Mind Magic

by Eileen Wilks

  Theo’s eyebrows had risen. “I see.”

  “Any more questions?”

  “Not just now.”

  Rule gave his two nunti prepaid Visa cards that shouldn’t be on any governmental list and told them how to identify and be identified by their targets. Richard would drive to D.C. to reach Ruben—or Deborah, if Ruben had been arrested. Hal would have to fly to reach Abel in Oregon, but his ID matched his apparent age and he wasn’t known to be lupus, so his name shouldn’t be flagged.

  “I will break my message into three parts,” he told them. “Part One. Our principle enemy is Edward Smith, special assistant to the director of the NSA. He is being assisted, knowingly or unknowingly, by a person or persons in Homeland Security. His motives and goals are unclear, as is the extent of his organization, but he does have an organization. The nature and extent of his actions suggest he is smart, patient, and methodical. I believe he is unaware of the existence of the Shadow Unit.”

  “But—” José started, then clamped his mouth shut and ducked his head low in apology.

  Rule continued as if José hadn’t spoken. “While he has targeted both Ruben and myself, in both cases the charges being leveled are fake, based on data tampering. If he knew about our involvement in a clandestine organization but was unable to find proof, he might decide to manufacture evidence—but that evidence would expose or at least suggest the existence of the Shadows. That hasn’t happened, which is why I believe he doesn’t know about the Shadow Unit.

  “It’s unclear why he targeted me. His reasons for targeting Ruben are also murky, but obviously include shifting the blame for his own clandestine operation in order to avoid discovery.

  “That operation involves using a nonprofit, Bright Haven Refuge for Gifted Young People, to acquire custody of Gifted children and teens who’ve been orphaned or abandoned. These children and teens are tested and trained and given a drug which enhances their power and control. My source believes that neither Congress nor the administration is aware of what Mr. Smith and his people are up to.”

  He paused then and had the men repeat what he’d said. Unsurprisingly, Hal did beautifully. Richard needed coaching, but after a few repetitions did fairly well. Rule went on to Part Two—a brief bio of Danny, what she’d done, and how she’d done it, with a description of the records she’d sent to the reporter and how they’d been altered to direct blame at Ruben.

  Again he stopped and had them repeat that, then repeat both parts. “Part Three. It seems likely that these records were altered magically. Danny believes it would be impossible to alter records kept in so many places simultaneously and undetectably without the use of magic. This suggests that Smith has at least one extremely competent practitioner at his disposal. Danny doesn’t believe Smith himself has the knowledge, experience, or training to do this, nor does she think the children and teens under his control have such training.” Rule paused. “Based on comments made by Cullen Seabourne about the nature of the process needed to use magic on computerized records without disrupting the system, I believe Smith’s practitioner may be a sorcerer.”

  * * *

  AN hour later, the two men had left for their separate destinations. Rule had spoken at greater length with Theo and José, getting their input and speculations. At last he headed for the flimsy sanctuary of his own tent.

  Danny was still playing “Greensleeves.”

  An hour after that, the flute at last fell silent. A soft rain had started, more a heavy mist than drops. Rule stared up at the roof of his tiny shelter, listening to the hushed sound of it on canvas.

  For the twenty-one thousand, four hundred and forty nights he had been on this planet, he had mostly slept alone. Roughly ninety percent of the time, according to the calculations he’d performed while trying to bore himself into sleep. You’d think he had the knack of it.

  Apparently not. He couldn’t sleep alone tonight. No, this morning, for the darkness was softening, stirred by the approach of dawn. He couldn’t shut his mind off, couldn’t stop from thinking about Lily. Couldn’t stop—as his wolf put it—living in a world of terrible maybes. Four-in-the-morning thinking at what must be nearer six than four.

  He gave up, stood up, and Changed. A moment later a large black-and-silver wolf trotted out, unbothered by the misty rain. He curled up with a small group of his fellows. They woke; one licked his muzzle briefly.

  Warmed by the feel and scent of clan, equipped with a brain less likely to founder on its own imaginings, at last he slept.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  OUTSIDE, the sun had barely crept above the horizon, but sunlight or the lack of it made no difference in the underground conference room. One of the fluorescent lights hummed loudly.

