Soul to Shepherd (8 page)

I stopped advancing on Dylan, lowered my hands and sighed heavily. “Dylan, please tell me it wasn’t a mistake to make you Quinn’s Shepherd.”

“It wasn’t a mistake. I promise.”

“And Minerva’s kept the portal a secret?” I asked, trying not to sound completely deflated.

“Yes.”

“And you’re judging that based on the fact that no one else has been up here as far as you can tell?”

“Yes.”

“Can you read her thoughts?”

“Only when she lets me.”

“And you’ve been diligent about guarding yours?” I inquired.

“Yup.”

“And you trust her completely?”

“
Yes.
Evie, I wouldn’t have told her anything about you and Quinn if I didn’t.”

“So she knows
everything
?”

“Pretty much,” he admitted.

“Ever hear of the expression ‘loose lips sink ships’?”

“Ever hear of the expression ‘strength in numbers’?” Dylan threw back at me.

I took a deep breath and exhaled loudly in defeat. What was done was done. All I could do was trust Dylan’s judgment on this one and hope he’d made the right call.

“Look, she could’ve bolted after I told her everything, but she didn’t,” Dylan threw out.

“Okay, then. If she’s on our side, I want to meet her,” I said.

“You will as soon as she comes back.”

“Where is she?”

“She’s checking in to see if there are any plans to assign her to a new case in the near future.” I recognized that melancholy, far away look in Dylan’s eyes. He didn’t want Minerva to get a new assignment. It’d mean she’d have to leave. And now that Dylan was assigned as Quinn’s Shepherd, he was no longer free to follow her.

He took a deep breath as if to clear his head. “Let’s get down to business. Have you figured out what the Servants want to do with our boy here, and how we’re going to stop them?”

“I’m hoping I’ll have all the answers to those questions after I meet with Tartuf.”

“And when is that?”

I teleported myself to the field below and glanced at my watch.

“So? When’s the big meet-and-greet?” Dylan asked upon my return to the Falls.

“Right about now.”

I teleported myself to the Archives and immediately noticed a tall stack of books next to some scattered files and papers on one of the several wooden reading tables, signaling that Peter had been there recently. An uncomfortable feeling simmered in the pit of my stomach. I looked around, but he was nowhere to be seen. And neither was Tara. I thought she would’ve at least stopped by to make the introductions.

I listened for others’ thoughts, but I couldn’t hear anything. Of course, that didn’t mean I was alone. Any number of Shepherds could be lingering nearby, blocking out my mental intrusion while they remained free to be ghost-like spies.

“Hello, Eve,” a soft-spoken, unfamiliar male voice called out from behind me. I turned to see a tall, wiry, middle-aged looking Shepherd standing a table’s length away from me. He had thinning salt-and-pepper hair, and his outfit could only be described as that of a nerdy professor. He wore a navy cable-knit wool cardigan with brown leather buttons and brown suede elbow patches, a white and blue checkered button down shirt, camel colored corduroy pants, and thick black plastic-rimmed glasses. I wondered why he chose to wear glasses when he didn’t need them. No Shepherd did.

“Hello,” I responded.

“As you may have already surmised, I am Tartuf.”

“It’s nice to meet you. Thank you for agreeing to speak with me.”

“I’m here because Council Member Tara requested me.”

“Oh.” As off-putting as his statement could have been, it didn’t come across as rude when paired with his gentle tone of voice. “Where is Council Member Tara?”

“It’s not necessary for her to be here. She briefed me on everything I need to know.” Again, his comment bordered on being dismissive and impolite, but his calm and mild-mannered demeanor made him seem more socially awkward than unkind.

“What did she tell you?” My question sounded more abrupt than I’d intended it to be.
Great, now I’m the one who sounds disrespectful.
“I’m—I’m just curious,” I quickly added. “You know, just in case I need to fill you in on any recent developments.”

“Are there any?”

“What? Recent developments?”

