, by Mazo de la Roche,” Adrian said, reading the title on the spine. It was leather-bound, worn but almost desperately well cared for, and it had the author’s signature on the flyleaf and a publication date of 1927. “He had that one with him when he sat up for sunrise,” Guha said. “Must have meant something to him at one time.” “Or just a link to life. I had better read it, and the letters,” Adrian said thoughtfully. “There is a chance he knew my parents, and they will be at the Rancho. Still, Shadowspawn are no better than others at remembering small details for sixty or seventy years.” “These are the weapons,” Farmer said; no Shadowspawn would travel unarmed. A revolver, the grips black bone; he could feel silver on the interior pawls that moved the cylinder and the spring that drove the hammer. “Webley Mk. VI,” Harvey said with interest. He took the weapon, broke it open and examined it, smiling a little in satisfaction that it was functional. “It’s a .455 caliber, top-hinged, 1915 model. This antique hand-cannon’s got stoppin’ power to spare but it’s a wrist-breaker; you’d better practice a bit.” Adrian nodded. He was very strong—even for a pureblood Shadowspawn—but he wasn’t particularly massive. Harvey was forty pounds heavier, and mass counted in absorbing recoil. The bullets were silver as well, rougher than modern rounds but probably effective. There were two warded and silver-edged knives, not much different from those made today if you liked straight double-edged daggers; he weighed one in his hand, satisfied. A Council trident-and-sun was set into the pommel of each. “Good. We have about a week before the official opening of the . . . Prayer of Long Life, enough for me to reinforce the Wreakings to disguise your minds.” Harvey grinned. “You two are goin’ to be hearing a lot of Mhabrogast.” The two Brotherhood operatives winced. So did Adrian; he would have to think
in it, not merely recite phrases. That did odd things to your mind. It had only two tenses, the fixed
and the potential
, just to start with; it was a language for solipsistic monsters. “I will be one of the first guests to arrive, in bird-form. You will be my faithful renfields, and—” He sketched out the preliminary plan he’d developed. By the end of it they were all sitting on trunks and crates, eating shrimp po’ boys from a place Harvey had discovered here in Paso Robles and drinking Duvel beer that had started out in Belgium before it ended up in plastic glasses in California. “That’s a lot more risky for you than for us,” Farmer said, when he’d finished. “I need you for the first two days. After that, all you could do would be to die. I suppose you have your suicide imperatives primed?” They both nodded. “I don’t have that option, either.” He stood and got the markers and chalks out of his knapsack. “This is a splendid place to work with. We’ll need a rope to scribe some circles . . .” Several hours later Farmer walked away with his hands clutched to his head. Adrian blinked as he watched the Brotherhood’s operative carefully avoiding obstacles that weren’t there, and forced his mind not to see what they might
be. His nose twitched; Anjali Guha had a wad of tissues pressed to hers, to stop the blood. Neither of them was used to Wreaking at this level; neither was he, anymore. “That will do for a start,” he said, and they both groaned. “We can continue tomorrow night. No more than four or five more sessions.” He thought Farmer sounded less resentful. Now you have some idea of what you’ll be dealing with
, Adrian thought. We speak of minds that can rip the fabric of reality as if it were tissue. And who have the dispositions of malicious children, the type who pull the legs off one side of a spider to see it walk in circles. “Now let’s get some sleep,” Harvey said, wielding a mop to erase the glyphs drawn in a looping tracery outside the circle. “Early day tomorrow.” The walk to the motel they were using was short, but even with an adept’s training sleep came slowly. Rancho Sangre was not somewhere he’d ever been physically, but his parents had lived there for decades, and Adrienne since their body-death. It was graven in the history of his life; and now Ellen’s world-line was woven with it. What is happening there now, Ellie? I’m coming to you, as fast as I can.
