humor, were pale blue. He wasn’t at all feminine, yet most people would describe him as beautiful rather than handsome. His was a face that spoke of intelligence, confidence, and calculation. He didn’t look – he watched, he noticed, he evaluated, and I had a feeling that even when his mouth and his eyes smiled, his mind remained alert and razor sharp.

  I had seen him before. I remembered that face. But where?

  “I’m looking for Dina Demille,” he said. His voice suited him well: warm and confident. He had a light accent, not really British, not really Southern US, but an odd, melodious meld of both.

  “You found her,” I said. “Welcome to Gertrude Hunt Inn. Your poncho?”

  “Thank you.” He handed me the poncho and I hung it on the hook by the door.

  “Will you be staying with us?”

  “I’m afraid not.” He offered me an apologetic smile.

  Figured. “What can I do for you?”

  He raised his hand and traced a pattern between us. The air in the wake of his finger glowed with pale blue. A stylized symbol of scales: two weights in the balance, flared between us, held for a second and vanished. He was an Arbiter. Oh crap. My heart sped up. Who could possibly be suing us? Gertrude Hunt didn’t have the finances to fight an arbitration.

  I leaned on my broom. “I’ve received no notice of arbitration.”

  He smiled. His face lit up. Wow.

  “My apologies. I’m afraid I’ve given you the wrong impression. You’re not a party to an arbitration. I came to you to discuss a business proposition.”

  Business was so much better than arbitration. I pointed at the couches in the front room. “Please sit down. May I get you something to drink, Arbiter?”

  “Hot tea would be fantastic,” he said. “And please, call me George.”

  We sat in my comfortable chairs and sipped out tea. George frowned, obviously collecting his thoughts. He seemed so… pleasant. Cultured and genteel. But in my line of work, you quickly learned that appearances were deceiving. Beast jumped on my lap and positioned herself so she could lunge off my knees in an instant. Being cautious never hurt.