Gregori hoped that embracing the monastic lifestyle would give him back the equilibrium he had always taken for granted. At the very least, it should be quiet; quite the change from the years he and his brothers had spent as the Riders, companions and warriors for the Baba Yagas, who traveled together in between assignments, brawling and drinking and generally enjoying one another’s company.
Those days were behind him now, for better or for worse, and the sooner he accepted it, the better off he’d be.
Broken bones eventually mended. Broken spirits were a much more difficult and lengthy matter.
Sun had chosen the Shira-in Shashin Monastery for a number of reasons, including its somewhat nontraditional approach, its roots in Yellow Shamanism, which sprang from the same Mongolian soil that he had, and its location in Minneapolis, Minnesota.
Admittedly, the location wouldn’t have been a selling point for most people, with its bitterly cold winters and abundant snowfall. But Sun enjoyed the stark beauty of the landscape, which reminded him of the Siberian steppes where he and his long-lost mother had taken yearly treks with her disciples when he was a child. Its proximity to the Wilson Library, part of the University of Minnesota, was the other basis for his choice, since he thought it was his best chance of actually tracking her down. If she was still alive, which even he realized was unlikely in the extreme, given the many centuries that had passed since last he’d seen her.
Still, as someone who had spent his life in the company of Russian fairy-tale witches and their Chudo-Yudo dragon companions, traversing the boundaries between the Human world and an enchanted land filled with faeries, ogres, and other mystical creatures, Gregori Sun knew better than most that unlikely was not the same thing as impossible.
He had already made the decision to enter a monastery; it was possible that a rare moment of sentimentality had influenced his choice as to which one. Either way, the Shira-in Shashin program offered him both discipline and freedom, a vital combination.
The expectations for a layperson living at the monastery were simple: hours spent in meditation and study, following the general rules of the residence (no alcohol, drugs, sex, or violence), and performing some form of community service. Other than that, his time was his own, which would allow him to pursue the knowledge he sought.
It was assumed that most who entered would eventually find the constraints of the spiritual life to be unappealing and leave. Those who did not would be allowed to continue the long path that would lead to becoming a monk.
Sun hoped to find some kind of peace and perhaps a place to live out the rest of his life. Giving up the temptations of the outside world was no hardship at all. If anything, it would be a relief. There was nothing out there for him anymore.
* * *
Ciera was doing some research on the computer at her desk when someone cleared his throat gently. She started, dropping the pen she was holding so that it hit the desk’s cluttered surface with a muffled thud, rolling from there onto the white tile floor. She prided herself on her ability to be aware of her surroundings at all times; she couldn’t remember the last time someone had approached her without her sensing their presence. And yet a man stood in front of her desk, and she hadn’t even known he was there.
Of course, now that she saw him, he was impossible to miss.
The dark hair and sharp Asian planes of his face were attractive—maybe even striking—but there was something more than mere handsomeness about him. Some might have thought his expression stern, but Ciera thought he had a kind of poised, self-contained air that made him stand out from most of the people she met, and yet there was a sadness in his black eyes that made her instinctively want to reach out to soothe whatever it was that had caused such pain.
The strength of her reaction caught her by surprise. Men weren’t a part of her life, not outside of professional interactions, anyway. She’d made that choice a long time ago and never for one moment regretted it. Until now. She ducked under the desk and scooped up her fallen pen, using the action to get a grip on herself. It’s pheromones or something like that, she told herself sternly. A chemical reaction at the back of your brain. Ignore it and it will go away. At least as soon as he does.
She sat up, back straight as she put the writing implement down with a decisive click, and put one hand up reflexively to make sure that her unruly kinky-curly hair was still firmly tucked into the neat bun she always wore it in at work.
“Good afternoon,” she said in a pleasant voice. “Can I help you with something?” There, see? Nothing but business.
“I hope so,” the man said, his voice smooth and deep and touched with the hint of an accent. Russian, she thought, although from his looks she would have expected maybe Japanese or Chinese.
There were plenty of foreigners who did research at the Wilson Library, with its special collections covering such esoteric areas as the Ames Library of South Asia and the East Asian Library, both of which were part of her areas of expertise, as was the Bell Library, located on the fourth floor, which housed noncirculating rare books, maps, and manuscripts that documented trade and cross-cultural interaction throughout the world prior to around 1800. Maybe he was a professor she hadn’t met yet, or some kind of visiting expert. He certainly didn’t seem like a student, although these days, you never could tell. She thought he might be in his thirties, or possibly a youthful forty.
“I was told that you might be able to assist me with some research I am doing,” he said, bowing slightly with both hands in front of his chest. “I am afraid it is somewhat eclectic in nature, covering a wide range of obscure topics, but I will be happy to do the digging myself if you can simply point me in the right direction.”
