Revenant

FIFTEEN

There was a presence looming at the bedside. I opened my gummy, gritty eyes and looked up. Soraia offered a trembling smile.

Children have such piercing voices, especially when I’ve had only two hours of sleep. I had to say something before she could stab me with her fluting tones. “I’m awake now, Soraia, but your uncle Jay isn’t. He’s still sick.”

She replied in a serious whisper, “Will he be all right?” Soraia was hesitant and I had the impression that wasn’t normal for her. Everything about her seemed withdrawn, unnaturally restrained—even the energetic colors around her lay tighter to her body than they should have and there were none of the vagrant sparks or bubbles I usually saw around kids. She was shutting herself down and I wanted to inflict an equal measure of brutality on Purlis and his bone mages for that. Children shouldn’t be terrified and used like commodities.

Soraia shied a little and I struggled to push my anger aside. I offered her a small smile and said, “I think so—when he’s had some more sleep. We’re going to meet my friends today.” I started to get out of bed but thought better of flashing the six-year-old. “Um . . . sweetie, could you go downstairs and wait for me in the kitchen or something? I need to get dressed.”

Soraia gave me a big-eyed stare and started to run out of the room. Then she turned back around and looked at me from under her eyebrows, shaking with effort. “Thank you for coming to save me, Auntie Harper. And Uncle Jay and Senhor Carlos, too.”

I didn’t laugh. She was deadly serious and still frightened. I respected the effort her gratitude required. “You are very welcome.”

I waited in the bed for her to leave, but she didn’t. She stood, trembling, halfway between the bed and the door. Then she blurted, “What’s an ‘odd duck’?”

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“Mamãe says you’re an odd duck. Why are you a duck?”

Now I laughed. “I’m not a duck. She just means I’m hard for her to understand. I’m strange.”

“Oh,” she said, her left hand fluttering up to touch her chest and then dropping back to her side.

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

“I—I’m strange, too.”

“Oh, honey. A lot of people are strange and hard to understand. But they’re like anyone else—some of them are nice and some of them aren’t, and being strange isn’t what makes them that way.”

She looked thoughtful and the energy around her began to brighten through several shades of blue with a tiny eruption of gold sparks. “Your strange . . . is different from Senhor Carlos’s strange? And from the bad wizards’?”

“A lot different.”

“Why isn’t Uncle Jay strange, too?”

“He is, but it’s not the same kind of strange. And that’s all right.”

She chewed on her lips and considered. “Will I—will I be like them?”

Uh-oh . . . Looking at her, it was pretty obvious she wasn’t an ordinary little girl. Aside from being smart and articulate for a six-year-old and coming through a terrible situation, she displayed all the energetic markers of someone in touch with the Grey. It was a weak and rough attachment right now that could have been destroyed without much effort by the wrong sort of people, but it was there. “Soraia,” I started, “some things are complex and hard to explain. You’re special—”

She made a face.

“Yes, I know . . . People say that when they mean that you’re weird or you frighten them. Well, in this case, I’m going to say the same thing for a different reason. Sometimes it’s not a good idea to tell people about the things you can see or the ghosts and fairies you can talk to. They don’t understand and it scares them.”

She shivered. “Even Mamãe.”

“Yeah, even your mother. But it’s not because she’s afraid or doesn’t love you. She doesn’t mean to upset you. She’s not as strange as you and sometimes she doesn’t know what to do for you, but she loves you very much and she doesn’t want other people to hurt you.”

“You mean . . . like the bad wizards . . . ?”

“Not the same way—not usually—but other ways, little ways, mean ways. You shouldn’t stop being strange or special because of those people, but sometimes you might want to let them think you’re . . . not an odd duck.”

Soraia’s serious look curled up into a small, uncertain smile. “I don’t want to be a duck. I want to be all white and sparkly, like you.”

“Oh,” I started, uncomfortable and not sure what to say, “I don’t know. I don’t think so. . . .”

Soraia looked crushed.

I felt terribly constrained by being stuck in the bed. I turned my hands up, imploring her to listen. “Sweetheart, sometimes we don’t get to choose. It just happens the way it happens.”

