The Greek historian and archivist blew her a kiss. “I’m the broom. It’s my job to know everything, to sweep it all up and pile it in neat little stacks.”
Before Cynda could say something about pestles being able to crush brooms, Merilee got up and hurried up the stairs. The third floor of the brownstone was entirely her domain. It was higher than everyone else, of course, where wind-lovers liked to be—though hardly a breeze could stir up there with all the shelves and stacks of books and notebooks, and the impressive array of computers.
Riana stretched, feeling tired though it wasn’t even noon yet. “Cynda, can you let the Mothers know what we’ve got so far?”
“Sure.” She smiled as she stood. “You going to test the skin while I ring the chimes?”
Riana nodded, then felt the weight of her next words. “After that, we’ll figure out a plan for our new friend Creed.”
“Oooh. Good.” Cynda wiggled her butt as she hurriedly cleaned off the big round wooden platform that doubled as a worktable. “I hope it involves full physical examination.”
Irritation surged through Riana, catching her off guard.
“I bet you do,” she managed clumsily as Cynda took off her shoes and climbed on the platform.
Riana’s hands shook as she picked up the folder from the floor and removed the bag of trace skin evidence. Her crescent pendant bounced against her sweater as she straightened herself again, and she thought of Mother Yana.
A waxing moon,
she had told Riana in Russian the day she gave it to her.
Small, yes, but growing stronger every day
.
Trust yourself. Believe in your instincts. Leave behind your losses, your tragedies, and you, too, will grow to banish darkness.
It had been a long time since Riana almost lost control of her emotions, even for a moment. If an earth-loving Sibyl let her feelings get away from her, the results were invariably disastrous. Damage from wind and fire could be extreme, but only an earth Sibyl could break the foundations of the ground itself. Early in her training, Riana had been made to visit chasms and pits that once boasted cities, not to mention caves and faults that once were solid mountains. Imagining that level of destruction drove home the need for rigid self-discipline.
“I am the mortar,” she whispered to herself. “The stone bowl that holds us all.”
Merilee and Cynda needed the stabilizing force of her earth energy. She couldn’t fail them. She couldn’t fail the Sibyls—her only family.
Motherhouse Russia graduates always worked with the earth, always chose and led the triads. She would not allow herself to be distracted by a strange creature with black flame eyes. Not now, with Asmodai activity coming into the open in her city, and the Legion changing tactics for the first time in the century they had been tracked and engaged by the Sibyls.
Cynda apparently hadn’t noticed Riana’s consternation. The Irish communications expert had raised her arms and started her chant to reach the Motherhouses. She danced a circle slowly on the table, her image reflected in their collection of projective mirrors, as the wind chimes rang softly over her head. At first, her movements produced only little tinkles and a musical clattering. Then, slowly, slowly, drawing off the heat of Cynda’s inner fire, the noise became more rhythmic. Sparks danced along the table’s carved and lead-lined lip, and little flames licked upward. Good pestle that she was, Cynda let her fire grow until her strength ground open the ancient channels of sound, and she began to ring the chimes.
Like a conference call,
Riana thought.
Only this one can’t be hijacked or overheard.
They all had the skills to send basic messages through their tattoos and through objects that rang, but only Sibyls from Motherhouse Ireland could handle complex communications—and do so reliably, in such grand fashion.
Mist shrouded three of the projective mirrors. After a few more seconds, students from each Motherhouse stepped forward to receive Cynda’s messages. Riana saw Motherhouse Ireland’s green robes first, followed by Motherhouse Greece’s cerulean blue. The brown of Motherhouse Russia took longer to become distinct, because protections were much stronger and older along those lines.
As the chimes transporting Cynda’s messages to the Mothers began to ring, Riana headed into the kitchen, then down the marble stairs into the waiting embrace of the earth. She felt instantly soothed by the dark, quiet pressure behind the concrete and marble walls, and pleased by the peaceful earth tones of her own choosing. She stopped first at the right of the stairs and went into her bedroom to change into lab clothes, then headed to her small private kitchen for a bottle of water. After centering herself and managing to go five whole minutes without thinking about Creed Lowell or his eyes, she left the bedroom, opened the door on the other side of the stairs, and stepped into the expansive reaches of her underground laboratory.
