The Domitor shook his head. “Bad news for Luray if the Gate is gone for good.” He was one of the few members of the group who didn’t live in or near the city, but he sounded like he would take a perverse pleasure in Luray’s being humbled. Morgana made a mental note of it. “What’s this I hear about lawsuits on the horizon?”
Morgana answered him. “Every day the Gate remains nonfunctional means our merchants have to route their goods and people through distant cities. That costs time and money. People will expect compensation for it: it’s human nature. And Luray is a hub of interworld commerce, so the compensation will be sizeable.”
“Who are they planning to sue? Or, to put it in plainer English: Who’s getting blamed for all this?”
The Grey reached up nervously to rub his forehead and seemed startled when his fingers encountered the mask. Such disguises were a necessary precaution, but it took time to get used to wearing one. “Lord Virilian has informed the governor that my Guild was responsible for the Gate’s security, hence this was our failing. Which is bullshit,” he muttered. “We’re facilitators for his Guild, nothing more. Don’t they keep telling us that? The ultimate responsibility for this mess lies with them. But who wants to drag a Shadowlord into court? It’s much easier to target us.”
“This will go all the way to the top,” the Healer mused. “And if it turns out the portal can’t be made functional, someone big is going to go down for it. Possibly even a Guildmaster.”
“Let’s hope it’s Virilian,” the Weaver offered, “and not the Grey’s Garret.”
The Grey turned to glare at her. Even through his mask one could sense the intensity of his gaze. “Lady, I spent ten years in a hellhole in the Sauran Cluster because of one spoiled aristo brat who suffered a week’s time displacement and missed a final exam. When his family demanded that someone be punished for that, Guildmaster Garret decided that I was the ideal scapegoat. Do you know what it’s like to milk a six-foot centipede for venom? No? Because I do. It’s not fun. It’s even less fun when you have to do it for eight years straight. So either Virilian or Guildmaster Garret can go to hell for all I care.”
“Easy, brother.” Morgana’s tone was sympathetic but firm. “You’re among friends now.”
The Domitor nodded. “The fall of your Guildmaster, pleasing though it might be, won’t help us achieve our goals. We need to make sure this incident serves our greater purpose.”
The Grey lowered his eyes and said nothing more. Like a child being admonished, Morgana thought. Such a gesture of submission wasn’t necessary in this company—or appropriate—but the Grey wasn’t a political player by nature, and he didn’t yet understand all the fine points of the game he had been dragged into.
We’ll have to keep an eye on him, Morgana thought. See that he makes no mistakes while he’s learning.
Normally they would never have invited someone so inexperienced to join their conspiracy, but it was hard to find any Grey who was willing to act against his undead masters, and the opportunity could not be wasted. Never mind that this one had just returned from exile and had neither influence nor authority among his fellow Greys. For Morgana and her allies to have eyes and ears inside the Guild of Obfuscates had value in its own right.
He needs training, she thought. Someone to take him under wing and see that he becomes what we need him to be.
“Virilian isn’t the most stable of Shadowlords on a good day,” the Fleshcrafter noted. “If he gets hit with the blame for this, things could get interesting. And not in a good way.”
The Elemental snorted, “I’m not sure ‘stable’ is an adjective one can apply to any Shadowlord.”
“They’re all pretty crazy,” the Healer agreed.
“But some more than most,” the Grey warned them.
All eyes turned to him.
Startled to have suddenly become the focus of attention, the Grey needed a few seconds to find his voice. “There are dark souls in our Guild. Monsters who should have been left in their graves, but whose spirits were preserved for future Shadowlords to Commune with. Only the strongest ones can take them in without going insane . . . or so I’m told, anyway. But as the Lady Elemental pointed out, how many of the undead are sane to start with?”
The Domitor breathed in sharply. “Are you telling us that Virilian is host to one of these—what did you call them—dark souls?”
The Grey hesitated. “It’s rumored that he is. No one knows for sure.”
“So the psychopathic Guildmaster may be host to an even bigger psychopath?” The Weaver shook her head in exasperation. “That’s just great.”
“It won’t change our plans if he is,” Morgana said evenly. She bowed her head respectfully to the Grey. “Thank you for that information.” Which no one but a Grey could have provided, she thought with satisfaction. You are as close as we will ever come to having a spy among the Shadows.
The Healer looked at Morgana. “You said you had a tool that might prove useful to us, something you were testing. Can you give us an update on that?”
“I wish I could,” Morgana answered, her voice tinged with regret. Fortunately she was the only one in the room who could sense when a person was lying. “But at this point I need to keep the details quiet, so my testing environment won’t be compromised. When I have results worth talking about, you’ll all know it. I promise.”
The Domitor stared at her for a moment in obvious displeasure, then snorted. “Well then, there’s not much point in going on with this meeting, is there? Because we can’t discuss future plans without knowing the status of the portal. And some people clearly aren’t willing to talk about their existing plans.” He glared at Morgana.
“There’s no reason for you to share in the risk of my work until I’ve confirmed its value,” she said steadily.
