by Eileen Wilks
Delight widened Cullen's grin. "How big a space?"
"Ask him."
Oh, he would. He'd ask the gnome from another realm—another realm!—a great many things. Cullen couldn't stop grinning. "I forgive you."
"I thought you would," she said dryly.
The door at the end of the short hall led to a small, dark, crowded room. Monitors lining the far wall held the rapt attention of three of the four men in the room. The fourth sat at a keyboard to one side, presumably doing tech things connected to the images on the screens. He wore headphones.
Three of the men were strangers. Cullen knew the fourth one, a beefy fellow with a fine frizz of white hair exploding around his face like an excited dandelion. Cullen rather liked Fagin. The man was a top-notch scholar specializing in pre-Purge history. He was also the head of the Presidential Task Force created at the onset of the Turning.
Not that any of them mattered. Not with what Cullen saw on those screens.
For some reason they had the sound turned off. There were five screens; two were dark. The large, central screen showed a room furnished with institutional lack of imagination: a beige sofa and a couple of chairs. The gnome Lily had mentioned sat in one of the chairs. His feet dangled well off the floor. He was talking to a small, bald, orange female who must be Gan; they were roughly the same size. Behind Gan and the gnome stood a gray-skinned… call her a warrior, he decided. Whatever else she was, she carried herself as a fighter.
The big blade sheathed on her back was a clue, too.
His gaze flicked to one of the other screens, which had a view of the room's other occupants. The bald fellow apparently lacked interest in clothing, though he wore a silver necklace with a small silver disk as pendant… inscribed?
Cullen squinted and frowned. The resolution wasn't good enough for him to be sure. The man was talking to the only other person in the room, a tallish woman with her back to the camera. His lips, tongue, and palate were dark gray like a chow's. The woman… hell!
Cullen spun to glare at Lily. "What the hell are you thinking? Get Cynna out of there!"
Brooks answered smoothly. "Agent Weaver is acting on my orders. We've been assured it would offer grave insult to leave our guests in a room without someone present to act as host. Apparently that's gnomish custom."
"Gnomish custom is to exchange hostages. That's her real function—hostage, not host."
"Is this your so-called expert, Ruben?" a slick-looking man in a pricey suit drawled. "Doesn't seem well-informed. Everyone knows gnomes are harmless."
"Everyone knows a lot of damned silly things," Cullen snapped. "Who the hell are you?"
"Adam McClosky. Assistant Undersecretary of Commerce."
"When we're ready to trade something, be sure to speak up. Till then shut your—"
"Cullen," Lily said.
He caught his breath and tried to catch hold of his temper.
"Mr. Seabourne is an expert practitioner," Brooks assured the smooth man. "He's consulted for us before. I have great confidence in his skills and knowledge."
Brooks had done a nice job of stepping around the word "sorcerer." Since sorcery remained illegal due to the impenetrable stupidity of most lawmakers, Cullen appreciated that. "And I'm ready to consult. Get me in there and get Cynna out."
"Soon. Rest assured that Agent Weaver is as safe as we can make her. The room has defenses that aren't obvious."
"The room can't defend her against a magical attack."
"No, she'll have to handle that herself, should the need arise."
Cullen took two quick steps, but the place was too damned crowded. He nearly bumped into another one of the strangers, who stepped aside, eying him warily.
Timms spoke without leaving Brooks's side. "It's her job, Cullen."
Cullen scowled. Lily put a hand on his arm. "I think she'll be okay. I've shaken hands with all of them."
The touch startled him enough to break through his urgency. Lily didn't touch often or easily. "And… ?"
"They're all of the Blood, but only the gnome is Gifted. It isn't a Gift I've encountered before, but his magic isn't…" She waved a hand. "I don't know how to describe it, but his magic felt like it's bound up in itself. Or in something. He doesn't have much juice for other things."
"Of the Blood" meant they were innately magical beings. This was true of most of the nonhuman races, from gnomes to lupi to any number of less common beings and creatures. What Lily meant was that those of the Blood were seldom able to work spells—their magic simply wasn't available that way.