“The bad wizards are bad because they are . . . bad? What if they want to be good? Senhor Carlos is bad, but he was good.” She started crying. “I don’t want to be bad. . . .”

“Oh no! That’s not what I mean. I mean . . . um. . . . OK, so . . . the kind of strange you have is just what you have, like being a girl or having curly hair. What you do with it is what you choose. You could do bad things or you could do good things, but it’s up to you.” I hoped that made more sense to Soraia than it did to me, because I was sure I was babbling like a moron.

She puzzled it over for a while. “Like Max.”

“Max?”

“From the book. From The Wild Things.”

“Oh, Where the Wild Things Are. Yes, like Max.”

Soraia nodded, serious again but no longer crying, the bright sparks dampening in her aura. “So . . . even if I have a bad strange, I won’t be . . . like them?”

“Not unless you decide to be. But I think you’re going to grow up to be a beautiful, nice person who does beautiful things. Because you know what the alternative is like.”

“What’s ‘alternative’?”

“It means ‘the other choice,’” I said.

“Oh.” She hesitated. “Are you a wizard?”

“Nope. I just see ghosts and magic, things like that. The lady we’re going to meet today is a witch,” I offered.

Soraia shrank away.

Quickly I continued. “Oh no, sweetheart. Not a bad witch. She’s a good witch—she’s all green and gold and has beautiful red hair. I just mean that there are a lot of ways to be strange like us without being the same as someone else.”

Soraia nodded and kept nodding, thinking, as she left the room.

I breathed a sigh and got out of bed as soon as the door was closed. I made sure it was properly locked this time—though I thought I’d locked it earlier. Then I checked on Quinton, relieved to find him sleeping heavily, but like a normal human. His skin was still a little pale and there were violet smudges around his eyes, but his breathing was normal and his pulse was strong. I kissed his cheek and left him to sleep while I got dressed and went downstairs for breakfast with Sam and the kids.

Both Soraia and the baby were well behaved, and Sam had discovered supplies in the fridge and cupboards to make a quick, cold meal of buttered bread with ham that was more like prosciutto than the moist, pink American kind. It was an odd breakfast to me, but there were no complaints.

Sam took one look at me and pointed to the stove. “There’s espresso on. It’s very hot, so use the cloth when you pick it up.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Do I have a sign over my head that says ‘coffee junkie’?”

“You don’t need one—you’re a classic case. And you look like you hardly slept.”

“I had some difficulty. . . .”

“How’s Jay?”

“Doing much better, but he’s still out. He’ll have to stay here and rest while I drive. But that’ll work out all right, since there’s some research that needs to be done and Jay’s extraordinary at digging up information.”

“I know. He used to get in trouble for that when we were kids—he was a hacker before it was a dirty word. So.” She studied me in silence for a while as I made my best efforts at sipping the coffee without scalding myself. “I don’t suppose anyone is going to tell me what happened last night. Jay didn’t and Soraia’s version is a bit garbled.”

“Probably not as garbled as you think. Short version: Carlos—the big scary guy who owns this house—recognized the workmanship on the ‘gifts’ your father left for Soraia. He was able to ID the woman who made them and we found out where she was—we think she’s the woman you saw with your father and her name is Maggie Griffin. We went to confront her and found Soraia there. Griffin and Carlos had a discussion, she lost her temper, put up a fight, and he slapped her down. We got Soraia and brought her back here. Pretty much all the news that’s fit to print.”

“What about the injury to her arm and this ‘old man’ she keeps talking about? And what happened to this Maggie Griffin? Was she arrested?”

“No. As you pointed out, that would only give your father more information about what we know. Your father wasn’t there, so he won’t know what happened for a while, even though the ‘old man’ escaped. We think he’s the man who was with Griffin and your father. As to what happened to Soraia’s arm, it looks like this is a sort of fanatical cult and they had some idea of using her bones for something very unsavory, the details of which you don’t want to know. Right now, we have some lead time and a rough idea of their plans, but we have to move before your father knows what we’re doing about it.”

“What are you doing? All I cared about was getting Soraia back, but there’s obviously more to this.”

“Well, your father’s up to something nasty and it looks like he was, basically, giving your daughter to some unpleasant people as a payment for other services.”