Before the Domitor could respond the Healer clapped his hands, putting an end to the exchange. “All right. What say we close this meeting now and reconvene next week for an update? I’m sure there will be more to report then.” He looked pointedly at Morgana.
“I second that,” the Weaver said.
“Any objections?”
There were none.
The Elemental was the first to remove her hand from her fetter; the minute she did so her image vanished. One by one the others followed suit, until the Soulrider’s image was the only one left in the room.
Before the wolf-masked figure could break the connection, Morgana gestured for him to wait.
“A moment, Hunter.”
The Soulrider looked at her.
“I need a favor from you. And I’m afraid it’s a somewhat challenging one.”
“Challenges temper the soul, Lady Seer. What is it?”
“Four changelings from Terra Colonna crossed into our world a short while ago. They’re back on their adoptive world now, but I expect some of them to return here. When they do, I need time to observe them . . . without interference.”
It took the Soulrider a minute to realize what she was driving at; when he did, he breathed in sharply. “You think one of my Guild will be tasked with hunting them down?”
“They angered Virilian. He’s a notoriously vengeful creature. If he learns they’re back on Terra Prime, there’s a good chance he’ll go after them, if only for personal satisfaction. And his Soulrider already knows their scent.”
He nodded. “Rhegar is a skilled tracker, and he’s fiercely loyal to Virilian. I doubt he would refuse to hunt someone if the Guildmaster asked him to.”
“He doesn’t have to refuse the request,” she said quietly. “He just has to fail at it.”
For a moment the Hunter stared at her in silence. Then he shook his head. “You weren’t kidding about the challenging part, were you? Rhegar’s as proud—and as stubborn—as his undead master. Asking him to feign a hunt would be like asking a champion prizefighter to throw a match
.”
“But sometimes prizefighters do that, when the price is right. So the issue is not whether it can be done but how.” When the Hunter said nothing she pressed, “Can you arrange it?”
He considered for a moment before answering. “My Guildmaster trusts my counsel. I could probably convince him to give the right orders. But I’d have to come up with a damn good reason for him to comply. Our Guild is less involved with the Shadows than yours is, but defying the will of a Shadowlord is still no small thing. Especially that particular Shadowlord.” He cocked his head to one side, a move that was oddly canine. “So are you going to give me a story to offer him? Or do I need to come up with something on my own?”
She spread her hands. “I don’t know the inner workings of your Guild well enough to know what would convince him. So I’m afraid I would need to leave that in your hands.”
“And is this part of your secret experiment?”
A practiced wave of Morgana’s hand casually dismissed the thought. “If you must know the truth, my Guild assessed the potential of these changelings when they were born, and sent them into exile on Terra Colonna. Now they’re back. When’s the last time you heard about a changeling finding his way home like that? It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity for us to see what these children are capable of, when isolated from Gifted influence.”
“Do you think they may be Gifted themselves?”
“I’ve seen no signs of that yet,” she lied easily. “But if it turns out that one of them is, that would mean a Seer failed in his duty when he evaluated them. . . . so you understand why it’s something I would need to investigate. Discreetly.”
The Hunter sighed. “I understand, Lady. I’ll do the best I can to keep Rhegar off their tail.”
“Thank you, my friend.”
The ghostly figure lifted his hand from his fetter and then he, too, was gone.
For a few minutes Morgana sat alone in the dimly lit room, wondering if she had told the Hunter too much. Or perhaps too little? She didn’t dare let the others know why she was really watching Jessica, but she had to tell them something. Which meant that the closer her plan came to fruition, the more dangerous it would become.
I’ve risked everything for this experiment, she thought. Let’s hope the girl proves worth it.
7
BERKELEY SPRINGS
WEST VIRGINIA
JESSE
THE SOUND OF GLASS SHATTERING woke me up.
For a moment I lay there in the darkness, not sure if it was something I’d dreamed or something real. Then I heard a heavy thud downstairs, like a body hitting the floor. Reflexively I reached under my pillow for my knife, just in case trouble came calling. These days it was reflex.
As I got up and moved toward the bedroom door I could hear people stirring in the hall outside; it sounded like the noise had awakened everyone in the house. I opened my door and saw my aunt and uncle rushing down the stairs, Rita and Tommy behind them. My brother had his knife in hand, which was probably why he was keeping to the rear of the pack: there was less chance of someone noticing that way.
I followed the flood of people down the stairs.
The ruckus was apparently coming from the kitchen. Dr. Tilford was already there. Devon was crouched on the floor, his back against a cabinet, wrapped in a trembling ball with his arms around his knees and his head down. Fragments of glass and pottery were scattered all around him, as well as pieces of what had once been a sandwich. He must have come down here to make himself a midnight snack.
As Rose and Julian rushed to his side. I looked around the room for anyone or anything that might have hurt him—perhaps oddities in the room that the others might not notice—but the only people there were known to me, and no objects looked out of place save for the mess on the floor. That didn’t necessarily mean there was no one else present; I’d learned the hard way that there were aliens who were skilled at going unseen. But for now, at least, this seemed to be a mundane accident.