“I am pleased to meet you, sir, madam,” Ellen said formally to Adrienne’s parents. Should I curtsy or something
? she thought. In this Jean-Charles creation I’m wearing at least it wouldn’t look ridiculous. But I never learned how anyway. Polite will have to do. And . . . they’re Adrian’s parents too. God, in a skanky sort of way this
is like being taken home to meet the folks. “No, you’re not glad at all,” Jules Brézé said. “But it was polite of you to say so. By all means, call me Jules. This is
America, after all. My parents were the ones who came from France.” He advanced and took her hand. The contact had a slight shock to it, psychically cold and somehow wet
, though the hand felt absurdly normal for a man who’d died before she was born; there was even a faint smell of wine and mint on his breath, beneath an expensive cologne. His eyes were the thing that made what he was unmistakable, like pools of living gold. His wife came up beside him and reached out to touch Ellen’s hand as well. Both flared their nostrils slightly to take her scent; it was an oddly animalistic gesture. She could remember Adrian doing it when he forgot himself, but then she hadn’t had the context. “Oh, I see what you mean, darling,” Julianne said over her shoulder to Adrienne. “One longs to consume
her. Her mind is like a rose carved out of finely marbled meat until the petals are translucent, scented with fruit and flowers and blood.” Errrk,
Ellen thought. That’s an . . . arresting metaphor. All my life I thought my only talents were for tennis and art history, and now I find out I’m A-1 Shadowspawn fodder too. “Even more entrancing than the others,” Jules said to his daughter. “My dear, you have without a doubt inherited the family’s discerning tastes.” The elder Brézés were in slightly old-fashioned evening wear: a beautifully tailored suit and a long off-one-shoulder gown and slightly bouffant hairdo, like something she’d seen on the TV as a little girl back before the turn of the century. If she’d met them at a launch party at the gallery, she’d have put them down as extremely well-conditioned late thirties or early forties, with a sleek timeless look that appeared effortless and cost heavily; Adrienne’s mother was a bit fuller-figured than her daughter, and her hair not quite so dark. They had the same slight Continental accent as their children, but there was also an indefinable difference in the way they treated their vowels and used contractions, a tinge of slow clipped harshness. The English language itself was in the process of changing out from under them. “I’m glad I’m . . . interesting . . . Jules,” Ellen said. “My dear, you are positively appetizing
,” Jules said, bowing over the hand and releasing it. Errrrk
, Ellen thought again. Adrienne laughed. She was standing by the carved-stone fireplace; the spring evening was cool enough that the low crackle of flames on the split oak there seemed justified. She had a snifter of brandy in her hand, and a cigarette in her ivory holder. Mark and Renata were the elder Brézés’ lucies, a golden-haired younger man and a slim dark woman of about thirty, and they were reclining on the sofa, chatting easily to each other about some cultural event in Los Angeles. “So, what do you think of the Rancho Sangre art collection?” Julianne said. “Adrienne has added to it, but we and our parents did a good deal.” “Ah . . . it’s very impressive. But eclectic and hardly organized at all,” Ellen said, both of which were true. Jules shrugged. “It was a case of I know what I like
with us, I’m afraid. Adrienne is more enthusiastic. I’m sure you’ll work immense improvements.” “I’ve gotten a preliminary redistribution roughed out and approved by Adrienne, and we’re going to start moving some items soon. Before the, ah, party.” Both the elder Brézés smoked—slim dark cigars for him, and Turkish cigarettes in an ivory holder like Adrienne’s for her. The way she held it . . . By God, that’s the way they used to do it in old movies!
Ellen thought. Not an imitation, it’s completely unselfconscious, and apparently they really
<
br /> did wave it that way. Really old movies, silents, back when it was a daring novelty for women to smoke in public. And the way the two of them talk . . .
