Iron and Magic
(The first book in the Iron Covenant series)
A novel by Ilona Andrews
Acknowledgments
This was such a fun book to write. As usual, we had a lot of help bringing it to you. We’d like to thank Nancy Yost, our agent, who worked tirelessly on our behalf, for her guidance, help, and friendship. We’re grateful to Sandra Harding, our fantastic editor for her insights and suggestions as she helped us shape a manuscript into a book. We’d like to thank Natanya Wheeler for cover design and keeping us on track; Sarah Younger for arranging the print edition and moral support, lots and lots of moral support; and Amy Rosenbaum for tackling the gargantuan task of the audio edition.
Big thanks to Joanne Suh for coming up with a series name, Iron Covenant, for Hugh’s and Elara’s books.
We are further grateful to Stephanie Mowery for the copyedit and our beta readers, including Hasna Saadani, Mi Young Jin, Robin Snyder, Jessica Haluska, Julia Wheatley, Kristen Carter, the Carwrights, and M. C. Dy. Special thanks to Brandi Boldden.
All errors of fact are ours alone.
Finally, we would like to thank you, our reader, for taking a chance on us again. We hope the book will be fun.
Questions about IRON AND MAGIC
Technically this book is a spin-off from our Kate Daniels series; however, it can be read as a standalone work.
For Kate Daniels fans: although this story is the first in the Iron Covenant trilogy, and the entire trilogy takes place before the events of Magic Triumphs, it is actually written to be read in the following order:
Iron Covenant 1: Iron and Magic
Magic Triumphs
Iron Covenant 2
Iron Covenant 3
You don’t need to wait for Hugh’s entire story to be out. If you do, it won’t be as fun, because there are some revelations in Iron Covenant 2 that are best discovered after Magic Triumphs.
Introduction to the Series
The world has suffered a magic apocalypse. We pushed technological progress too far, and now magic has returned with a vengeance. It comes in waves, without warning, and vanishes as suddenly as it appears. When magic is up, planes drop out of the sky, cars stall, and electricity dies. When magic is down, guns work and spells fail.
It’s a volatile, screwed-up world. Magic feeds on technology, gnawing on skyscrapers until most of them topple and fall, leaving only skeletal husks behind. Monsters prowl the ruined streets, werebears and werehyenas stalk their prey; and the Masters of the Dead, necromancers driven by their thirst for knowledge and wealth, pilot blood-crazed vampires with their minds.
In this new age, ancient beings awaken, brought out of their slumber by magic. One of them is Nimrod, the Builder of Towers, the man whose name terrified the ancient kingdoms of the Persian Gulf thousands of years ago. Possessing unimaginable power, Nimrod takes a new name, Roland, and sets about bringing his vision of the future to life. To build a new kingdom, one must first destroy the old. Roland requires a Warlord, a leader who will forge and lead his army, someone of great power and even greater cruelty, someone whose loyalty Roland will ensure by searing every shred of doubt with his own blood and ancient magic.
When shaping a human into a weapon, it’s best to start young…
Prologue
“Wake up!”
He sensed the kick coming through his sleep and curled into a ball. It didn’t hurt as much this time. Émile wasn’t really trying.
“You have a client.”
He rolled up, blinking. He should’ve hidden deeper in the drum that was his nest. The drum lay on its side and was long enough that Émile couldn’t land a good kick. But it was so nice and sunny, and he’d fallen asleep on the rags in front of it.
He looked at Émile and the man next to him. The man had dark eyes. He’d learned to watch the eyes. Faces lied, mouths lied, but the eyes always told you if the man would hit and how hard. This man was large. Big hands. Powerful shoulders. Next to him Émile looked skinny and weak, and he knew it too, because he forgot to sneer. All the street people called Émile Weasel, because of the sneer, but only when he couldn’t hear. Émile was mean. He ran the street and when someone tried to stand up to him, he’d fly into a rage and beat them with a rock or a metal stick until they stopped moving.
Émile jabbed his finger in the direction of the man. “Fix him.”
The man held out his left arm and pulled back the sleeve of his leather jacket. A cut snaked from his wrist all the way to the elbow. Shallow, only through the top layer of the skin. Easy to fix. He eyed Émile. Usually Émile made him say nonsense words and drag it out, so it would look mysterious, but the man was watching him, and it was making him uneasy.
He reached out and touched the man’s arm, letting the magic flow. The cut sealed itself.
The man squeezed his forearm, checking the spot where the wound used to be.
“See? I told you.” Émile bared his teeth.
“How much?” the man asked. His voice had an accent.
“How much what?”
“How much for the boy?”
His heart sank. He scooted deep into the drum, where he’d kept a knife hidden under his rags. He knew what happened to boys who were sold. He knew what men did to them. Rene was sold. Rene had been his only friend. Rene was fast and when he stole from the market stalls, nobody could catch him. He’d healed a boil on Rene’s back, and since then Rene shared. They’d hide in his drum and eat the bread or pirogi Rene had nicked and pretend they were somewhere else.
Two weeks ago, a man took Rene away. Émile had sold him. Three days later, after dark, he saw the same man leading Rene on a chain like a dog as they walked into a house. Rene was wearing a pink dress and he had a black eye.
Émile had promised not to sell him. That was the deal. He healed clients and Émile gave him food and protected him.
“Not for sale,” Émile said.
The man reached into his leather jacket. An envelope came out. A stack of money hit the dirt in front of Émile. A thick stack. More money than he had ever seen. Émile’s eyes got big.
Another stack.
He was trapped in the drum. There was nowhere to run.
Another.
Émile licked his lips.
“You promised!” he yelled.
“Shut up.” Émile squinted at the man. “He’s a magic boy.”
Another stack.
“Take him,” Émile said.
The man reached for him. He shrank back, his hand clutching the knife hidden under his filthy blanket. He wouldn’t be walking on a chain.
The man stepped toward him, his back to Émile.
“Drop the knife,” the man said.
Behind him Émile’s face turned ugly. He lunged, a dagger pointed at the man’s back. The man turned fast. His hand fastened on Émile’s wrist. Émile screamed and dropped the dagger. The man pulled him over.
“Take him!” Émile squealed. “Take him!”
“Too late.”
The man locked his left hand on Émile’s throat and squeezed. Émile clawed at the man’s arm with his free hand, flailing, trying to get away. The man continued squeezing.
Magic told him the little bone in Émile’s throat broke. It nagged at him, like an annoying itch. He would have to mend the bone to make it go away, but the man kept squeezing, harder and harder.
Émile’s eyes rolled back in his skull. The annoying buzz of magic disappeared. You can’t fix the dead.
The man let go and Émile fell, limp.
He gathered himself into a ball, trying to make himself smaller.
The man crouched by the drum. “I won’t hurt you.”
He slashed with his knife. The man caught his hand, and then he was yanked out into the sunlight and set on his feet.