  Edward Smith occupied his usual spot at the head of the table, with the soldierly Greg at his right hand. Sharon sat at his left; the redheaded Chuck was across from her. The man sitting in the chair at the foot of the table was Greg’s opposite in every way except gender. Where Greg was tall, upright, and tidy, this man was short, slumped, and rumpled. His pale hair was at least two months overdue for a trim, and his short-sleeved yellow shirt might have been grabbed off a pile of dirty clothes.

  At the moment, he was using the tail of that shirt to clean his glasses while he spoke. “. . . twenty-seven heat signatures in the werewolf camp last night, but we . . . um . . .” He put his glasses back on and shuffled his papers. “We have no way of knowing how many . . . um . . . were away from camp. The state has agreed to . . . um . . . additional flyovers, but there are over eleven thousand acres in the . . . um . . . Crown City Wildlife Area. And of course, there are those . . . um . . . homeless men. Can’t tell from the air who’s homeless and who’s . . . um . . . a werewolf.”

  “Thank you, Barry. You may go.”

  Barry nodded and did so.

  As soon as the door closed, Chuck spoke. “God, but it’s painful to listen to him.”

  “We’ve got a bigger problem than Barry’s speech habits,” Sharon snapped. “In case you weren’t listening—”

  “Painful as the experience was, I heard every word.” Chuck sighed. “Times like these I wish I still smoked.” He looked at the round little man at the head of the table. “So what are we doing about it?”

  “At the moment, planning. Our response will depend—”

  The door opened again. “Sorry I’m late,” Tom said breezily, not sounding sorry at all. He shut the door behind him. Today the Asian man wore ripped black skinny jeans, a black T-shirt with a smoking skull, and athletic shoes. No socks. His shaggy hair and the shoulders of his tee were damp. “There are too many idiots on the road, slowing down those of us who actually know how to drive in the rain. And this is a pathetically early hour for those of us who don’t live in D.C.”

  Sharon gave him a sour look. “And yet I managed to make it on time.”

  “That’s because you’re a better person than me.” He smirked at her and sat on Chuck’s side of the table, leaving a chair between himself and the other man. “What have I missed?”

  Smith answered. “Barry updated us on the number of lupi who’ve gathered in the wildlife area outside Whistle. Thirty have been confirmed. He declined to estimate how many might be nearby who weren’t in camp when the state sent the helicopter.”

  “Ohio’s sharing information freely, then?” Chuck asked. “With us or with Homeland?”

  “Homeland, of course. Eric says the state authorities have been most helpful, unlike our brother agency at the federal level. He’s annoyed by the Bureau’s foot-dragging.”

  Sharon frowned. “I thought moving Mathison into the head spot at Unit Twelve would take care of interagency problems.”

  “That was essential, but not sufficient to make the FBI as a whole eager to cooperate with Homeland. You know how arrogant they are. They continue to believe everyone else should cooperate with them. We’re getting off-topic. Chuck, how is Prism doing?”

  “Buggy as hell,” Chuck said promptly, “b
eing still in beta, but I should have some probables within three to four hours. After that, we’ll have to pass it to the regular system for full intercept.”

  Smith nodded. “Sharon, please advise us about Adrian’s efforts to find Target Duo among the lupi.”

  She shook her head. “Still nothing. He can’t even get a clear enough image of the werewolf camp for me to confirm Barry’s count. We tried increasing the dosage slightly, but he isn’t able to penetrate . . . well, he calls it a fog. We don’t have an explanation.”

  Perhaps Smith was the only one who saw the quick flicker of reaction on Tom’s face. “Tom? Do you have something to add?”

  The Asian man cocked his head as if listening. “Not really, although this convinces me that Turner—”

  “No names, Tom.”

  “—that Target Duo is at the lupi camp.”

  Sharon’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “I can’t say,” he answered sweetly.

  “That’s not acceptable. If you know something we don’t—”

  “I know so many things you don’t, Sharon. We haven’t the time to list them all, much less go into detail.”