Sibyl Motherhouses spared no expense when it came to archiving, communication, or research, the three pillars of their main duty in the world: saving the untrained, the weak, and the innocent from the supernaturally strong. Riana had access to the fastest and most modern equipment available. She even had access to machines and procedures not yet discovered or perfected by the untrained. Soft gleams of silver and glowing green-and-red displays gave the laboratory a secret light all its own. She almost hated to ruin it by turning on the overheads, but time was short. She had samples to analyze, and later, no matter what she thought about it, a dangerous creature to capture and interrogate.
3
The last work session after nightfall didn’t start well. The Sibyls weren’t on recon duty, but Riana knew they had more than enough to keep them busy.
She settled herself on the sofa, still a little full from dinner, armed with a sheaf of lab values and analyses. Cynda had a stack of communications notebooks spread on both sides, and Merilee was late coming down from upstairs. When the historian made her appearance, her olive skin looked distinctly pale.
“We’ve got problems,” they all said at once.
“Me first.” Riana handed copies of her salt analyses and skin sample analysis to her triad sisters, who dutifully glanced at them. As Merilee scribbled an archive number on her copy and made an entry in her archive log, Riana summarized the first part.
“The salt was definitely fresh, purified for ritual. From what I can tell from the metal deposits left on the skin, the dagger was a double-S curved blade, made of treated silver and locked by all four elements, so regular police forensics won’t be able to analyze it.” She paused, took a breath, and waited for Merilee and Cynda to look at her. When they did, she added the rest of the uncomfortable information. “I estimate the blade was made in the fourth century or before, Proto-Slavic, and it was an object of power. I bet it was stolen from the Volgograd collection, maybe parts not on display. And according to printouts I got from Motherhouse Ireland, the cuts on the boy were made in a classic containment pattern. When he died, his blood would have flowed in a circle around him and stayed close. Worse, his essence, his life energy, wouldn’t have been able to leave his body. Somebody could have…collected it somehow. The energy and the blood.”
“Shit,” Cynda said.
At the same time, Merilee said, “So the Legion didn’t just steal an object of power. They probably
used
it—and to collect the blood and life essence of an innocent.”
“What the hell are they up to?” Cynda thrust her notebook forward. “The Mothers reported other child-murders, in at least fifteen countries. Probably more we don’t know about yet. They want us to double recon runs and take out as many Asmodai as we can, and pull out all the stops in trying to capture a member of the Legion. We’ve
got
to get more information. And, they want us to get into the Latch case, to find out every possible detail and report back as soon as we can. For some reason, this murder, our murder, troubles them the most.”
Merilee sat up straighter. “Did they say why?”
“Of course not.” Cynda snorted. “Do they ever?”
Riana scratched her shorthand version of these latest instructions into her smaller, portable notebook, and numbered them for importance—Legion capture first, Latch case second, Asmodai recon and destruction third. She flipped a page, and she had started notes on a plan to lure and trap Creed Lowell when Merilee said, “I think I know why they’re so upset about this murder.”
Riana glanced up, then put her notebook down.
Merilee was definitely pale, and she looked both perplexed and miserable.
Cynda tapped her pen on her own portable notebook. “Well? Spill it!”
Merilee offered three sets of documents, one at a time. “According to the latest press releases, the main suspects in Jacob Latch’s murder were one of Latch’s employees, an assistant—and the boy’s own father, Senator Davin Latch. Then we have his wife, Raven, and Latch’s chief opponent in the senatorial race. It’s Alisa’s husband, Ri. It’s Corey James.”
“Alisa from the North Bronx triad.” Riana didn’t miss Merilee’s subtleties, and her anxiety climbed a notch. “You said
were
. These
were
the suspects. Have they narrowed the list?”
After a deep breath, Merilee slid a fourth set of documents across the table, this one amazingly thick. “Here’s the last dossier, the one on Alisa.”
