by VK Fox
Ian grinned in the rearview mirror. “Hey, now. Speaking with animals is useful and tactical. I’m proud of that particular talent.”
Jane tried to stifle the giggles. “I’m sorry! You’re making me wish I’d actually read The Epic of Gilgamesh when we covered it in high school.”
“Ah, so you figured it out.” Ian glanced at her again in the mirror. His eyes sparkled. Damn, that was enticing.
Jane grinned. “Well, to be fair, I overheard you and Dahl talking about it. So you’re linked to Gilgamesh?”
“Thank goodness, no. The man sounds like a nightmare. ‘All women’s virginity belongs to Gilgamesh’ would not play well in the twentieth century. I’m linked to the god-man Enkidu: friend of the wild places, companion and protector of the king, lover, fighter, prophet. Not to overstate things. I’m sure I didn’t get all of those qualities.”
“Sounds nice. You got some of them.” She put a hand on his shoulder, thinking back to her conversation with Dahl. Ian had raised him, but that was after he’d been linked with Enkidu. Ian had also told her that when he was linked he’d lost a year, having to relearn how to speak and reason. Maybe because of wildness taking over? It sounded to Jane more like recovery from a stroke. “Tell me about your life before you were linked. About growing up.”
Ian reached to gently squeeze her hand. “I had a happy childhood. Sana Baba adopted me when I was a baby. I don’t remember the time before. I grew up in the same location Dahl and I operate out of now, near Washington, DC. It’s a fairly close-knit community, and other children were always around, like a big family.”
“Who raised you? Do you have an adopted mom and dad?”
“No, I was community raised, like most Sana Baba children. A group of caregivers attended us and taught us what we needed to know. I guess you could say they were kind of like my siblings and parents, but there are some significant differences. Few of our caregivers were there for the duration. There’s some inevitable turnover in civic positions, as most of them have families outside of work. It’s a job to them, not a lifelong commitment. Also, many of the children I was close with growing up are no longer with the program. Most pledges wash out. While some took on support positions at Sana Baba, we haven’t stayed close. I find it difficult to maintain familial relationships because of work and travel, but we still see each other from time to time.”
“Okay, so most children are community raised, but some are adopted?”
“Yes, although adopted here is not in the legal sense. I sought permission to raise Dahl after I met him. Our social architecture board approved my request.”
Jane’s eyebrows climbed higher. “I’m sorry, did you just say, ‘social architecture board?’”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“As in a governing body that does . . . what exactly? Facilitates social development by reading bedtime stories and setting up games of dodgeball?”
“Oh, no. Of course not. They just assign the people who will do those things.”
So the ancient, secret society had a board of directors to approve social interactions? Jane bit off her father’s voice before anything hurtful came out and forced her expression down a few notches. Understand first, question later. “What determines who stays in the community program and who lives in a home?”
“A few circumstances factor in. Some Sana Baba agents and officers are interested in parenting, but not all of them. There are always more children than parents. Also, for some programs, the children aren’t eligible for non-community placement.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for example, our current commanding officer Lovecraft and Dahl’s girlfriend Olive were both in programs that precluded them from family life. It would have made them less suitable for their links.”
Jane chewed her lip. Precluded from family life? That didn’t sound right. Actually, it sounded horrible, but Ian’s conversational tone said this was no biggie. What was she missing? She had to absorb so much about Sana Baba and how things were run, so some points were bound to be confusing. These were the guys out saving the world, after all. Would they really keep children from having families?
Jane shook her head. “What about your link? Did your program mean you couldn’t have parents?”
“It did. I was groomed to attempt this link from the beginning. Children with my markers are only considered for Enkidu—”
“What does that mean?” Jane hadn’t meant to interrupt, but this was the second time someone had mentioned “markers,” and she wanted to know more.
“Not every person can hold a link. Of those who can, some links will be a better fit than others. There are a lot of factors, but that’s the short answer.”
“So various things about you made Sana Baba think you would be a good person to hold your particular link?”
“Yes.”
