The Myth Manifestation

by Lisa Shearin

  Rolf gave me a crooked grin. “Me, too. I think I’ll keep this one awhile.”

  “Just don’t lose it on our watch this time.”

  Rolf laughed. “No promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  Ian had seen Rolf Haagen twice since my partner had discovered that his ancestor was an Irish hero/god. Rolf was likewise saddled with a legendary ancestor—Sigurd. Ian had Lugh’s Spear, and Rolf had Gram, Sigurd’s equally legendary sword. I couldn’t see Rolf crossing the pond without it. At least I hoped he hadn’t, since Ian’s spearhead had been the only thing that’d worked against that buka—that and a weakness for bacon.

  My family’s heirloom weapons were rifles and a pair of pearl-gripped six-shooters—but we were just as proud of them and their history.

  Noel Tierney, SPI’s resident psychiatrist, had started a monthly support group of sorts for SPI employees who were descendants of gods/goddesses/heroes and found themselves saddled with some or all of their ancestors’ abilities or outright superpowers. Ian had managed to attend two of the meetings when Rolf had been there. A bunch of demigods and superheroes sitting around talking about their feelings. I’d love to be a fly on the wall for just one meeting.

  I assumed that like the last time they’d visited, the Scandinavians had entered the country via the Westchester County airfield that SPI used when specialized military talent and their even more specialized (and lethal) equipment needed to get into the U.S. without the knowledge of or interference from the authorities. With some of the weapons the Scandinavians had brought last time, the TSA would’ve thought we were being invaded.

  I’d pay good money to see a TSA agent’s face when Rolf Haagen stepped through the body scanner with Gram strapped to his back.

  I’d pay even more to watch every TSA agent at JFK try to take it away from him.

  I knew the steel cases the Scandinavian commandos were unloading from the freight elevators contained weapons just as cutting-edge as our own. Vivienne Sagadraco saw to it that her people had nothing but the very best. However, some of the monsters the Europeans were faced with were distinctly Old World, and were best dispatched by equally Old World weapons. There just wasn’t any substitution for cold steel, be it in the form of swords, axes, spears, or hammers. As Ian had told me, soldiers the world over preferred to do battle with their own weapons.

  Gethen Nazar arrived and shook hands with Lars Anderssen. If Gethen didn’t like having a third team of SPI commandos invading his turf, no one would ever guess from his expression. The three men spoke in lowered voices, exchanging words I couldn’t hear.

  I’d ask Ian later what was said.

  “You guys hear what happened?” I asked Rolf, keeping my voice down. I could play that game, too.

  The big commando nodded. “Lars got the call soon after we took off. We’ve been briefed,” he replied, his voice a quiet rumble. “It sounds like you’ve been having too much fun without us.”

  “I would’ve gladly waited for you guys to get here.”

  Rolf leaned down close to my ear. “Who’s the goblin?”

  “Head of security for all of the hotel owner’s properties. His toes are feeling stepped on.”

  “The owner or his security chief?”

  Good question.

  “The security chief.”

  Rolf snorted. “Would he rather have bukas stepping on his toes?”

  “I think he’s a decent sort. He’s not in control of the situation right now, and he doesn’t like it. None of us do.”

  “I understand you were the only one who could see most of those bukas.”

  I nodded. “If they come back, and I’m not nearby. . .”

  Rolf put his real hand on my shoulder. “Help has arrived.”

  I must have had a clueless look on my face.

  He nodded in the direction of one of the cover models. There was a case I recognized slung over his shoulder.

  A case containing a pair of paintball rifles.

  “You seem to have forgotten that we have a seer, too.”

  Oh yeah. Erik Johansen.

  At least I didn’t have to be everywhere at once for the next three days. I only had to sprout eyes in the back of my head.

  Chapter Seven

  Normally the Regor Regency’s bell staff handled luggage for their guests. The Scandinavians weren’t about to let anyone touch their stuff. After quickly stowing their gear in their rooms—and arming themselves with some of it—they reported to the staff dining room for a combination late lunch and briefing with Roy and Sandra’s folks.