Sam’s mouth dropped open. “He wouldn’t. . . .”

“He did. We just got there before the next step could be taken.”

“Dear God . . .”

“You’re surprised he’s that much of a monster? Because I’m not. What he did in Seattle was horrific and it was just an overture to whatever he has in mind here. We still have a lot to do if we’re going to stop that plan, but before we can move ahead, you and the kids have to be taken to safety. I suppose Jay told you about the Danzigers?”

“A little. He was too sick to make a lot of sense.”

“Ben and Mara Danziger. They’re old friends of ours from Seattle—university professors. He’s a linguistics and languages scholar and works in comparative religions, folklore, mythology, and that sort of thing. She teaches geology. They have a son named Brian and he’s about Soraia’s age. He’s a lot like a miniature version of Jay.”

“Lord have mercy on us,” Sam replied.

I laughed. “I think you’ll all get along very well, but the thing that you’re going to have a hard time with is that Mara’s a witch.”

Sam narrowed her eyes, but she didn’t say anything.

“Anyhow, the reason we thought of them is not only are they reliable people who are also parents, but they understand the complications of this sort of situation. Mara’s the best protection you could have from anything paranormal that your father and his friends could throw at you.” I put up my hand to stop the objection forming on her lips. “I know you don’t swallow the creepy, woo-woo angle of this case, but it is a factor. If it makes you feel better, you can think of them as some kind of fanatical terrorists. Their ideas sound crazy to you, but they’re willing to act on those ideas, which makes them dangerous, and having an expert in their brand of crazy on your side will make you a lot safer.”

“I’ll accept that. I’m not sure about the witch thing. . . .”

“She’ll either convince you herself, or she won’t, but that’s up to you.”

“How is it that you happen to have friends here, so conveniently?”

“I rather suspect your brother had a hand in that. Unless you believe in fate, which I assume you don’t.”

Sam shook her head and I managed to gulp down enough of my coffee to feel less like I was operating by remote control.

“Anyhow, they’re on sabbatical and Ben was doing some research into European folklore for a book. Ben was offered a publishing contract, so the research got extended and they’ve been traveling around for about two years now. So, my guess is that Jay got in touch with them to get some other information, but he also got their itinerary and probably asked them if they could manage to be in the general vicinity, in case he needed backup before I got here. They’re the best people in the world. Ben’s one of those guys who’ll jump in without a second thought if he thinks he’s going to see or learn something rare in his field or if a friend needs his help. He’s full of enthusiasm. Mara’s the levelheaded one.”

“The witch.” Sam was biting her lip—a nervous habit her brother also had on rare occasion and one her daughter had picked up already, too.

I nodded. “That’s her. She’s also a geologist and a teacher and while her personal vocation may be a little unusual, she’s methodical, well educated, and very smart. I think you’ll like her. Ben’s more the absentminded, bookworm scholar. He also speaks seven or eight languages, but I don’t know if Portuguese is one of them.”

“And what about our host, Carlos? What’s he?”

Soraia looked up at me with the same hard question in her eyes. “Carlos . . . That’s harder to explain.” I think it’s a mistake to lie to friends and allies if I can avoid it, and lying to kids in particular seems to backfire a lot. Obfuscating, on the other hand, is probably the only viable option when the whole truth is not acceptable. Soraia would probably be thrilled if I told the truth, but I wasn’t going to, since it wasn’t mine to tell. “You could say he’s an expert on anything dead, so the bone flutes were right up his alley. Aside from that, you’d have to ask him.”

Soraia got her thoughtful expression, but her mother continued. “It doesn’t look like I’ll have that chance. He hasn’t come down yet. I should thank him for helping us, though he is a little . . .”

“Creepy?” I suggested. Even people with little magical sensitivity get weirded out around Carlos when he hasn’t affected a glamour to charm them, and he rarely bothers with more than the minimum of psychic camouflage. He is, by nature and necessity, a killer, even more so than most vampires.

Sam hesitated, then said, “Brusque.”

“That’s a word for it.”

“Is he always like that?”

“Pretty much.”

“I hope he’s not ill, like Jay. . . . Maybe I should go up and see. . . .”