“What happens if a person isn’t a good fit?”
Ian’s light tone fumbled. “The most likely case is it won’t work. That’s why Sana Baba has many pledges in any given training program—so if a link opens up, they have enough candidates to assure the position can be filled, even if some of them do not succeed. In some cases, the link can be weak, giving only a small amount of power or a single talent to the agent. However, occasionally pledges who are not a good fit do manage a bond, and it can cause a lot of unhappiness. Cognitive dissonance, internal conflict, depression, that sort of thing. It’s not a maintainable situation.”
Jane’s mouth was dry. Did she really want the answer to her question this time? “What happens to them?”
“It’s different in every case.” His voice was soft. “But since most candidates are mentally divergent to begin with, bad links usually make poor life decisions resulting in fatality or suicide.”
“Oh my God.” Jane fought back a shiver. Every time she adjusted to her new world, the light dimmed a little more. Ian didn’t offer any additional explanation, so she tried to push past it until she could process what he’d said. Divergent. “What do you mean mentally divergent?”
“Less connected to this reality. In the terms you’re familiar with, people who have mental or emotional disorders or disabilities. They are already on the fringe, so it makes connecting to another reality more natural.”
“But how can they know if most candidates are adopted as infants?”
“The vast majority of candidates wash out, so it’s partly a numbers game, but family history can offer clues when it’s available. And with some children, like me, it’s obvious.”
Jane peered at Ian’s reflection in the rearview, waiting for something to click. His warm, brown, close-set eyes stole glances at her in the mirror. Beautiful bronze skin flushed slightly. Lovely, pouting mouth she was hoping to get to know a little better in the near future. The pause in their conversation stretched on. Ian kept glancing back at her. Jane squirmed a little and bit her lip. “Um, I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Ian inhaled deeply and fixed his eyes on the road. His shoulders tensed. “I was born with fetal alcohol syndrome. It affects my memory, my attention, and, um, my cognitive development. I’m sorry. It’s common knowledge at home. Anyone can tell from my facial features. I assumed you would know. I should have told you before . . .”
“Hey, take a breath!” Jane rubbed his shoulder a little. “You don’t owe me an explanation or a disclaimer or anything.” She was trying to catch his eye in the mirror again. When she couldn’t, she leaned forward and kissed his shoulder. “It’s all good. I don’t know anything about that condition, but how bad can it be? I mean, you’re the kindest, most sincere person I’ve ever met. You’re running around saving the world from supernatural threats with your partner who you raised as a single father. Whatever you think you’re missing, it can’t be super critical. You’re kind of winning life.”
“Are you sure it doesn’t trouble you?” Ian was glancing at her in the mirror, and the car was starting to wander out of the lane. Jan
e squeaked as they hit the rumble strip, and Ian corrected. Dahl stirred but resettled.
“Yeah, I’m sure. I mean, why would it matter? Everyone’s got issues.”
Ian refocused on the road, to Jane’s relief, his voice warming and relaxing. “Intelligence is held in the highest esteem at Sana Baba. It’s challenging to be seen as less than I could have been, even though it makes me who I am.”
“That just sounds like the cool kids trying to find a way to look better than everyone else. Screw them. I was never in with the in-crowd either.”
Ian’s dimples slowly reappeared. “Well, good. Another thing I like about you.”
They rolled into town after dark. How was Jane so tired after sitting all day? Sitting in the car, sitting in the waiting area, sitting on the plane, and sitting in the car again. Exhausting.
The three of them checked into their rooms before heading out on a walk. The hotel was styled like a historic estate, with rambling stone and wooden architecture and leaded glass windows. An older, dark-haired woman behind the desk gaped at their little trio for a few seconds before checking Ian’s reservation, ID, and credit card with a level of scrutiny usually reserved for things like international security or brain surgery. Jane gave Dahl an exasperated glance while the clerk held the ID under a magnifier to verify the microprint.
Dahl whispered, “He gets this a lot since Desert Storm.”
