Magic Strikes by Ilona Andrews Page A

regenerate broken limbs in a couple of weeks. A normal human’s history is written in their skin, Saiman. We have training scars from before we got good enough.
    But he has none. How long since you first met him?”
    “Two months.”
    “So he has been in Georgia since late summer. Have you ever seen him sunburned?”
    “No.”
    “A man with skin that shade should develop a nice crispy crust after half an hour under Atlanta’s sun.
    Why is he paler than a flowering dogwood? And have you ever seen him with a different hairstyle?”

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    I could almost feel wheels turning in Saiman’s head. “No,” he said slowly.
    “Hair always at the same length?”
    “Yes.”
    I nodded. “Let’s talk about his buddy Cesare. Tattooed from head to toe?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did you notice that all of his ink looks perfectly fresh? First, most people get tattooed over a period of years. A complicated design takes time. The process is ritualistic for many people and as important as the result. Ink fades over time, faster if exposed to the sun. All of his tattoos—at least everything I could see—were the same color, bright black. As if he never goes outside.”
    “Perhaps he simply planned his tattooing ahead of time and used sunblock.”
    “I doubt very much that a man could walk into the tattoo parlor and unroll a full body plan of tribal designs. In any case, you said he bled. Deep wounds would cause distortions in his designs, especially considering how intricate his are. A thickening here and there, smudged, broken lines. I saw none.”
    A troubled expression disturbed the handsome symmetry of Saiman’s face.
    Once blood, fluid, or any other tissue was removed from the body, the owner could no longer mask its magic. An m-scanner picked up traces of that magic and registered it in different colors: purple for vampire, green for shapeshifter, blue or gray for human. I didn’t see the problem: take a blood sample, run an m-scan, anything not blue or silver meant nonhuman. An m-scan was foolproof.
    “Have you m-scanned them?”
    “Several times. Both register blue. Pure human.”
    Odd. “The m-scanner is a hell of a thing to rebut,” I said. “But the fact remains: you have two China dolls, one almost albino and the other painted with pretty black swirls. And they really don’t like you. I’d get a bodyguard, Saiman. And I would warn him to expect unusual things from your attackers.”
    Two humans walked out onto the field. Rodriguez was in his forties. Short and wiry, he had chosen a short, curved kukri blade. Front heavy, it was designed to sink into flesh almost on its own. Callisto topped him by a foot and outweighed him by about thirty pounds. Her olive-skinned limbs were disproportionately long. She carried an axe. A silver chain wound about her right arm.
    The gong tolled. Callisto swung her axe. Had she caught Rodriguez, the blow would’ve cleaved the smaller fighter open, but Rodriguez danced away, nimble like a cat. Callisto struck again, a diagonal blow that exposed her left side. Rodriguez refused to commit and dodged instead. The crowd jeered.
    I leaned on the railing, tracking Rodriguez across the field. He had both experience and skill. But a dangerous ferocity tinted the sneer on Callisto’s face.
    “Who will win, Rodriguez or Callisto?” Saiman asked.
    “Callisto.”
    “Why?”
    “A hunch. She wants it more.”
    Rodriguez lunged. His blade hacked Callisto’s thigh. Vermillion drenched her leg. I smelled blood.
    Callisto snapped her arm. The chain swung in a pale metal arch and wound itself about Rodriguez’s neck with unnatural precision. The end of the chain reared above the fighter’s shoulder and at its end I saw a small, triangular head. Metal jaws came unhinged. Small metal fangs bit the air. Callisto pulled. The links of the chain melded into a serpentine body in a shimmer of steel.
    The metal snake clenched its