“No,” I said, putting up my hand to stop her rising from the table. “He’s fine. Trust me, you really don’t want to see Carlos when he’s just gotten up.”

“Is he a vampire?” Soraia asked.

Her mother was shocked. “Soraia!”

The little girl’s eyes widened and her lip trembled.

I caught her eye and shook my head. It was a very small gesture, but she saw it and shut up. “As I said, that’s something you’d have to ask him and now would not be appropriate.”

Soraia swallowed her fear, nodded, and said nothing.

I ate a few bites of my breakfast and finished my coffee before making another ham sandwich and putting it on a plate to take to Quinton. I excused myself and said we’d leave as soon as I got back downstairs. Then I returned to my room to wake the sleeper, but I didn’t get quite the reception I’d expected.

Amélia’s ghost was hovering over Quinton, whispering into his ears as he tossed restlessly. He looked paler than he had when I’d left him less than an hour earlier and it appeared that she was doing something to make him so.

I dropped the plate and threw myself across the room through the Grey to snatch at her.

Her energetic form was thin and cold, but she caught in my fingers like a tangle of hair. I yanked her away from Quinton as she screeched.

“Get away from him!” I shouted, flinging her energy at the misty shadow of the wall.

The house was unusually present and solid in the Grey, having been here for many years and filled with the constant flux of magic. Deep in the Grid I could see a nexus beneath, adding strength and permanence to all magical workings above it.

Amélia crashed into the ghostly wall as if it were solid and rebounded, broken into shards of herself like the reflection in a shattered mirror. She put up her hands and hid her face, her voice like the sobbing of mourning doves. “Tenha misericórdia! Fiz tudo isso para você!”

I wasn’t sure I got the gist, but I spat back in words that cut the mist in heat and barbed red anger, “When I want a favor from you, I’ll ask for it! Get out! Or I’ll rip you into shreds and feed you to the Guardian Beast! Get out!”

She vanished in a cry. The mist sank where she had been, drawn downward as she left the room.

My chest was heaving and the cold mist of the Grey made me feel frozen through. I backed from the mist world into the normal, keeping an eye peeled for her return and fell over the bed.

Quinton stirred and rolled to the side with a grunt of discomfort.

“Hey,” I said as he opened one bleary eye.

“Hey.” He sounded like he’d been gargling with glass.

“I brought you a sandwich, but I dropped it. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t need a sandwich,” he muttered, trying to draw me down into the bed with him.

I traded some dopey kisses with him for a moment, warming myself in his affection. Reluctantly, I pulled away in a minute.

He made a disappointed-puppy noise but didn’t fight it.

“None of that,” I said. “I feel guilty enough as it is. I’m about to leave with your sister.”

“I’ll get up—”

I pushed him back down as he tried it and it wasn’t hard to do. “No, you won’t. You need more sleep and I need you to do some research for Carlos while I’m gone.”

“What kind?”

“Online. He wants to know about any recent incidents concerning bones or bodies being disinterred, disturbed, or stolen or anything bizarre connected to bones or relics. Anywhere in Europe. He’s looking for information that could tell us what the Kostní Mágové are building out of these bones and what they’ll have to do now that we’ve denied them Soraia.”

“Oh. All right.” He slumped back into his pillow. “I feel wretched.”

“I think the term you’re after is ‘like death warmed over.’”

“Twice.”

I started to go but turned back. “Be careful of the ghosts around here. I know you can’t see them like I can, but if you have an eerie feeling, heed it.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, but some of them have their own agendas and I don’t want you sucked into them.”

“Oh. OK.” He closed his eyes, sleep trying to drown him once again.

I returned to the bed and kissed him one more time. “I love you, my superhero.”

“Love you, too,” he murmured, sinking into sleep as I watched.

I didn’t feel quite so bad about leaving once I knew he was asleep again. I only hoped I’d scared Amélia off badly enough to keep her from repeating whatever she’d been doing. Quinton was still too close to his brush with death to be immune to the machinations of ghosts. I was going on faith that he’d been awake enough to remember what I’d told him.

I picked up the scattered remains of the sandwich and took them back downstairs.