Ian smiled pleasantly and thanked her when she thrust the documentation back across the counter, along with room keys and a few brochures, with an aging, well-manicured hand.
“The mushroom festival was canceled,” she informed them through pursed red lips. “Does that change your plans? We’re happy to offer a refund.”
“Why was it canceled?” Ian asked conversationally.
“A few locals have gotten parasites. It needs to be dealt with before they’ll reopen for tourism.” The older woman simpered. “Bottled water has been provided in your rooms as a precaution.”
Jane stashed her bags inside the door. Could she cure parasites? Gross, gross, gross—she did not want to find out. She mentally swore to drink only bottled water, keep her shoes on at all times, and eat everything well done.
Dahl’s room was next door and Ian’s across the hall. They reconvened, grabbing flashlights, lightweight jackets, a machete comparable to a reasonably sized sword concealed at Ian’s back and a Desert Eagle holstered at Dahl’s hip.
Jane flashed Dahl a grin despite the nerves the weapons brought on. “My dad would die of jealousy.”
“Really? He enjoys shooting?”
“He’s a closet doomsday prepper. Always stockpiling freeze-dried food, water filters, extra blankets, that sort of thing. Guns came with the territory. He would love a hand cannon, but the funds were never there, and my mom said he could defend against the threats of the apocalypse just as well with a Ruger.”
Dahl snorted. “Well, that’s just inaccurate.”
They trekked out onto the hotel grounds and picked up the street into town. The night was chilly, and Jane was underdressed. Thankfully, the quick pace got her blood flowing and warmth spread through her after the first quarter mile. They crunched down the gravel shoulder beside an empty road flanked by hills thick with young trees. Ian ambled beside her, Dahl a few paces behind. Jane lit a cigarette, enjoying the stars. Ian scanned the trees, although he spared a narrow-eyed glare at Jane’s smoking.
Jane couldn’t hide her grin. He noticed and cared about her, even if it took the form of pestering her about her habits. He winked at her and refocused his gaze on the dark trees.
“What are you looking for?”
Ian kept sweeping the branches, about forty feet up. Out of his pocket he took a few saltine crackers. “I’m hoping to find a crow. They’re mostly asleep by now, though.”
Jane perked up, scrutinizing the shadows with renewed interest. “Why a crow?”
“Crows are wonderful. They’re observant and clever. They travel widely and they can recognize objects and people. They are intelligent enough that communicating with them is simple, and bold enough I can speak to them without making them nervous. They are opportunity feeders and highly motivated by treats. My second choice would be a rat or a dog, but crows can fly, so they usually see more.”
“Ian has a pet crow at home. He’s partial,” Dahl supplied.
“A companion, not a pet. He has his own life. I call him Kehaar.” Ian’s voice was full of fondness.
“He’s a total pain in the ass. He steals everything he can carry and drops it down the storm grate. He picked all the weather stripping out of the doors of my Mustang. I think he’s addicted to Ritalin.”
Jane interrupted Dahl with a laugh and gave him a significant glance over her shoulder. “Sounds like Ian likes to collect pains.”
“Says the pot to the kettle.”
Jane stuck her tongue out and went back to eyeing the trees. “So how did you guys find me? I know you were searching for someone else, but how did I cross your radar?”
Ian continued to peer into the darkness, squinting slightly. “A few weeks ago, Dahl and I were still on leave, and I was visiting the children at the care center we have for little ones.”
“Were you on babysitting duty?” Jane was working on her mental image and having a hard time imagining Sana Baba assigning god-man Ian to change diapers and give bottles, but maybe they started training young? Did Ian even train people?
“No, I was done with work for the day. I was going to play with them, read to them, that sort of thing.” Ian sped through the explanation as if this was a normal part of his routine, not worth mentioning. “Anyhow, the phone rang. No one was in the lobby, so I answered it. The line was silent, so I hung up. It rang again almost immediately, and I answered again. A child responded, a little boy, maybe about ten years old. His voice was still high.
“He asked, ‘Have you checked on the children?’
