Then he sat down on the edge of the couch and stroked Vivian’s forehead. He had expected her to come to after he had taken the pressure off her vision. But, of course, she didn’t know he had done that.
The shadows under her eyes were still deep, and there were lines around her delicate mouth. She seemed so tiny to have so much psychic power. She clearly had been able to read him. He’d come across a lot of psychics in his day, but none of them had the ability to read him—particularly when they were at a disadvantage, like she had been.
“Vivian?” he said, running a hand along her cheek. Her skin was soft. She stirred under his touch but didn’t awaken.
Had the pain been so bad that it had destroyed part of her?
He eased his hand to her neck and found the problem. Her muscles were rigid, as they had probably been the entire time she fought the pain.
The external cause of the pain was gone, but the internal one apparently remained. And that was something he could solve.
The Fates were being unusually quiet during this crisis. He expected them to give him advice, to step in, to shove him aside, do the work for him, or even to criticize what he was doing. Instead, they hovered, blocking his view of the rest of the apartment and making him nervous.
He shifted on the couch, determined not let them interfere with his concentration.
Dex bent over Vivian. He slid his hand across her face again. The pain resonated through his fingers. The psychic link was there—faint, because she was unconscious, but there.
He pressed his thumb against the bridge of her nose and put his forefinger on her temple. Vivian leaned into his hand. He closed his eyes, reached through his hand to her mind, and found the pain.
This time he was able to touch it, and because he could, he recited a very simple spell that would transfer the pain from her to him.
It took a moment for the spell to work. Then his fingers seemed to sink into her skin, and pain shot up his arm. It struck his brain.
The intensity was blinding. Dex nearly toppled off the couch. He had no idea how one person had survived that much anguish. He bound the pain, wrapped it in a ball, and forced it outside the building, into the Willamette River, where it wouldn’t harm anyone.
Even feeling the pain for that short a time had been staggering. He wanted to put a cold compress over his face and lie down.
But he couldn’t. He had to make sure Vivian was all right.
He opened his eyes. Vivian’s skin wasn’t quite so gray. There was a flush of red in her cheeks. It gave her a startlingly warm appearance, as if she were about to open her eyes and smile. Some people’s faces in repose looked solemn. Vivian’s had an impishness to it, as if she had fallen asleep in a particularly good mood.
The Fates had moved even closer, and they weren’t looking at him. They appeared to be watching Vivian with concern.
It took him a moment to catch his breath enough to speak. “Vivian?”
Her eyelids fluttered. She raised a hand toward her forehead, then let the hand drop.
“Vivian?” he said again.
Her eyes opened. They seemed clear for first time since he’d met her, and he was struck by the intelligence in them. He revised his opinion upward: she wasn’t beautiful—she was strikingly beautiful. And it was the intelligence that made her so.
“Dexter,” she said, frowning just a little. “Right?”
“Right,” he said.
She smiled. “It suits you better than Henri.”
He thought so too. “How’re you feeling?”
“Fine.” She put a hand to her head. “Amazingly.”
“They had no right to ask you to create that vision,” he said, unable to keep the anger out of his voice.
But Vivian didn’t seem to hear him. Instead she was looking around her—at the couch, the artwork above it, the end tables, and then, finally, at him. “I’m home.”
He nodded. The Fates were still pressed against him, saying nothing.
“How did I get here?” She eased herself up on her elbows, a movement that would have made her face pale even more in agony a few short minutes ago.
“I brought you,” Dex said, uncertain how much to tell her.
“How did you know where I lived?”
“I didn’t,” he said.
“Then, how—?”
“Magic,” Clotho said.
Dex braced himself. They were going to launch into him now, the inappropriateness of helping humans no matter what the circumstance. He even knew the speech: If we gave you permission to help them, then we’d have to allow others to harm them. We’d have no control at all. Don’t you think things through, Henri?
Vivian looked at him, as if trying to sense whether or not he was telling the truth. She seemed awful accepting of his short—but apt—explanation.
None of the Fates said anything else. They didn’t make the speech.
“So my car is still at your store?” she asked.
The question surprised him. He expected more discussion of the magic. Maybe she was already being mentored. She was old enough.
But if she were, she would have known the dangers of the glass jar vision, and wouldn’t have tried it.
Unless the Fates forced her to. He clenched his other fist. He would get to the Fates in a moment. No matter who they were, they had no right to interfere in lives like this.
“Yes, your car’s there,” Dex said, “along with a group of unsupervised kittens. I suppose I should be getting back.”
“No, Henri,” Lachesis said. “We need your help.”
Dex didn’t even face her. He continued to watch Vivian, who, despite her recovery, still looked a bit wan.
“I don’t have time for games,” Dex said to the Fates. “I’ve followed your rules. I don’t think it fair that you used Vivian to test me.”
“We haven’t done anything of the sort,” Atropos said.
“Although you are correct,” Clotho said. “We recognize the irony of asking for your help when we have denied it to so many others.”
“Even if we were right,” Lachesis said.