  Since they all knew each other from the grendel mission, and most had kept in touch, the room got kind of loud with all the reunioning going on. I took the chance to get reacquainted with their seer, Erik Johansen.

  I’d already eaten, but I got myself a sweet tea from one of the two beverage stations. The second station was smaller, for the SPI’s vampire agents, and kept stocked with plenty of warm, red, liquid protein. A few of our commandos were vampires. It came in handy to be able to suffer virtually any injury short of decapitation and bounce back.

  I glanced over at the buffet. No funky food this time, just lots of protein and carbs. Commandos burned through a lot of calories. The hotel’s food services folks kept the food coming, and the Vikings kept eating. You would’ve thought they’d flown over from Oslo by flapping their arms.

  The plan was to eat, then meet, but plenty of talking was happening now. Eleven bukas appearing, wreaking havoc, and disappearing in a Manhattan ballroom prompted plenty of commando chatter. It didn’t matter how good the food was.

  Ian and Gethen had just finished introducing the hotel’s goblin security team to the Scandinavians when Vivienne Sagadraco stood from where she’d been seated with Lars, Sandra, and Roy, and went to the front of the room.

  All talk ceased.

  Ms. Sagadraco quickly welcomed everyone, and then got down to business.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the side doors open, and Yasha Kazakov poked his head inside. He spotted me and Ian and crooked his finger. We left the dining room as discreetly as we could. Yasha here meant Kitty was here, too, meaning we might be about to get some answers on how those bukas got in. I knew the boss wouldn’t mind us bailing on her briefing for that. Besides, we’d been there and seen everything. Getting answers to entirely too many questions was more important.

  Kitty Poertner always smelled like cookies. Combine that with being petite and cute, and it was no wonder everybody wanted to hug her.

  I hugged her because she’d become one of my best friends.

  Since I’d mysteriously acquired the ability to see portals, Kitty had been teaching me more about them: not only what was involved in opening and closing one, but how they were constructed and functioned.

  “I am so glad to see you,” I said, giving her a squeeze. I sniffed. “Is that gingerbread?”

  “It was gingerbread until Yasha ate it all.”

  The big Russian hung his head sheepishly, but didn’t try to hide his smile. “I said I was sorry, but they were too good. Maybe if you were a bad baker.”

  Kitty’s frown didn’t reach her eyes as she playfully swatted his stomach. “And if you weren’t such a pig.”

  Yasha’s smile turned into a wicked grin. “I am big, bad wolf, not little pig.”

  He’d immigrated from Russia nearly a century ago, didn’t look a day over thirty-five, still had his accent, and had neither desire nor inclination to lose it. Yasha was stubborn that way.

  Kitty had never baked gingerbread before last Christmas, when every other bakery and coffee shop in the city offered everything gingerbread. She had a rotten branch on her family tree, a family ancestor who had used her gingerbread house to lure unsuspecting children. Needless to say, having that witch in her background had nixed any desire Kitty had to bake gingerbread. Heck, I was surprised Kitty even became a baker. But after closing that Hellpit and the portal that’d led to it, Kitty had gotten herself a big
dose of confidence, enough to ignore that her many-greats-granny had been a serial child cannibal.

  Kitty’s newfound peace with her family’s past had the bonus of providing delicious gingerbread, and thanks to Yasha’s gingerbread sweet tooth, it was available year ’round.

  Ian and I were starting to suspect that Yasha was sweet on more than Kitty’s cookies. And being one of Kitty’s best friends, I was privy to the fact that the feeling was mutual.

  “Honey, you brought yourself,” I told her. “We don’t need cookies; we need you. Have you been in the ballroom yet?”

  Kitty glanced at the two grim-faced goblin mages who were now standing guard across the lobby in front of the closed ballroom doors. The mages weren’t armed. They didn’t look like they needed to be.

  “I thought I’d wait for an authorized escort,” Kitty said.

  “Probably a good idea,” I agreed.