Ciera tried to ignore the fact that something about the timbre of his voice sent a frisson of heat down her spine in a most disconcerting manner. “Some of our collections are only available by appointment,” she said in her best impersonal librarian tone, “but I’m sure we can help you find what you need. Can you give me some idea of the areas you were interested in?”
“I am looking for references to a particular obscure Mongolian shamaness named Iduyan and the sect of worshippers and disciples who followed her, as well as anything on modern shamanism in a fairly widespread area—Mongolia, Russia, and China, to start out with. In addition, I need any information there might be on the legend of Shangri-la or related lost cities.”
Ciera blinked. “That is a rather strange and eclectic set of search parameters. It might take some time to turn up anything useful, assuming there is anything to be found at all. Some of the items you are looking for might be in the East Asian collection, I suppose. Either way, most of the books and maps you’ll need can’t be taken out of the building, so I’m afraid you’ll have to do the bulk of your research here. But there are a number of spaces in the library where you can have relative privacy and quiet.”
The man nodded politely. “There are many worse places to spend one’s time,” he said softly. “I have been in most of them. I am certain it will be a pleasure to spend a portion of my days here.”
Another shiver fluttered down her spine and she reminded herself again that she wasn’t interested in men. Especially not mysterious men who had an aura of danger around them like this one did.
“I’ll write down a few books you can start with,” she said, pulling a pad out of the top drawer. These days most of the people she dealt with would whip out a tablet or a smartphone to take down the information, but somehow he didn’t strike her as the electronics type. “And I’ll compile a more detailed list over the next day or two. Can I get your name?”
“Gregori,” he said. “Gregori Sun.” That hint of an accent made the name seem exotic and foreign, although his English was flawless. Maybe a second-generation immigrant.
“Very good, Mr. Sun. I’m Ciera Evans. If I’m not here when you come back, I’ll leave a folder for you at the front
desk. I hope you find everything you’re looking for.” She handed him the list, then turned purposely back to her computer.
She barely heard him when he muttered, more to himself than to her, “I suspect that is very unlikely.”
* * *
Sun was so focused on his search, he barely noticed the librarian behind the desk, other than to note that she had seemingly taken the stereotype to heart, complete with drab, modest clothing, square black-rimmed glasses, and hair pulled tightly back into an unflattering bun. A pity, really, since she had the potential to be quite beautiful, but it was just as well, since he couldn’t afford distractions, even abstract ones. It was bad enough that he was already splitting his focus between his path to spiritual enlightenment and his search for his mother—which, admittedly, was at odds with his goal to detach from the world, but that was the way these things went.
With any luck, he would be spending all of his time at the library with his nose buried in obscure reference books and dusty maps, and any other distractions would be kept to a minimum. Especially oddly intriguing ones wearing glasses.
* * *
Ironically, Sun probably wouldn’t even have recognized her when he saw her later that evening, if it hadn’t been for those same glasses. The drab professional attire had been replaced by equally nondescript jeans and a black hoodie, and the dark hair was still pulled back, although this time into a tightly woven braid, from which tiny curls escaped at her nape and around the edges of her forehead. Only the glasses and the slightly prickly exterior remained the same.
Plus, of course, he hadn’t expected to run into her at the homeless shelter.
He’d been assigned by his teacher at the monastery to do his community service at a soup kitchen in downtown Minneapolis, one attached to a shelter that served many local homeless youths, along with a number of young mothers with children. He couldn’t say which population was more heartbreaking. Sun wasn’t sure if the volunteer work was intended to test a novice’s ability to be compassionate without becoming emotionally involved, but he could see how that would be a challenge for many.
For someone like Sun, who had lived more than a thousand years and watched countless shorter lives come and go, it was a little less challenging. He had had to learn to keep a certain distance long ago.
What he found so fascinating was that someone like this librarian seemed to have learned it too.
He studied her from across the room while listening with half his attention to the head of the shelter explaining how the food kitchen worked, and what Sun’s duties would be as a volunteer. Despite what he thought were attempts to blend into her surroundings, almost chameleonlike when he factored in her completely different appearance at the library that afternoon, she stood out like a peony among a field of daisies.
It wasn’t just her beauty, although that certainly drew the eye, no matter how much she tried to disguise it with plain clothing and lack of makeup. Wide lips and dark, slightly kinky hair spoke of an African-American contribution, while the high cheekbones and fine features suggested some Native roots. The light hazel eyes were probably Caucasian, but that tawny skin was a shade no white person ever achieved. Either way, no matter her origins, she was striking and unusual-looking, as though someone had taken the best parts of a varied gene pool and combined them into a rare and gorgeous creation.