Excepting the Fae, of course. And Cullen, who was both of the Blood and Gifted. As was this gnome, apparently. "Maybe he's using most of his magic for something else right now. I'd very much like to know what, wouldn't you? That doesn't make Cynna safe."
"She's doing her job. And she's pretty good with spell-work herself."
Okay. Okay, he knew that, but… Cullen ran a hand over his hair. "You'll know if something's been done to her. You'll check."
"Of course."
"What's the problem?" demanded the Deputy Under whatever.
Cullen decided it would be easier to keep a grip on his temper if he ignored the man, so he did.
Fagin blinked sleepily, looking like an aging refugee from the sixties. "Why, if those three come from a high-magic realm—and they do—we have no idea what they might be able to do, magically."
"Why do you believe they come from a high-magic realm?"
Stupidity was so hard to ignore. Cullen managed not to roll his eyes. "They got here, didn't they?"
On the screen, Cynna had moved closer to the gnome. Gan was saying something. Then the councilor spoke.
Damn, but he hated watching remotely this way. He couldn't smell them, couldn't see any of the energies involved. Bet he could hear them, though, if he moved closer to the tech guy with the headphones.
"Exactly." Fagin beamed at him. "Assuming their arrival was purposeful—"
One of the other men broke in. "What do you mean?"
"We've recently seen many examples of creatures crossing accidentally, haven't we? Fairies, brownies, gremlins, even banshees were blown in on the power winds during the Turning. But these visitors arrived without that impetus, and Gan was expecting them. This argues that they did come here intentionally, using a gate, as the councilor claims. This means we're dealing with a culture that's quite sophisticated magically."
"And has plenty of power available," Lily added. "Gates gobble power."
"Very true. There's also the shield spell itself, of course."
"Break that conclusion down for the rest of us, please," Brooks said.
Or just shut up. That would be better. Even with his hearing, Cullen was hard-pressed to listen in on the tech guy's headphones with all the chatter in the room. Couldn't any of them think for themselves long enough to see the obvious?
"Our knowledge of other realms is largely theoretical," Fagin began, "since inter-realm travel has been impossible since before the Purge—impossible for humans, that is. Some of the Fae have always been able to cross, though they chose not to. And imps or demons have crossed from time to time, although—"
Brooks spoke dryly. "Fagin, we aren't in class. I believe everyone here is aware of conditions prior to the Turning."
"Of course. The point I was wandering toward is that desert dwellers do not develop shipbuilding capabilities. Due to our relative dearth of magic, we've had no need for shields and haven't hung on to that knowledge. Their realm, apparently, does have a need."
"That makes sense," said one of the men Cullen didn't know. He looked at Cullen. "I understand you know something about gates, Mr. Seabourne."
Cullen twitched one shoulder in an impatient shrug. "Something. Theoretical knowledge, of course," he added in his first lie of the day. Three months ago he'd assisted in making a hellgate, but since that was even more illegal than being a sorcerer, he wasn't planning to add it to his resume.
"These, ah, people
arrived at a node. Is that typical?"
"For a gate? It's necessary. Nodes are the points of greatest physical and temporal congruence. Also, you need the power. Like Lily said, gates gobble power."
"So you believe the councilor created a gate to come here."
"Ah… no. Is he claiming he did it alone? Gate building is a team effort. Even the dragons have to work together to do it."
"Dragons? Do you mean they… what are you doing?"
Cullen had yanked the headphones off the tech guy's head and was holding them close to his ear.
On one screen, the inky tracery on Cynna's face stood out in sharp relief against her sudden pallor. He saw her throat work as she swallowed. From the headphones came the thread of her voice saying, "No way."
The tech tried to grab his headphones back. Two of the men started toward Cullen. He looked at Lily. "That bastard just told Cynna he's got her father."
CHAPTER FIVE
"You is not believing of me," the little gnome said. "So the Daniel is saying… is said? English verbs difficult."
Daniel. Her father's name had been Daniel. Daniel Weaver.