When were they born? “More than a century ago,” Adrienne said. There was that sense that something
passed between her and her parents. They both laughed, Julianne more ruefully than her spouse. “Yes, implausibly long ago!” she said. “The habits you acquire in youth stick like glue, I find.” No wonder Adrian smokes! In a way, he’s the same generation as my
grandparents. “That’s another reason we used to use foster parents a good deal,” Adrienne said. “To keep children from getting too
out of period. Even so, when I was excited over something early in our acquaintance Jean-Charles gave me an odd look and said my French was splendid but sometimes he wondered if I’d learned it from Napoleon the Third.” Jules nodded. “We’re still working out how to deal with such things,” he said. “It is all too easy to become . . . lost in memories and in dreams.” “Do you have any elder brothers and sisters?” Ellen asked her Shadowspawn, intrigued for a moment. “Two. Jacques and Jeanne. They went to Chile with their mates as . . . missionaries, you might say, seventy years ago,” Julianne answered for her daughter. “They’re still there. Even still corporeal! Though they’ll transition soon, I’m sure.” Ellen shivered a little. Missionaries. Julianne held out her snifter. The blond young man rose and filled it from the decanter of Martell X.O., and brought Ellen one as well. “What do you
think of the Getty’s repatriation policy?” he asked her. “Mark!” Julianne said, gently reproving. “We’ve heard these family stories so often
, Julianne!” he said defensively. Ellen sipped. She’d never liked brandy before she met Adrian; if you were going to drink something concentrated and harsh, vodka went down easier. He’d enjoyed showing her the difference between liquor-store brandy and actual cognac . . . She closed her eyes for an instant and shoved the thought of his face smiling at her away, concentrating on the taste instead. This was as good as the type he favored, but different, heavier and smokier; a hint of dry fruit, and of almond and vanilla. It went down smoothly, but with a bite that warned it had to be taken seriously. I’ve got to remember not to drink to relax tension or suppress fear,
she thought. It’s too tempting. It’s
always been too tempting for me but now especially it’s too tempting. It’s bad enough the way Adrienne feeding on me blisses me out. I’m getting too psychologically dependent on that, too, not just physically; it’s the only time I’m
not afraid. “Ah . . . I’m generally in favor of returning works that weren’t legitimately acquired, but I think they’ve got to draw the line somewhere,” Ellen said. “You can’t send everything
back where it came from, just because the descendants don’t approve of many-times-great-granddad’s bargains!” I’m actually enjoying this
, she thought, as that conversation went on. Mark Jensen knew what he was talking about; he wasn’t a professional, she thought, but he obviously cared deeply. Renata was mostly concerned with contemporary folk-art, but had something to say. The Brézés had seen artistic fashion change and change and change again. After a while Leila and Leon were brought in to visit with their grandparents; evidently midnight was a perfectly normal time for Shadowspawn children to start thinking about bed. Adrienne smiled benignly. “I’ll let you enjoy yourselves,” she said, and took Ellen’s hand. “Come, chérie
. The evening is young, and our own personal carnival of the perverse is about to start.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN S
top
,Adrianthought/projected. Harvey did, and sank down with a slow smooth motion, soundless despite the twigs and last year’s leaves. So much for
too old for this shit, Adrian thought. He was as quiet himself. The night buzzed and crickled with insects; it was a little rank with the scents of new spring growth. Ahead and miles downslope to the northeast the lights of Rancho Sangre were a glow through the darkness of early evening. The patrol he’d detected came into sight in a little clearing a hundred yards below, all going to one knee at the edge of the open space. The grass there was tall, still a little green with May; it was starred with rose and owl’s clover, columbine, lily of the valley and forget-menots, purple and yellow bush lupine and drifts of golden California poppies. The breeze blew from them to him, carrying the harsh scents of male sweat and gun-oil from the Gurkha mercenaries amid the sweet lingering fragrance of the flowers. Their rifles had argent rounds, the silver alloy a slight gritty-tingling sensation in the night. I’m glad
I am not too proud to wear body-armor!