One that she clearly made an effort to downplay, Sun thought, based on her attire and attitude. She seemed friendly enough as she dished some unidentified brownish mass onto the plates of those who paraded past her with their trays, and chatted lightly with the people standing beside her on the serving line. A restrained smile flickered over her lips from time to time, and she made a small boy laugh at some joke she’d told him. But Sun’s second sight, a dubious and erratic gift most likely left over from his massive dose of the Water of Life and Death, showed him her aura as a subdued dark silver glow that reminded him of nothing so much as a suit of armor. On the surface, she might seem as open as one of the books at her library, but the reality he saw was as closed down and defensive as a castle with its drawbridge up and its moat filled with alligators.
Intriguing.
None of his business, but intriguing nonetheless.
Eventually, the director of the shelter, a soft-spoken black man named Philip Roman with the muscular build and battered face of a former boxer, finished up his instructions and brought Gregori over to join the others.
“Gregori, these are a few of our regular volunteers.” He pointed at a stocky woman in her fifties with short-cropped iron-gray hair and a tattoo of a broken chain wound around one wrist. “This is Elisabeth. She was one of our clients, once upon a time, went back to school, got her GED, and now she has a steady job and helps out here when she can. It’s good to have a success story, to show it can be done, you know.”
Elisabeth rolled her eyes, probably tired of being introduced as a shining example, but she gave Sun a cheerful enough grin anyway. “Welcome to the asylum, where most days it is impossible to tell the inmates from the guards. As long as you’re not afraid of hard work and the occasional knife fight, you’ll do just fine.”
Phillip shook his head. “Elisabeth,” he scolded, sounding like he was trying not to laugh. “Try not to scare away our new volunteer. You know it is hard enough to find them in the first place.” He turned back to Gregori. “Elisabeth is exaggerating. We don’t allow weapons or fighting here, and for the most part, to be honest, the folks who come in don’t have the energy to waste on making trouble. They just want food and maybe a warm bed for the night.”
He indicated the tall, skinny young man standing next to her, whose long, straggly ponytail and blond beard made him look like a California hippy who had somehow taken a wrong turn and ended up in chilly Minnesota by mistake. “This is Bryon. He’s a student at the university who is studying sociology.”
“Extra credit, man,” Bryon said with a brisk nod. “Plus, you know, it’s cool. Makes me feel a lot better about my crappy dorm room and all.” He held out one bony hand for Gregori to shake, wiping it off on the apron he wore first, in case the day’s meal was clinging to the plastic glove that enclosed it.
“And this is Ciera,” Phillip continued. “She works at the university library.”
“I know,” Sun said, inclining a tiny bow in her direction. “I actually met Ms. Evans there earlier, when I went to do some research. She was kind enough to help me, although it is an unexpected pleasure to see her twice in one day.”
Ciera’s expression grew even more shuttered as she stared at him. “It’s quite the coincidence, all right.” Her full lips pressed together as she turned away to serve a group of teens wearing clothes almost identical to hers, but not as clean.
The odor of unwashed bodies warred temporarily with the aroma of overcooked institutional dinner and stewed vats of coffee, making Gregori long for the sparkling scent of the forests. Or at least, the solitude of his barren room back at the monastery.
Still, this was what he’d signed on for. And at least he had a clean, warm place to go back to, which was more than most of these folks had. Not to mention the freedom to go elsewhere, if he decided he’d made the wrong choice.
“Very nice to meet you all,” he said. “I look forward to being of service.”
“Excellent,” Elisabeth said with another grin, this one wide enough to reveal a missing molar. “There’s a mountain of dishes in the kitchen, just waiting for someone brave enough to tackle them.” She waggled unkempt brows at him. “Think you’re up to the challenge?”
“I would have preferred the knife fight,” Gregori said with perfect honesty. “But I am certain I can manage the dishes almost as well.”
“A man of many talents,” Elisabeth said. “You’ll fit in just fine around here.” For a moment, Gregori thought he saw a ghostly image echoed behind her—a younger, thinner Elisabeth with the clothes of a w
ell-to-do housewife and the expression of a woman imprisoned by a life that was slowly devouring her soul. Then it was gone, and only the solid, present-day woman remained.
“Indeed,” Sun said softly. “But am I one of the inmates or one of the guards?” Then he walked toward to kitchen to do battle with a stack of plates and his own demons.
Deborah Blake is the author of the Baba Yaga novels, including Wickedly Powerful, Wickedly Wonderful, and Wickedly Dangerous; the Urban Fantasy, Veiled Magic series; and the Broken Rider novels, including Dangerously Charming and Dangerously Divine. She has published numerous books on modern witchcraft with Llewellyn Worldwide and has an ongoing column in Witches & Pagans magazine. When not writing, Deborah runs The Artisans’ Guild, a cooperative shop she founded with a friend in 1999, and also works as a jewelry maker, tarot reader, and energy healer. She lives in a 130-year-old farmhouse in rural upstate New York with multiple cats who supervise all her activities, both magical and mundane. She loves hearing from her readers, and can be found online on Facebook, Twitter, and at her blog, Writing the Witchy Way.
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Veiled Menace Page 29
