Oracle's Moon er-4

by Thea Harrison

  “Call me sometime next week?” she said to Brandon as he was leaving.

  “What?” He looked blank.

  “You were going to bring a truckload of stones over?” she prompted.

  “Oh, right. Sure. I’ll call you.”

  Well, that didn’t sound promising. She stifled another surge of irritation. Dammit, she hated it when people threw out offers but didn’t follow through.

  The last to leave, Olivia gave her a quick hug. “Stop by for that coffee,” Olivia said. “Or give me a call sometime if you think you can get away for lunch. I just need a few hours’ notice.”

  “Thank you,” Grace said, warming to the older woman all over again. “I will.”

  Then Olivia was gone as well, and Grace was left alone with her thoughts.

  She didn’t even have to clean up the kitchen. Somebody had already done it for her. The house was clean and silent, and the main issues on the property were taken care of, at least for now. As far as the roof went, she had a few months to try to figure something out. She looked out the kitchen door window. Most importantly, the backyard was trimmed, tidy and useable again.

  She would stop at the toy store tomorrow morning before she went to pick up the kids and use the rest of the hundred dollars she had gotten from Don and Margie to buy a small plastic pool and some glow-in-the-dark stars for Chloe and Max’s bedroom.

  For now, she could relax. Maybe she could take that bubble bath she had been promising herself for a week, before she called Khalil and went on a date.

  Holy gods, a date. With a Djinn.

  Grace was almost positive she had hallucinated that part. She thought instead of relaxing, she might tie herself up in knots instead. She knew Khalil had only decided to go on a date on a whim, because the thought had amused him. Whereas she would either get ready for the date in a complete panic or take the smart route and call the whole thing off.

  She couldn’t explain the impulse that gripped her next. Instead of relaxing, panicking or cancelling, she strapped on her knee brace, slipped out of the house and for a second time, she walked the length of the property to the back meadow.

  Without distracting conversation, she could hear the wind sighing in the trees. The land seemed to doze in the early evening heat. She smelled freshly cut grass. She looked along the edges of the clearing, along the path, studied the eroded area carefully.

  She didn’t know what she was looking for. Something.

  Why would Brandon call Olivia to tell her she wasn’t needed today? Did he do that with the other people who hadn’t shown up? And if so, why did he tell her in such a way that implied the others had cancelled? It didn’t make sense. The day would have gone a lot quicker with more people. Unless he was trying to cherry-pick volunteer hours for his buddies?

  That didn’t make sense either. Part of the function of the covens was to keep track of a witch’s service hours. It was a lot like paying union dues. Since the Oracle’s entire function was service oriented, Grace was now exempt from the tithe, but the community service tithe wasn’t onerous, just five hours a month, and there were always plenty of ways a witch could volunteer.

  Now that everybody had left, her Power was quiescent, the ghosts tranquil. Back in this area by the river, the ghosts she sensed were American Indian. Occasionally through the years someone would find a few arrowheads or maybe a flint knife. She suspected a tribe might have once lived here.

  Taking the key from the coffee can on the lintel, she unlocked the old wooden door, pocketed the key and stepped into an area large enough to hold two sturdy Rubbermaid cabinets. She felt in the air above her head for a dangling cord, and when she had found it, she switched on the naked lightbulb that hung from the ceiling.

  The Rubbermaid storage cabinets held old blankets, jackets, packages of batteries and flashlights and a couple of old-fashioned oil lamps, along with boxes of matches in zippered plastic bags to keep them from getting damp.

  There was also one other item, wrapped in cloth. Grace took it out of a drawer and leaned back against the cabinet as she uncovered it. The cloth fell away to reveal a plain gold Greek mask, with stylized features, and holes for the eyes and the mouth. The face was androgynous, beautiful and blank. The style of this mask was far, far older than Agamemnon’s famous gold leaf mask that had been found at the citadel of Mycenae.

  Grace regarded the mask wryly. Stunning, Carling had said when she first laid eyes on it. But Carling had seen it by flashlight, from a distance. She might have called it something else if she had studied it in the light of day.