  Ian walked over to the guards and said a few words, then gestured us over.

  One of the goblins opened the door and stood aside. Once we were in, he closed the door behind us.

  The hotel’s air conditioning system had done an admirable job of getting rid of the gunsmoke and buka stench. The hotel staff were scurrying to do the same to the mess the bukas and, to a lesser extent, we had made in the ballroom. Any furniture destruction had been due to buka rampaging. We’d been aiming at the bukas, and we’d hit what we’d been aiming at. I was gratified and relieved to see that there wasn’t even one green paint splotch anywhere in the ballroom. I’d been doing a lot of target practice with my paint guns. SPI New York had a paintball team, and I was proud to say I was always chosen first, which was a big change from my childhood sports experiences of being chosen last. Being small and throwing-impaired had its drawbacks.

  The broken chandelier had been cleared away, and the ceiling repaired. Now, other than the broken furniture, there was no evidence the bukas had ever been here. Portals, gates, and rifts left residue behind, both magical and physical. No residue was present here, at least not that I’d been able to detect.

  I really hoped Kitty was about to tell me I was wrong.

  “Do you need us to stay by the door so our auras, or whatever, don’t interfere?” I asked her.

  “If you wouldn’t mind. Do you know exactly where the first buka appeared?”

  Ian took that question. “The staffers said it appeared over there.” He pointed. “Near the smaller of those two paintings.”

  Kitty crossed the ballroom floor to where Ian had indicated. “Here?”

  “That’s the general area, yes.”

  Kitty faced the nearest wall and just stood there. At least that’s what it probably looked like to the hotel staff working to haul off the broken furniture.

  I hadn’t been able to sense anything that even vaguely resembled a portal, but I could feel what Kitty was doing. Reaching out, searching around, gently touching, probing. Then without speaking, she went to each of the places around the room where a buka had manifested—without prompting from either me or Ian.

  Then she made the entire circuit again.

  I tried not to project my impatience, but I probably wasn’t doing a good job.

  Yasha stood next to me, but clearly wanting to be next to Kitty. He still blamed himself for Kitty’s kidnapping late last year. He’d been tricked by a son of a bitch of an elf mage. We all had been tricked. While none of us had liked it, Yasha had taken it personally. The big guy had always had a soft spot for Kitty, and that she’d come close to being flash-fried in a Hellpit full of molten brimstone had made our Russian werewolf friend even more protective than usual.

  And coming from Yasha, that was a lot of protecting.

  When Kitty finished, she came back to where we waited.

  Gethen had joined us.

  Kitty raised a brow in the goblin’s direction. She was cautious about who she talked business around.

  Ian took care of the introductions. “Kitty, this is Gethen Nazar, Rake’s chief of security. Mr. Nazar, this is Kitty Poertner, SPI’s portal consultant.”

  Gethen shook Kitty’s hand with a respectful inclination of his head. “I have heard of Miss Poertner’s skill, even before the Bacchanalia incident. Lord Danescu has spoken very highly of you. It is a pleasure and honor to meet you.”

  I didn’t shoot a “what the hell?” glance at Ian, but I wanted to. Neither one of us had gotten that kind of welcome. Then again, maybe a world-renowned portal mage ranked above a seer and a descendant of an Irish god. Who knew?

  “Thank you, Mr. Nazar,” Kitty said. “I’m sorry that I might not be of as much help here. What was done here didn’t involve a portal.”

  Crap. That popped my optimism bubble.

  “At least not any kind of portal that I’ve encountered,” she added.

  “Did you get any indication of what it might have been?” Ian asked.

  “All magic leaves residue, and depending on the type and strength of the magic worked, that residue can linger for up to a day. I understand the event was just after six this morning?”

  “Six twenty-three,” Gethen told her.

  Kitty glanced at her watch. “Less than eight hours ago. A portal that admitted eleven bukas at varying times would’ve been both powerful and stable. The residuals would be starting to fade, but I would still be able to identify it as a portal, and possibly trace it back to its point of origin—or at least be able to tell whether that origin was on our world or in an adjacent dimension.”