Vivian was frowning, as if she didn’t entirely understand what was happening. She was the innocent victim in this. Dex wanted to take her in his arms, hold her, and comfort her, letting her know that nothing—absolutely nothing—would harm her again.
Dex stood slowly, menacingly. He’d done that once before with the Fates, only to feel small. This time, he towered over them.
He had never been taller than they were before. It was disconcerting, just like this entire conversation had been.
“I met your replacements,” he said.
Atropos rolled her eyes. They were almond-shaped, accented by kohl. Very Greek. All three women looked very Greek. He hadn’t realized that before either.
Was their claim to have lost their magic correct, then? Was he actually seeing them in their real forms?
“What did you think of them?” Atropos asked.
For a moment, he thought she was referring to their forms—a question he didn’t ever want to answer, in case they did get their positions back—and then he realized she was asking about the Interim Fates.
“They didn’t seem to have a solid grasp of the rules,” he said.
“Such a surprise,” Clotho said, even though she didn’t sound surprised.
“Imagine what a mess they’ll make,” Lachesis said, putting a hand to her cheek in mock dismay.
“Save it,” Dex said. “They told me that you picked them.”
“Out of a candidate pool of three,” Atropos snapped.
“Although we didn’t tell them that,” Clotho said.
“They’re Zeus’s daughters,” Lachesis said. “They have an in with the Powers That Be.”
“Zeus?” Dex raised his eyebrows. Somehow this amazed him, and it shouldn’t have. “Zeus must have a million children by now.”
“Seven-hundred-and-seventy-five thousand,” Atropos said, “not that anyone’s counting.
”
“Do you see why we made it so that men can’t father children after they’ve come into their powers?” Clotho said.
“Most men wouldn’t abuse the privilege,” Lachesis said.
“But every once in a while, you get someone like Zeus,” Atropos said.
“No matter how much you tell him,” Clotho said, “he simply doesn’t grasp the idea of birth control.”
“Well, he does,” Lachesis said, “but he doesn’t appreciate it.”
“Last time we told him, he said something about socks.” Atropos shook her head.
“Let me guess,” Dex said. “You haven’t even tried to talk to him for the last hundred years.”
“And we should have,” Clotho said. “Those children really are children. Because he had his powers when he fathered them, they were born with powers.”
“We’ve had to monitor them from the beginning. Imagine a baby with the ability to change the world with the wiggle of a toe?” Lachesis said.
Vivian was still leaning on her elbows, frowning as the conversation continued around her.
Dex had lost control of it, and quicker than he had expected. The Fates, even though they might not have their magical powers, still had the power to confuse.
“They seem to think that just because they’ve had constant schooling since birth, they know enough to govern the world,” Atropos said.
Dex was cold. “Don’t tell me. They really are teenagers?”
“They may as well be,” Clotho said, “for all the learning they’ve done.”
“They’re actually not much younger than you, Henri,” Lachesis said. “Not much older than sixty, if my memory serves.”
“I hate relying on memory,” Atropos whispered to Lachesis. Lachesis nodded.
“Sixty?” Vivian sat up even farther. She looked at Dex as if he’d sprouted two heads. “You’re sixty?”
She made it sound so old. He didn’t want to seem old to her. He wanted to seem perfect. He said, “Actually—”
“Yes,” Clotho said. “They’re just babies.”
“I don’t think anyone can make informed decisions until they’re well past their first century,” Lachesis said. “These girls are going to be a disaster.”
“You hope,” Dex said, happy the focus had been taken off his age. He was 105, barely within the realm that the Fates considered old enough to make an informed decision. Although Vivian would probably find 105 even more shocking than sixty.
The Fates were staring at him as if he had said something profane. He had to think back. He wasn’t quite sure what had come out of his mouth.
“No,” Atropos said. “We do not hope. We have spent millennia preventing disasters. We do not want one.”
Clotho nodded. “However, we could not explain to the Powers That Be—” at this the Fates extended their hands and bowed their heads with respect, just like they were supposed to. “—how important we are.”
“They seem to think anyone can do the job,” Lachesis said.
“So long as these anybodies follow the new rules for application,” Atropos said.
“Did we tell you that we must reapply?” Clotho asked.
He was feeling dizzy with information. The Fates weren’t playing a trick on him—or if they were, it was a successful albeit elaborate one. They really were in some sort of trouble.
“Is that why you have no magic?” Dex asked.
Clotho’s mouth thinned. Lachesis crossed her arms. They both looked at Atropos, who shrugged.
“We don’t have magic,” Lachesis said, “because Atropos believed we should try to fulfill all the silly new requirements.”
“Now you blame it on me,” Atropos said. “You agreed to it.”
“That was before we were attacked,” Clotho said.
“Attacked?” Dex asked.
“It’s a long story,” Lachesis said. “Let us tell it to you in order.”
So they did.