  Funny, how no one ever tried to steal the mask of the Oracle. If they had, they would soon discover it was not made of real gold, nor was it very old. Instead it was a very pretty fake. The Andreas family had sold the original mask in Europe, to the Queen of the Light Fae in Ireland, who had long had a fascination with auguries of any kind.

  Her family had used the proceeds of the sale to finance their relocation to the States, to buy this land and to build on it. The only thing Grace regretted was that she didn’t have the original to sell again, because even in a depressed economy, she felt sure the original mask would sell for enough to solve all of their money problems for years.

  Whereas the sale of the fake mask probably wouldn’t bring in enough to fix the roof.

  Although come to think of it, that might be worth checking. Maybe somebody would like to buy the fake mask for novelty’s sake. It was a decent replica of the original.

  She wrapped the mask in the cloth again, tucked it under her arm, took one of the stronger flashlights and went down the tunnel, picking her way carefully on the uneven floor to the perfect black of the cavern below. She shone the flashlight over the walls and ceiling as she went. Finally she admitted the truth: that she had bristled at Brandon going into the tunnel and cavern to check them without waiting for her. She didn’t like him poking around by himself, but her reaction was irrational. The cavern wasn’t off-limits to people, it was just off-limits to children, and that was for their own safety.

  She still couldn’t explain what she was looking for.

  She was just looking for something.

  Was Therese anti–Elder Races, like Brandon? Was that why she had reacted so badly to Khalil’s appearance? Grace had thought it was because Therese got caught snooping. Had Therese been snooping because she had heard a rumor about a Djinn hanging around? What about Janice? Had this whole thing begun with her, because attracting a Djinn’s interest is generally not considered to be a good thing, Grace?

  Spinning in circles like this made her head hurt. Worse, it made her angry. If quarterly work days were going to make her feel like this, she wanted to tell them all to fuck off. But she couldn’t do without them or the babysitting roster, unless things changed.

  It all came down to the Oracle’s Power. How she used it. What she made of it.

  And that came down to her.

  She reached the cool, spacious cavern. After walking around and checking the entire space, she turned off her flashlight and let her eyes adjust. She had left the door propped open on the surface. A diffuse shaft of light from the tunnel cut through the absolute blackness.

  Many people had a problem with caves, but Grace didn’t. She liked it down here. The cavern itself was beautiful. Not only did it call to the Power that lived inside her, but it was utterly silent and peaceful. In the darkness, it felt womblike, filled with the potential birth of limitless possibilities.

  The Oracle’s moon was soon, perhaps tonight or tomorrow. She could feel the approach, especially here in the dark. It felt like a convergence, all times, the past and all possible futures, coming together.

  She had been taught that she could only access the Power deep in the earth, yet it had come in daylight, and not just once. She had called it up several times now.

  She’d also been told that the Oracle could not consult the Power for herself, but only for others. Yet she had called the ghost of the serpent woman and had talked with
her.

  What else had she been taught that was wrong, or at the very least incomplete?

  Each Oracle acts as a different lens for the Power, Isalynn had said. You will bring your own strengths and abilities to the experience.

  Which was exactly what? She wished she could ask her future self for advice.

  She let the cloth fall away from the mask, and she held it up to her face, pretending she was a petitioner. How did they feel when they faced the mask? This time she barely touched the Power before it welled up, more readily than ever before.

  The Power felt good in the dark, filling her to the brim and then spilling out into the cavern, an endless witching sea. She sensed thousands of sparks in the sea like distant glints of moonlight on water, and all the sparks were ghosts. She searched for ghosts she recognized, Petra, her grandmother, the serpent woman, but she didn’t see any of them.

  Visions normally came when the Oracle used the petitioner as a focus as she called up the Power. Cuelebre had been an inferno of Power; perhaps his ferocious energy had been what had drawn the Oracle. The serpent woman had been an unusual ghost, attached to the Oracle’s Power and to Grace. For Grace to get any specific vision now, she needed more of an outside focus. Disappointed, she let go of the dark sea. She wrapped the mask up again as it began to subside.