  “And yet,” Smith said softly, “this seems especially pertinent.”

  Tom looked at him. “I can’t say. Not won’t. This is privileged information under the terms our deal.”

  Smith’s fingers tapped once on the table while he thought that over. Reluctantly he nodded. “Very well. Let’s move on.”

  “Let’s do.” Tom smiled. “I want to know what you’re doing to find Lily Yu.”

  Smith’s eyebrows twitched in an aborted frown. “I believe you were included in the update from Eric which I forwarded last night.”

  “Yes, and a wonderful example of bureaucratic gobbledegook that was. Translated, it means: ‘It’s not my fault.’”

  “Indeed, it isn’t Eric’s fault. Special Agent Yu—”

  “Vanished.” His eyebrows lifted. “That is what happened, isn’t it . . . Edward?”

  The young man’s voice was pleasant. Maybe it was the deliberate use of Smith’s first name which made the question so insolent. The two men’s eyes met.

  Chuck scowled. Sharon burst out, “The hell with this. If he can’t show some respect—”

  “No, no.” Smith dismissed the protests with a small wave of one hand. His eyes never left Tom’s. “Tom is keenly aware that while his interests and ours overlap, they do not coincide. Are you accusing me of something specific, Tom?”

  “Specific?” Tom drawled. “No, I merely find myself . . . wondering. How odd it is for Yu to disappear when she did! And you can’t seem to find that underage sensitive of yours, can you? She’s vanished. Yu’s vanished. Now Turner’s vanished, too. And so I find myself wondering—am I witnessing an unfortunate level of incompetence? Or might you have arranged one or more of those disappearances and forgotten to mention it to me?”

  Surprisingly, Smith chuckled. “Oh, Tom. Yes, certainly I had Target Tres—I really must insist that you use the correct designation—kidnapped. She will make an excellent replacement for Demi. A Unit Twelve agent will be so much more cooperative and easier to manage than a teenager.”

  After a moment the younger man smiled and flung one hand up in a fencer’s acknowledgment of a hit. “Your point. But it is odd that Target Tres disappeared just now.”

  “Not really. Look at the timing. She disappeared right after Target Duo was arrested. She must have assumed she was a target, too, though she can’t have actually known anything. Disappearing is a rather dramatic response to such a vague assumption, but she’s a rather dramatic young woman. Not that we can afford to allow either her or Target Duo to remain on the loose—and that, if I may be allowed to drag the conversation back on-topic, is why we’re here.” He paused for emphasis. “Tom is right about one thing. We have lost track of three people. I am very concerned about Demi connecting with either Target Duo or Target Tres.”

  “Whoa,” Chuck said. “Isn’t that a bit of a leap? We’ve narrowed the area down where Demi might be, sure, based on Tom’s triangulation—”

  “And a tedious job that was, too,” Tom put in.

  “—but we’re still talking about an area of over a thousand square miles. Unless there’s information I’m unaware of—”

  “There is.” Smith tapped his fingers on the table again, four times in rapid-fire—tap-tap-tap-tap. It was an unusual show of agitation. “Two of Eric’s people have been making the rounds of establishments in Whistle. A young man who works at a small service station in Whistle bears a strong resemblance to Demi. Two of Eric’s people discovered this when they spoke with the young man’s employer last night. They then went to have a chat with the young man, who calls himself Danny Stone. He wasn’t home. They’ve since corroborated the resemblance with several other residents of Whistle, including his landlady. The timing of his arrival in Whistle fits with when Demi fled D.C. last year.”

  Silence. Then, tentatively, Chuck said, “Demi doesn’t have any male relatives.”

  Sharon rolled her eyes. “For God’s sake, Chuck! She’s been passing as male.”

  “I know that, dammit. I was eliminating one possibility, not—”

  “Then why didn’t you say so? If that’s her—” Sharon broke off abruptly, her lips clamped tightly.

  “She knows too much,” Tom said softly. “I’ve told you that before.”