“I said, ‘No, but I’m headed up now. Are you all right?’ Then the line went dead.” Ian fiddled with the crackers in one hand, accidentally crushing some of them. “I can’t explain why, but I was concerned. I hurried upstairs, and everything seemed fine. The children were playing. We have three dozen under the age of thirteen right now. Several of our caregivers were with them. I checked to see if anyone was missing, remembering the child’s voice on the line, but all were accounted for. While I was conducting my head count, I heard the phone ring again downstairs.” Ian’s pace slowed a little. He absently touched the huge knife at his back.
“I went back down and answered, ‘Who is this? Are you okay?’
“The boy responded, ‘She has my book, she’s formed our bond, and she knows you’re going to get her.’ As he finished speaking, an ambulance siren echoed from the street—that location is near a hospital, so we hear sirens a lot. I realized I was hearing the noise both from the road and through the phone. I left it off the hook and ran back upstairs to find nothing out of the ordinary in the playroom. I checked the closets and found one that contained extra supplies, including an unplugged, spare phone on the floor, off the hook. I picked it up and found the line was live, connected to the phone downstairs.” Ian swallowed and continued, “I reported to Lovecraft—”
“Everest Lovecraft is our asshole commanding officer,” Dahl added.
Ian glanced back at Dahl. “And he, thankfully, listened and posted a guard at the nursery. The evidence clearly indicated magic at work, so we went through an assessment period. We contacted our intelligence agents. I dreamed. We consulted the oracle—”
“Lovecraft again. Never as helpful as you think he’s going to be,” Dahl interjected.
“—and Sana Baba researched. It became clear that it was not a whole child who spoke to me. We found several urban legends matching the phone call I received: the babysitter and the man upstairs, Mary-san, those kinds of things. Since all of those legends end with people, usually children, getting murdered, they beefed up security. Time was of the essence
. The only solid leads containing unexplained magic we turned up were some reports of seemingly miraculous healing. Dahl and I were activated and left the next morning to investigate.”
Jane flushed and twisted her bracelets. She asked the people she helped to be discreet, keep quiet. Many times, when she tried to help, it didn’t work anyway. Why could Jane heal some conditions and not others? Minor ailments were sometimes more difficult to heal than hospice patients. Aggressive brain tumor? Poof, handled. Childhood burn scars? Impossible. It had been a spin of the wheel every time, and, more than Jane wanted to admit, she landed on bankrupt. Apparently, sometimes she landed on “run your big fat mouth about the person trying to help you” as well, because Sana Baba, halfway across the country, had found out.
Ian caught her eye and squeezed her hand. “Don’t feel bad, Jane. People talk. They didn’t know it would cause you trouble.”
Jane glanced up at him with a small smile. She kept hold of his hand.
Dahl continued the conversation. “Anyway, we got an updated set of orders while we were in the process of helping you out of Solace. There’s been a series of kidney thefts in Philadelphia.”
“Kidney theft?” Jane gaped at him. “Like someone wakes up in a bathtub full of ice with a sign to call 911?”
“Precisely.” Dahl lit a cigarette and took a long drag. “The situation was unusual and, since it fits with another urban legend, Lovecraft dug in. Our contact with the police department in Philly said the detective on the case was considering Kennett Square. The signs left at the crime scenes were written on a type of paper sold locally, made from mushrooms.”
Jane shook her head a little. “That would have to be the stupidest criminal in existence, to buy weird, local paper and then leave it at the crime scene.”
Ian was weaving his fingers between hers in an incredibly distracting way, but his voice was serious. “We know something supernatural is taking place. Some things about these events are not going to follow the regular path of reality, and details can get jumbled with magic, but it wouldn’t be out of nowhere. The person making the magic would have to be familiar with mushroom paper for it to turn up at the scene, even if they didn’t go through the act of buying the paper, driving to Philly, surgically assaulting people, and leaving them a note. We’re in the right place. It fits with Dahl’s dream, the track headed toward a small town, inevitably drawing us in. All the pieces are lining up.”