  Then something else Powerful flowed down the tunnel to join her in the dark. It was a Djinn, but unlike any Djinn Grace had met thus far. This presence was jagged with razored edges. It radiated a discordance that cut at her awareness. She held herself utterly still, thinking hard.

  Then she turned on the flashlight.

  The form of a tall woman, dressed in black, stood in front of her. The Djinn’s form had a lethal grace. Her ivory face was regal and fierce, a feminine version of a handsome, inhuman visage that had already become so dearly familiar to Grace. Crimson hair flowed like blood past her shoulders, and her eyes were two black, crystalline stars.

  She said into the cavern’s absolute silence, “Hello, Phaedra.”

  This time on Saturday nothing would interrupt Khalil’s agenda.

  Djinn were cursed with a terminal curiosity. It was often their worst weakness, and sometimes it was their downfall.

  Khalil was no exception. If a door was open, he peeked through it. If it was closed, it made the peeking so much better. If the door was locked, well. There was a natural progression to this sort of thing.

  Things weren’t adding up, and he didn’t like it. The an-cient social contract between Oracle and petitioner, the PayPal link on the website, the general shabbiness of Grace’s home, the lack of repair. Her inability to access premium health care when she needed it the most, the unpaid bills, a cover letter to apply for a job, when she already had to do too much, had to meet too many responsibilities, was too alone.

  He called in one of the multitude of favors owed to him, this time from a Djinn who had a particular facility with accessing information via the Internet. The information Khalil was interested in wasn’t particularly hard to find. Grace’s bank account balance was abysmal, and the money that the website drew in was hardly worth the breath it took to mention.

  That was when Khalil grew angry. He searched for his old ally Carling and her lover Rune. They weren’t in hiding, so they weren’t particularly hard to find either.

  They were in a beachside villa in Key Largo.

  More specifically, Carling Severan was under house arrest in Key Largo. By association, Rune Ainissesthai, the Wyr gryphon who had recently been Dragos’s First sentinel but had now become estranged from the Wyr demesne, was under house arrest too, because Rune had mated with Carling and would not leave her.

  Carling was a very old, very Powerful sorceress, and a Vampyre in the late stages of the disease. The Elder tribunal had judged that the fluctuations in her Power made her too much of a danger to others. The tribunal had placed Carling under a kill order. Carling and Rune made a compelling argument for suspension of the sentence, for they claimed to have found a way to put her in partial remission.

  No one wanted to execute a kill order prematurely. The social and political ramifications would be enormous. Carling had once been Queen of the Nightkind; most recently she had been a Councillor on the Elder tribunal itself. Not only that, but Rune would fight to the death for her. As a result, the Elder tribunal placed Carling under quarantine and observation for three months in order to verify the truth of their argument. Carling and Rune had just finished their first week.

  So Khalil went to sunny Key Largo. The villa had an acre-length private beach. Two-story windows along one side of the main house overlooked an infinity pool beside the ocean. The property also had two guesthouses where the Elder tribunal Councillors who were Carling’s observers and jailors stayed. The prison was altogether luxurious.

  The villa was shining with Power as Khalil approached. He studied it from high in the air. The Demonkind Councillor Soren, a first generation Djinn who was also of the House Marid, was one of Carling’s two wardens. Her other warden was the Elven Councillor Sidhiel. Wards had been placed all around the borders of the property, ostensibly, Khalil assumed, to keep Carling contained and not to keep others out.

  But caution in the face of unknown wards was always the wisest course of action. Despite his anger, Khalil slowed as he came closer.

  He was unsurprised when Soren noticed his arrival first.

  The Councillor arced up to meet him. To Khalil, Soren’s presence was a hot blaze, but it was not formless. Rather, it was patterned with aspects of Soren’s personality. Soren had set aside involvement in House Marid concerns when he had taken his position on the tribunal. Khalil had not seen him in some time. Like Khalil, Soren was very male. The two Djinn stayed a respectful distance apart from each other. Carling had once remarked acerbically that male Djinn were like betta fighting fish and flared in aggression if they got too close to each other. Khalil had to admit, the Vampyre did have a point.