Cynna's mouth was dry. Spiking feelings jabbed at her—disbelief, anger, a nameless feeling all shaky and fierce… the shaky part seemed to be winning. "Maybe I'll just sit down for a minute." But she didn't move.
"Is hard talking of the father?" The gnome's voice was gluey with sympathy.
"I don't have a… I mean, he's gone. Long gone." She'd been two days shy of her third birthday when he walked out on them. She had a couple photos of him. She had a half load of his genes. That was about it.
"Gone from here, yes. Gone to Edge. The Daniel is being one of the Theilo… fall-through-cracks people. Fall into our realm."
"He didn't… you're saying that he didn't go there on purpose."
"This realm is being closed then. No one of Earth is coming to Edge on purpose. He fall in. Accident." The short green robe the councilor wore wrapped around his skinny body was held at the waist with a wide leather belt. It was a fancy thing, that belt, with gems and scrollwork and several little pockets sewn on, their flaps tied down. He unfastened one of the pockets, reached inside and frowned, muttering in that other language.
He had to be lying. Didn't he?
The gnome undid another pocket and dug inside it.
He knew her father's name. He knew English… more or less. He knew Cynna was a Finder. How could he know any of that? Gan could have told them some things, but Gan didn't know about the sperm donor.
That's how Cynna thought of Daniel Weaver—as the sperm donor. He sure as hell hadn't been anything else to her.
Actually, Cynna didn't see how Gan could have told them anything at all. Communication between rearms wasn't possible. No, it wasn't supposed to be possible, but what did that mean anymore? Gan had said the gnomish elders talked across the realms. Gan had expected the others to show up. And they had—almost on top of her and Lily. Surely that wasn't coincidence.
But… her father.
"The Daniel is said you not believing the words, so I giving you a thing from him." The gnome was holding something out in his soft little hand. A ring. A man's gold wedding ring. "You Finder. Check. See if I is speaking of true."
She stared at that ring as if it might leap up and bite her.
The room's only door opened. Lily, Cullen, Ruben, Timms, and a guy in a suit came in, and a whole bunch of stuff happened all at once.
Cullen swung toward Cynna on his crutches. The guy in the suit swerved around Ruben's chair, holding out a hand and yammering about how he was some kind of undersecretary. The gal with the tusks got nervous. At least, Cynna guessed that was why she drew that sword of hers in a single hiss.
Everyone stopped moving… except Timms, who drew his weapon. And Gan, who hopped up and down in excitement. "Swing it! Swing it! But not at Lily Yu. Lily Yu, stay back so she—"
"Put that damned thing away." That was Cullen, irritated, talking to the swordswoman.
"—doesn't cut you in half!" Gan yelled.
"Calm down, Gan." Lily said.
"Welcome to America, sir." The guy in the suit.
"Hold your fire, Mr. Timms." Brooks.
"Kethe mi notasi." Bald dude with shiny skin.
Reluctantly, the tusked woman sheathed her blade. She added a few words that might have been a curse or a prayer or a request for directions to the ladies room.
"I am sitting down now," Cynna announced. And did.
"So while the guy from the Commerce Department was making nice with the councilor guy, Lily held the ring and I did a scan on it," Cynna finished. "The dominant pattern was new to me. Daniel Weaver's, I guess. But my mom's was there, too."
The sun was down, the smell of tomato and peppers hung in the air, and the twenty pounds of cat in Cynna's lap was purring. Rule stood at the counter, tearing lettuce as he listened. Lily stood beside him, cutting tomatoes into meticulously correct slices. She'd done most of the briefing; she was good at it.
Cynna, barred from helping by kitchen ineptitude, sat at their big, round table petting Dirty Harry and trying not to drool over the enchiladas baking in the oven. Trying not to think, too. Thinking hadn't brought any answers. It just put twitchy little wires in her veins, making it hard to sit still.
"Told you so," Gan said. "Are there more little fishies?"
Lily told her to look in the pantry, and Gan hopped down from her chair in search of "little fishies." Apparently sardines were one of the few dead things she liked.