EIGHT
NORTHWESTERNERS WERE TOUGH. No matter how many media badges Eris flashed at them, no matter how many autographs Noah Sturgis signed, the police would not let Eris’s rented van past the cordon. Other media trucks sat outside, their little satellite dishes revolving, and cameramen hurried into nearby buildings, hoping to get on the roof. Helicopters flew overhead, their whap-whap-whapping a constant distraction.
Eris put Sturgis in charge of arguing with the authorities and then inched her way around the side of the van. The rest of her team stood behind Sturgis, listening to his argument—all except mousy little Suzanne, who was interviewing the handful of non-media personnel in the crowd.
Doing their jobs, as if the jobs were important. Eris would leave them to it. She had a real life to consider.
For the first time in months, she did actual magic. She slipped into the van and snapped her fingers, spelling herself to Stri’s side.
Her son stood on a sidewalk in the middle of the cordoned-off area. His shaved head glistened in the sunlight. He had a skateboard under one booted foot, and the other foot rested on the ground. He wore tight jeans, a jacket covered with zippers and snaps, and no shirt. His tattoos appeared to be gone. In their place were more piercings than Eris wanted to think about.
Around him, car alarms blared, their screeching bleats half of a step off from each other. The cacophony was irritating.
People peered out of nearby buildings—all of which appeared to be apartments—but when they saw her looking at them, they eased back in, as if afraid to be seen.
That was when she realized Strife was alone on the street. She snapped her fingers, changing her outfit and hair color immediately, so that no one would recognize her as Erika O’Connell.
“Took you long enough,” Strife said. He wasn’t looking at her. He was staring at the building across the street.
She followed his gaze. The building—an eight story brick building that appeared to have apartments on each floor—was winking in and out, as if it were part of a malfunctioning computer program.
The only thing that would cause a reaction like that was if a mage’s spell and a psychic’s vision collided. Someone had already put a glass jar shield on the building, so someone—someone powerful—had to have countered with a protect.
Eris cursed. “When did this start?”
“About five minutes ago,” he said.
“Who got in?”
“Dunno,” he said.
“How’d he get in?”
“Dunno that either.”
“Did you do a relocate? Centered on the Fates?”
“The Fates,” Stri said calmly, “are those babies you talked Zeus into spoiling.”
Eris smiled at the beauty of her own plan. Then her smile faded. “Did you try a relocate using their real names?”
“Whose?”
“The Fates?”
“The Interim Fates?”
She cuffed him on the side of the head. “The Fate Fates.”
Strife cringed away from her. “What’d you do that for?”
“Did you?”
He kicked the edge of the skateboard, popping it upward and catching it with one hand.
“Strife?” Her eyes narrowed. She could feel some real temper coming on. “You didn’t, did you?”
He shrugged. “Didn’t think of it.”
“You didn’t think of it? You tried fire, you tried smoke feelers, you tried—what? Minor explosions to set off those car alarms?—and you didn’t think of the easiest spell of all? The relocate spell?” She grabbed one of the hoop earrings he had put into his right eyebrow and tugged just enough to hurt. “Are you really that stupid?”
“Leggo,” he said, reaching for her hand.
“Strife? Are you that stupid?”
“No. Mom. Please, leggo.”
“Then why didn’t you do the spell?”
“Because,” he said, “I couldn’t remember their names.”
Eris let go in surprise. “You couldn’t remember the Fates’ names?”<
br />
Strife was clutching the right side of his face and backing away from her. “No.”
“It didn’t occur to you to call and ask me?”
“I thought you’d be mad,” he said.
“It didn’t occur to you to go to the library and look up the myth?”
“Forgot about the library,” he said. “Haven’t used one in fifty years.”
“Or the Internet? You couldn’t walk down the block and hop into one of Portland’s six billion Internet cafes?”
“I screwed up, Mom. I did. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry.” She cursed again. It would have been so easy. If some other mage had been able to get into the building with a relocate spell, then Strife would have been able to too. She would have been able to, if she’d been willing to use her magic on that plane. “You’re sorry.”
“Don’t hurt me, Mom,” he said. “Please.”
She backhanded him anyway, just for old times’ sake, and walked across the street.
“Ma’am.” An amplified voice reached her from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. “Back away from the building. You could get hurt.”
So the police were monitoring this. Great. That was all she needed, her transformation from Erika O’Connell to this punk chick who hit Stri all done in front of reliable eyewitnesses.
But she couldn’t think of that. She kept walking.
“Ma’am. Back away—”
With a flick of the wrist, she shut off the noise. She reached the building, created a little magical fog, and looked for the edge of the protect spell.
If she guessed right, whoever had done it had done it quickly, and would have left a hole or two.
But as much as she looked, she found nothing. This was the tightest spell she had ever seen. And it looked a little familiar. She would save part of it, and look for the signature later.
What she needed was a bit of that glass shield. Just a piece.
“Stri?” Eris said, beckoning him forward.
He came, carrying the skateboard under his left arm and covering the side of his face with his right. He looked like a modern Quasimodo, only with a jean jacket instead of a hump.
Simply Irresistible Page 8