Devon’s father knelt by his side, and as we all pressed in close to see what was going on he looked up and said, “Give him room, please.” I could sense fear coming off Devon in waves, like heat off the summer pavement. Dr. Tilford seemed calm and collected on the outside, but I guessed that was just a facade. A good doctor knew how to keep his patient from sensing how worried he was.
“I’ll call an ambulance,” Uncle Julian said.
“Already did,” Dr. Tilford told him. Then he turned back to his son. “You’ll be fine. Try to take deep, slow breaths.”
Devon didn’t respond to him. His breathing was rapid and shallow, like a dog’s panting, and his body vibrated with tremors every few seconds.
Aunt Rose asked, “What happened?”
“He’s having trouble with his balance,” Dr. Tilford said without looking up. “No idea why, yet.”
“Is there anything we can do?”
Lips tight, he shook his head. “Not at the moment.”
My aunt crouched down and started to clean up the pieces of shattered crockery. It wasn’t what I would have worried about at a time like this, but maybe she needed the distraction.
Devon whispered hoarsely, “It’s worse when I move my head.”
“I know,” his father said. “Just sit still for now. Help is on the way.”
I could hear sirens now, moving toward us at a fast clip. That was one benefit of living in a small town; there were no traffic snarls to slow down an ambulance.
Devon looked up at me for an instant . . . or tried to. One of his eyes was twitching wildly back and forth, and I got the impression he couldn’t see anything clearly. Then he shut his eyes again, leaned his head back against the wall, and shuddered. I was so terribly afraid for him, and also frustrated. There’s nothing worse than seeing a friend in pain and not being able to help. I looked at Rita and Tommy and saw similar emotions in their eyes. None of us knew what to do, or even what to think.
When the ambulance finally arrived Rose met the paramedics at the door and led them to the kitchen. Dr. Tilford identified himself and gave them a quick rundown on Devon’s condition. Mostly medical jargon, but some phrases were recognizable. Sudden loss of balance. Disorientation. Severe nausea. He displayed such an air of medical authority that I felt somewhat reassured; clearly he was on top of this.
With his hand on Devon’s shoulder he asked, “Can you move?”
“I’m not sure.” His son’s voice was barely audible, and he winced when he spoke, as if even the slight movement of his jaw made him feel sicker.
Then the paramedics took him by his arms and helped him get to his feet. He was swaying like a drunk, and at one point it looked like he was about to throw up. Two more paramedics had brought in a stretcher, and they helped ease him onto it while Dr. Tilford watched in obvious torment. I could taste how much he wanted to step in and help, but that wasn’t the protocol, and he knew it.
When Devon was finally lying down he shut his eyes, sighing deeply as they strapped him in, as if relieved that he would not have to move for a while. His color was ghastly. The paramedics wheeled him out with Dr. Tilford close behind; the rest of us followed in their wake, down the hallway, through the entrance foyer, and out onto the front porch. From there we huddled together and watched as they slid the stretcher into the back of the ambulance. Dr. Tilford exchanged a few words with the head paramedic, then the two of them climbed inside the back, and the heavy doors swung shut behind them.
Suddenly I realized that we weren’t alone. Neighbors had come out onto their porches to see what all the commotion was about, and a few people in robes and pajamas were standing in the roadway across from our house. For one sickening moment I had a flashback to the pajama-clad crowd that had surrounded my house when it burned down. I tried to shut them out of my head as I looked back at the ambulance.
Someone grabbed my hand and squeezed i
t briefly. Rose? Tommy? I didn’t want look away long enough to find out.
Finally the ambulance began to move out. Sirens pierced the night as brightly colored lights began to strobe from its roof. I felt tears start to gather in the corner of one eye, born of fear and frustration. I felt helpless not being able to help the friend who had been such comfort to me in my own need.
“C’mon.” Uncle Julian’s strong hand gripped my shoulder. “Get some clothes on, we’ll take the SUV.”
The emergency room was sleek and clean and mostly empty. In one corner was a middle-aged woman who was knitting nervously; every few minutes she would glance at the double doors that led to the hospital’s interior, a look of concern on her face, then she would turn back to her yarn and knit even more furiously. Other than her, we were the only non-nurses there.
A woman in scrubs showed up to tell us that Devon was being cared for and that for now he seemed to be okay, but she wouldn’t give us any more details. We weren’t family.
Eventually Dr. Tilford came out. His normally stoic façade was clearly being strained to the breaking point.
“Devon is suffering from an acute attack of vertigo,” he told us. “They don’t know the cause yet, but they’ve ruled out some major concerns. He seems stable for now.” He turned back toward the double doors. “I’ll let you know if anything changes.”
Before he could leave I asked, “Is he going to be okay?”
He hesitated. “We’re doing everything we can to make sure of it.”
He didn’t wait around for any more questions, so I pulled out my phone and looked up vertigo. Extreme dizziness, Wikipedia said. Sometimes comes on without warning.
Not a big help.
Time crept by after that with agonizing slowness. Tommy had stayed at the house to monitor the internet channels, searching for any sign that other changelings were getting sick. It wasn’t so long ago that someone had been killing them off one by one, and if that was starting up again, we needed to know. But he said he hadn’t found anything to suggest that was the case. One bit of good news, anyway.