Dirty Harry flexed a front paw, letting his claws prick Cynna's new slacks. She took the hint and resumed petting him. "He's not bothered by Gan at all."
"He?" Lily paused, her knife hovering over a tomato. "Oh, you mean Harry. He does seem pretty clear that she isn't a demon."
Cats hated demons. Harry had proved that his demon radar worked exceptionally well, but he was ignoring Gan. That pretty much proved Gan wasn't a demon anymore, to Cynna's way of thinking. She gave Harry a good rub behind the ears, and he rewarded her by turning up his engine.
"You're sure about the pattern, then." Lily said that in a way that left it hovering between statement and question. "It must have been faint. The ring didn't belong to your mother, and she's been gone a long time, hasn't she?"
"Dead" was the word Lily wasn't using. People sidestepped that word the way they'd step around a pile of dog shit on the sidewalk. Her father was gone. Her mother was dead. Big difference. "She died twenty years ago, so yeah, the pattern was old and very faint. And it was my mother's."
"You can pick up a twenty-year-old pattern from an object that didn't even belong to her?"
"Wedding rings are different. They carry a charge from—"
Gan's piping voice interrupted her. "What's this?" She'd emerged from the pantry with a bag of Goldfish. "It has fishies on it."
"Those are crackers," Lily said. "Cynna, if these people are truly sophisticated spellcasters, is it possible—"
Gan stuffed a handful of the little crackers in her mouth. And immediately spat them out. "Yuck, yuck, yuck! That's not food!"
"Some nutritionists would agree with you," Lily said dryly. "That doesn't make it okay to spit it out on the floor. Get some paper towels and clean it up."
"Don't want to." Gan turned to go back into the pantry.
Rule ripped off a handful of paper towels and walked over to the little not-quite-demon. He grabbed Gan's shoulder. "You made a mess. Clean it up."
Gan glared up at him. "Ow! That hurts!"
"It can hurt more."
"I liked you better when you were a wolf. And I didn't like you at all then." But she took the paper towels.
Lily watched, frowning. "She doesn't challenge you as much as she used to."
"She probably doesn't heal as fast as she used to," Cynna said dryly. Then she noticed the way Rule had stopped moving to look at Lily with a sort of tender surprise. "Hey—you remembered something from your lost time, didn't you?"
Like Cullen said, the mate-bound were touchy-feely. The wires thrumming along Cynna's veins tightened. Cullen, He was still at Headquarters talking spellwork and theory with the gnome, all frothy with excitement. With all the to-do, he hadn't had a chance to talk to her.
Or else he'd forgotten they had something to talk about. He was like that. She'd been amazed, really, at how regular he'd been about calling. She'd expected him to give up after a few calls—either that or come pounding on her door. He wasn't a patient man.
Maybe his wolf was patient, though. She didn't know that part of him at all.
After a moment, Rule released Lily's hand and moved to the coffeepot to refill his mug. Rule loved coffee. Cynna wasn't sure why. He couldn't get a caffeine buzz—his system threw off the effects of drugs too fast for them to have much effect. So it must be the taste he liked, which just proved that demons weren't the only ones with weird taste buds.
He leaned against the counter, sipped, and looked at Cynna. His eyes, dark and steady, had been the second thing she'd noticed about him when they met all those years ago. "These people are way ahead of us with spell-work. Is there any way the gnome could have fooled you about the pattern?"
"Theoretically, sure, anything is possible. But some things are so unlikely we can cross them off. You aren't likely to wake up as a cat. I'm not likely to make a mistake about patterns, especially one I know so well. If they're good enough to fool me about that, they don't need a Finder."
"If that's really what they want from you."
Unease prickled down Cynna's spine as she considered the possibility, "Gan said they need me to Find something."
"They also want Lily for something, and she's not a Finder. And Gan isn't exactly reliable."
"She can't lie. At least, demons can't… hey, Gan. Can you lie yet?"
Gan's voice came, muffled, from the pantry. "Who wants to know?"
"The woman who stopped on the way here and bought a couple more candy bars."