Adrian thought. Two more were Tōkairin retainers in close-fitting black, including masks across their lower faces, with swords slung over their backs. The trickling menace of inlaid, glyph-wrought blades hummed past the sheaths. The black-clad men’s eyes needed no technology to see through the light spring night; they had the distinctive sharper, ranker body-scents of Shadowspawn. He could feel their attention fanning out. Automatically his mind pushed
. Slightly, subtly, switching pathways to the ones where they missed/ignored/didn’t notice any evidence that something was amiss, which was the highest probability anyway. With them was a huge gray wolf. It blurred
for an instant, sparkling with energies to Shadowspawn sight, then became a naked man on one knee, dark and lean and scarred, his beak-nosed brown face still raised to sample the air. I’m impressed
, Adrian thought. I couldn’t tell he was night-walking except by deduction. And the way the soldiers are afraid of him. I can smell
that. The other two are in-the-body. “Jirō, Kenta?” Dale Shadowblade asked softly, in the quiet conversational tones that carried least. “You catch anything?” The narrow gold-flecked dark eyes of Hajime’s clansmen scanned carefully. One hesitated for an instant, his hand going towards the sword-hilt that jutted over his left shoulder, then shook his head. “No. Though there are so many Wreakings soaked into the earth and rocks here I jump at my own shadow! Like kami
, only real.” “Yeah, the Brézés have been busy. Let’s get the circuit complete. I gotta get back to town to meet Michiko and . . . a friend.” Another silent blur, and the wolf turned its long muzzle. Adrian let his own eyelids drift down as the yellow gaze seemed to meet his. Then it turned and bounded away. The men followed, scarcely less silent or less swift. After a long moment there was a quiet whoosh
of breath from behind him. “Now, that was just a mite nerve-racking,” Harvey said quietly. “You could say so. Or that my luck is very strong,” Adrian grinned, with an expression halfway between relief and sheer exhilaration. Danger too can be addictive. I had forgotten . . . They waited another half-hour. Patience was a hunter’s virtue . . . or a sniper’s, if there was a difference. Then they began their step-at-a-time progress. Adrian paused with his foot in the air. “Wait,” he said. “Wreaking.” Old, old and strong. Keyed into the volcanic rock, like the structure of its atoms, but at a far finer level. Trace the linkages. If-this-then . . . “Step on that and you break your leg,” he murmured. “And trap it in that crack, so that any attempt to free yourself causes more damage. If you are sentient at all. Unless
it recognizes the Brézé blood.” “DNA.” “Whatever. Let me convince it . . .” He drew a small sharp knife and nicked one finger with the tip. The scent filled his nose, but it would fade quickly; he willed
the tiny wound to dry. A drop fell, and soaked into the porous stones beneath. He felt a response, and a glyph showed for a moment where the blood had struck. “Ai-siiii
.” Congruence/recognition/fitness. With it came a ghost of the mind that had set the trap, many years ago, a snicker of gloating anticipation of pain and the long dying of someone crippled and helpless. “My grandfather’s idea of a joke,” Adrian said, letting out a shaky breath. “This is like walkin’ through a garden of carnivorous plants,” Harvey grumbled slightly. He was in the same splotched dark char
coal-gray outdoors clothes—better than black at night. A heavy case on his back carried the knocked-down rifle and more than half their gear, but there was only a light coat of moisture on the older man’s face. “Tired of the sweaty manly stuff yet, old friend?” Adrian asked under his breath. “Before we began,” Harvey said, as they moved slowly on, stopping every few yards. He had a small electronic device in his hand, and a thin wire leading to an earpiece. A grunt from him froze them both. “OK, got a blip. Your sister ain’t relyin’ on hex-marks only.” “How progressive
of her,” Adrian observed dryly. “There. Lemme . . . cracking the code . . . Sheila comes through again . . .” Harvey indicated a live-oak, its roots writhing into the fractured stone of the hillside like a slow-motion strangling. “Visual and audio pickup. Now foxed, you can relax. Sorta. A little.” Beyond the rock grew steeper. A rattlesnake stirred at his passing; its dim reptile brain obeyed the prompting of instinct and probability, threading away deeper into its hole. Then a deep cleft appeared. “Bingo. Here’s that observation post. Good ol’ Brotherhood, thinking ahead.” “To opportunities that never occur,” Adrian said dryly. “Let’s get set up.” “And have ourselves an MRE,” Harvey said, as they ducked into the sheltering cave. “Yum!” His face was darkened with camouflage paint, but his grin was white at Adrian’s expression. “We made it.” “For now,” Adrian said sourly. “There are three days yet until the . . . festivities. My sister may order another sweep.” “Or come ’round herself.” Adrian sighed as he set down his heavy pack. “I doubt it. She has much to occupy her, besides her usual . . . diversions.” “My parents were quite taken with you,” Adrienne told her. Then she pivoted and struck. Crack. “Uh!
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