Riana felt the color drain from her own face. She grabbed the dossier and flipped to the first photo—well, a photo of a painting, on a blurry reproduced page. Merilee would have pulled the information from her set of master volumes. Each triad archivist had a set. In the old days, pages had been hand-copied. Now they did, at least, allow the convenience of copy machines—when they could get the stupid machines to work properly. The one in Merilee’s library always made blurry pages, but there could be no mistaking the powerful lines of Alisa’s aristocratic face.
Merilee’s expression turned unusually sympathetic. “I know she trained with you in Russia. Graduated a few years ahead, got permission to marry about ten years ago…”
Cynda whistled. “They’ve got a Sibyl for a suspect.”
“She can’t be involved.” Riana’s fingers clenched on the dossier, wrinkling the pages. “A murder, for the sake of the Goddess. There’s never been a recorded case of a Sibyl participating in a perverted ritual.”
“The police questioned the Latch’s assistant, but let him go because he was out of town. Alisa admitted to being at the house, and they matched her prints to some at the scene.” Merilee sounded like she was apologizing instead of informing. “Prints in blood, I mean. I found it in the headlines from this afternoon, and hacked this out of NYPD’s intranet.” She held up what looked like an e-mail and shook it. “They found some additional partials they couldn’t identify, also in the blood. They’re running tests on the type of sea salt used—Alisa just got back last week from a trip to Cape Cod.” Merilee lowered the paper. “They’ve arrested her, Ri.”
“What?” Riana shot to her feet and dropped the paper-clipped stack. Pages scattered in every direction as her face heated to fine blaze. “We need every trained Sibyl on the streets killing Asmodai and tracking the Legion. Alisa’s one of the best fighters in New York!”
“Raven Latch is throwing a fit and saying the NYPD made a horrible mistake,” Merilee said. “She wants bail set right now so she can pay it.”
Cynda’s eyes sparkled as she grinned and rubbed her hands together. “What are we going to do? Bust her out? I’ve always wanted to break into a jail. I bet I could use their phone and electrical systems to—”
Riana’s tattoo suddenly warmed and moved against her skin, demanding and urgent. Cynda and Merilee grabbed their own wrists as Riana grabbed hers.
The simple communication came through forcefully.
Danger.
Danger.
At the same time, the bronze chimes near the front door began to ring.
All other sound in the room ceased immediately.
Riana did her best to slow her racing heart, to concentrate. She only picked up a few words, but Cynda translated almost immediately.
“Asmodai in our quarter. The South Manhattan triad picked it up. They think it’s heading straight for us.”
“For our house?” Merilee was stripping off her jeans and shirt in record time as she hopped toward the closet to get their leathers. “Creed Lowell! Has to be. He sent one after us.”
“Tell South Manhattan to back off,” Riana said. “If the Asmodai’s bent on destroying us, it may succeed. Tell them to watch, but don’t put themselves in harm’s way. We can’t risk losing too many in one fight. Not now.”
Cynda gave her a look but complied, then quickly changed into the black leather bodysuit, boots, and gloves that would protect her from some of the Asmodai’s energy. She belted on her sword while Merilee checked her bow and slung her quiver over her shoulder. Riana tucked her hair into her face mask. She belted on her knives—elemental iron containing trapped fire, air, earth, and water—just like Cynda’s sword and the tips of Merilee’s arrows.
Without discussion, they all rolled down their masks until only their eyes were visible. The masks also had small perforations around the nose and mouth, but exposed flesh was vulnerable flesh. The holes were very small.
Riana saw Merilee fight back her instant panic at such confinement. It was harder for air-lovers. Cynda had no reaction to the bodysuit one way or another.
I’m not afraid of anything that burns,
she had told Riana the day they met.
And that includes you.
Riana felt protected by her leathers, as if she had slipped into a glove made of the night itself. Indeed, when they eased out of the now-dark house to take up positions on the street, none of the untrained passersby even noticed them.
Communicating through hand signals, Cynda said,
Alley.
Asmodai kept to dark, unnoticed places and concealed their movements. The alley made the most sense for an approach, unless the thing was bold enough to barrel across Central Park.