  The silence dragged on longer this time. Finally Sharon sighed. “And I’ve opposed disposing of her. I still think the reasons for keeping her alive are valid. It’s not sentiment,” she insisted. “We need a sensitive.”

  Smith nodded. “Like you, Sharon, I’ve opposed eliminating Demi. Unlike you, I will admit that some of my reluctance stems from sentiment. But I have not and will not allow sentiment to interfere with our operation. I have always weighed Demi’s potential value against the risk she presents. In the past, her value trumped the risk. Not anymore.”

  “Are we sure of that?” Chuck looked troubled. “We don’t even know definitely that Turner is in the area. The influx of lupi suggests he might be, but I can think of other possible explanations, and he’d be an idiot to go where he told his lawyer he would.”

  “And even if he is,” Sharon put in, “proximity isn’t connection. We have nothing to suggest that Demi’s with Target Duo—”

  Tom snorted. “I had no idea you were such a believer in coincidence. By the time you get confirmation that Turner is in the area—or Yu, if she really is wandering around freely—”

  “Quit suggesting that Target Tres is in our hands!” Chuck snapped. “The boss told you—”

  “Pax, Chuck. Naturally I accept Edward’s assurances. But Target Tres might have gone missing on purpose. I can see her leaving the D.C. area in an effort to assist her husband, just as he broke bail in order to look for her. That would be foolish, but love does scramble people’s brains. And yet I don’t think we can count on that, can we? Not with so much at stake.”

  For the next twenty minutes they discussed what was at stake—they agreed about that—and what to do about it. They didn’t agree about that. Tom supported Smith’s proposal to deploy Cerberus; Chuck vacillated, worried because their stock of Lodan was so low; and Sharon adamantly opposed it.

  Finally Smith said, “I have a meeting I cannot postpone. We’ll have to end discussion now.”

  “But if we use Cerberus,” Sharon said stubbornly, “the risk of exposure is so much higher than the purely hypothetical risk associated with—”

  “Enough.” Smith remained pleasant, but his voice was firm. “Despite my preference for consensus, this is not a democracy. Your opinion is noted. However, I judge the risk to be much higher if we do not deploy Cerberus. You will ready them.” Smith permitted himself a small, prim smile. “It will soon be clear to local, state, and federal authorities that the werewolves gathered at the wildlife area are extremely dangerous. Therefore, extreme measures to deal with them are both justified and nece
ssary.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  MORNINGS and Demi were not friends. That’s why she usually skipped them. This one was especially unwelcome for reasons that escaped her sleep-fogged brain. Also weird. Even before she opened her eyes, nothing was right. Her bed was too hard. Someone—a man—was talking way too close by, which made no sense. Mrs. MacGruder didn’t allow people to just wander around on . . .

  Her eyes opened. She wasn’t in the trailer she rented from Mrs. MacGruder. She was on the run, hiding out in a tent in a clearing in the woods. Just outside that tent were Rule Turner and fifty-six more lupi.

  That got her sitting up, but then she didn’t know what to do, with none of her usual morning actions available. There was no bathroom, no Wi-Fi, no clock. She had to think it through. She did have clean clothes, but only one set, and since she couldn’t shower, there didn’t seem much point in changing anything but her underwear. But there was a latrine.

  She grimaced. A trench, that’s all it was, which was why she didn’t much care for camping out. It hadn’t been too smelly and nasty, though. Most of the time, Mike had told her, the lupi didn’t use the latrine, it being simpler to take care of business as a wolf. At least there was toilet paper.

  The tent wasn’t tall enough for her to stand up, which made putting on clean tighty-whities awkward, especially since she was sore from last night’s hiking. Her thighs, mostly, though her calves were a bit achy, too. She pulled her jeans back on, thought about getting out clean socks, and decided it could wait. Washing stuff wasn’t going to be easy here, and she’d put on clean socks last night after bandaging her blister. Then she eyed the coiled elastic bandage she’d set on top of her backpack and shrugged. Didn’t seem much point in binding her breasts when everyone knew she was a girl. She didn’t have a bra, but the shirt was big and sloppy and her breasts were small, so that shouldn’t matter.