  “And you can’t do any of that?” I asked.

  “No.”

  Crap again.

  “I did, however, detect what felt like a faint electrical charge at each of the incursion points. Was I correct in locating those?”

  I nodded. “You were right on target. Magically speaking, what would an electrical charge indicate?” I directed my question not only to Kitty, but to Gethen as well, since he was Rake’s expert. Since he was resentful of us, and we had to work together, it never hurt to make nice. I could be diplomatic.

  “A lingering electrical charge is indicative of teleportation,” the goblin said. “But that’s impossible.”

  “Impossible?” Ian asked. “Or just improbable?”

  “Impossible. Teleportation requires . . . how do I explain it to a nonmage? Undisrupted air.”

  I didn’t say “huh?” but my expression must have.

  “Undisrupted air is that which is clear of any magical wards, barriers, or distortions,” Gethen clarified, or attempted to. “Lord Danescu and I have gone to great lengths to ensure that extensive wards are in place. As long as those wards are functional, no one can teleport into this hotel.”

  I took a stab at it. “You mean like in Star Trek, where they have to lower the shields before Scotty can beam anyone up?” I didn’t know if that was accurate, but I think that was at least what he was getting at.

  The goblin gave me a flat look. “I am not familiar with this reference.”

  Kitty came to the rescue. “Basically, yes.”

  Ian stepped in. “Kitty, are you available to stay for the next few hours, possibly longer? The delegates will be arriving soon, and I would feel better if you were nearby in case this happens again.”

  She smiled. “I packed a bag just in case.”

  One of Gethen’s mages had come into the ballroom and was waiting to speak to him.

  “Excuse me,” the goblin said with a slight bow—mostly toward Kitty. Gethen and his mage went to a corner of the ballroom, talking in low tones.

  “Yeah, no secrets being kept around here,” I muttered. “You can put your bag in my room,” I told Kitty. “Think of it this way, if the bukas don’t barge in again, you’ll get to stay in one of New York’s fanciest hotels. And if our luck holds, maybe we can sneak off to the hotel spa for mani-pedis.”

  Chapter Eight

  By the time the delegates arrived, the Regor Regency was the very model of elegance and serenity.

  And control.

>   The elegance and serenity were Rake’s doing. The control was in the hands of three SPI commando units and Rake’s battlemage hotel security team. And to ensure that everyone was who they said they were for the duration of the summit, Kenji Hayashi had developed a program that would scan delegate badges at every meeting room access point, and show that delegate’s face and facts on a security guard’s monitor. Kenji had worked his techie wizardry by programming the badges to alert security if a delegate had glamoured since arriving. The program would also show a photo representation of the glamour that had been used, compiled from the residual magic. It would also work if the badge was taken off at any time. When it was put back on, it would detect residuals from any magic worked by or on the delegate in the intervening time.

  It was pretty slick.

  With the hotel being closed to the public, the delegates could dispense with any glamours they had to wear among non-clued-in humans so as not to set off any of that annoying running and screaming. The doors and all lower-level hotel windows had been magicked to show a hotel under renovation. The guest rooms—should anyone be able to see in—would appear to be empty. The delegates could relax and be themselves. Those who didn’t look humanoid could be what they were without fear.

  The Scandinavian team had scoped out the ballroom after getting the buka briefing. It wasn’t that they didn’t believe us about what had happened; but if the bukas—or anything else—came back, they wanted to be familiar with the battleground. By the time the rest of the delegates began to arrive, the commandos and security folks had done everything they could to blend into the drapes. The goal was to make the delegates feel all warm and fuzzy without any undue paranoia. Protected without suspecting they needed protecting.

  I thought SPI and Rake’s people were doing a fine job.

  Delegates who were from our world had been flown to New York via one of SPI’s jets, arriving at either JFK or the more private Westchester County airfield. SPI agents and drivers were at both airports to meet, greet, and bring them directly to the Regor Regency.