  Councillor, Khalil said in greeting.

  House Marid, Soren replied. What brings you to this place?

  Khalil’s reply was edged with his anger. I would speak with Carling, if she is allowed visitors.

  She is allowed visitors, said Soren. But she may not leave this place.

  I have no interest in that. Khalil thought of Grace’s vision. He said, I would also speak with you afterward, if you have the time. It is a matter of some importance.

  Certainly, said Soren. The elder Djinn’s courtesy was impeccable. I will be waiting for you in my living quarters. Until later.

  Soren cared for courtesies, so Khalil spoke the traditional parting phrase. May you enjoy peace this day.

  And you, Soren replied.

  Soren withdrew, and Khalil plummeted to the earth.

  Now that he had gained access from one of the wardens, he did not bother quite so much with being quiet or courteous. He arrowed into the villa’s great room with enough force to rattle the two-story windows, and in a whirl he created his physical form. It knocked the sofa and chairs around the room and the artwork hanging on the walls askew. His violent entrance was an expression of his extreme displeasure, and all the forewarning Carling and Rune would get.

  Rune raced into the room, followed closely by Carling. They drew up short when they saw Khalil. He studied them coldly. The couple, he thought, were a surprising match.

  Carling had been ancient at the time of the Roman Empire, but she still had the face and figure of a thirty-year-old human. By modern standards, she was an average height for a woman, with a slender, exquisite bone structure; smooth, luminous skin the color of honey and a sensual mouth. Until recently her dark hair had been long, but now she wore it short. The choppy style emphasized her patrician Nefertiti-like neck; long, almond-shaped, dark eyes; and high cheekbones. She wore soft, gray trousers and a sleeveless shirt, and was, as her usual habit, barefoot.

  Carling’s new mate, Rune, was barefoot too and bare-chested, as he wore a pair of denim cutoffs. R
une was an immortal Wyr. As such, he carried an intense furnace of energy that rippled the air around him. He stood six foot four, with sun-streaked, tawny hair and the body of a natural swordsman. He had sun-bronzed skin and lion-colored eyes that were normally smiling. Khalil noted Rune’s smile was absent. His handsome face showed the marks of recent strain.

  He had also been Dragos’s former First sentinel for a reason. He looked at Khalil, his face hard, but he kept his voice even. “Came in a little rough on your landing there, Khalil. Care to tell us why?”

  Khalil ignored him. He had no interest in conversing with the Wyr. He looked at Carling and spat, “In all the years of our long association, I never thought I would be calling you honorless.”

  12

  Carling’s expression sharpened. Even though Rune had not moved, his Power spiked with aggression.

  Khalil did not mind that in the slightest. His own Power flared into battle readiness.

  Carling’s hand shot out, and she gripped Rune’s muscled bicep. “Easy,” she murmured to him. In a louder, calm voice, she said to Khalil, “Clearly I have caused offense to you when none was meant. I would be grateful if you would instruct me on the nature of my transgression, so that I may make amends.”

  “You don’t owe amends to me,” Khalil said. “And I am not your keeper.”

  Rune had begun a low, barely audible growl. Carling whispered to him, “Stop it, please.” She looked at Khalil. “The only way I could have become honorless to you is if I did not meet my side of a bargain. Khalil, I want you to hear me on this. Rune and I have been under a lot of strain.”

  “That holds no meaning for me,” he snapped.

  “I know. The Djinn keep an immaculate accounting of favors owed and favors paid. But you and I have had an association that has been filled with honor for many centuries. We struck a bargain a long time ago, and yes, you paid me three favors, but I helped you first with something so dangerous I might not have survived to collect. I’m asking that you remember that and let it weigh against your anger. Please understand, at times these last few weeks, my thinking has not been very clear. If I owe someone, it is a mistake, not a choice to live without honor. I want to pay the debt.”