“Yes.”

“I guess that all depends on what you already know and what you think you ought to know,” I replied.

He just smiled at me in response. “Come. Let’s go. There is much work to be done.” Tartuf took my hand and teleported me to a small room—a cramped library to be more precise. It was a narrow channel, the two longer walls lined to the ceiling with books, notebooks, journals, and small lock-boxes and chests. There were no ladders or stepstools that I could see, but Shepherds had other means to get what was out of reach. A desk sat at the far side of the room, flanked by two rather uncomfortable-looking chairs, upon both of which were more stacks of books and journals. A single reading lamp sat precariously on the corner of the desktop, which was also littered with books and journals. That was it—no pictures, no trinkets, no personal effects of any kind. And instead of a frescoed ceiling like in the main library of the Archives, there was a domed glass skylight that ran the entire length of the room.

“Where are we?” I asked as I continued to survey my surroundings.

“My private office.”

“I thought only Council Members could have private spaces.”

“Your point?” he asked.

“So, you’re a Council Member?”

“Based on your assumption, it would seem so,” he replied somewhat smugly, making me feel a little uncomfortable as I realized he still hadn’t answered my question. I had no idea if he was annoyed with me or not. I couldn’t read his emotions or his mood. Was he passive, passive aggressive, or just a plain old pompous intellectual snob?

“In response to your earlier question, the facts I am aware of, and the ones I deem important to know, are the following: the Servants attacked your charge—pardon me, your now
former
charge—on the fourteenth of April of this year at precisely seventeen-hundred hours and fourteen minutes in the city of Bloomington, state of Indiana, country of the United States of America. In so doing, the Servants collected some of his blood against his will. You were able to save your charge. Yet, despite this having been his Third Incident, the Order believes your charge still is in danger—that he has been chosen.”

“‘
Chosen
’? Chosen for what?” I interjected.

“To play a significant role in tipping the scales of good and evil in the Servants’ favor, thereby throwing our universal balance, our natural order, into a state of upheaval and chaos, resulting in a cataclysmic end for all life as we know it.” Tartuf’s explanation sounded so rehearsed, so sterile, it was as if he didn’t care in the least if any of what he’d just described actually happened.

“Incidentally, I also learned
your
demise is of particular interest and desire to the Servants. They did not expect you to become a Shepherd when they killed you over a year ago. Nor did they ever expect you to reconnect with your true soul mate after you became an immortal. But, remarkably, you did both. At the moment, the Servants need you—or more accurately, Mr. Harrison needs you in order to develop the strength the Servants are so keen on exploiting. But you will also develop said strength, which would be a liability to them. Mathius is concerned you will interfere somehow with their plans for Mr. Harrison. Rumor also has it that Mathius won’t risk our side having a soldier with equal or, dare I say, superior strength to what he only hopes will become a high-ranking officer in his own army. Thus, the Servants seek to eliminate you from the equation once they’ve got what they wanted from you.

“As an added dose of motivation, you single-handedly destroyed a Servant. Not an easy feat. And certainly not an act the Servants will turn a blind eye to. They want their revenge, and you can bet they have something very special planned for you when the time comes.” Tartuf looked at me with some degree of satisfaction at his recitation of the facts. I stared back at him blankly, not knowing what he wanted me to do or say.

“Now would be the time to add anything of relevance that I may either be unaware of or have overlooked—something pertinent to what I can and will tell you about the Servants and how best to try to prevent what they plan to do.”

I cleared my throat. “Uh, Tara mentioned something about how true soul mates have the ability to draw on power from the energy of the bond created between their souls to make them stronger. But for Quinn and I to do so, for us to realize our full potential, our bond must be at its strongest. How do we make that happen?”

“That’s like asking me for the universal recipe for falling in love—there is no such thing. Tell me, why do two people who seem so perfect for each other never fall in love—or two people who couldn’t be more wrong for each other fall the hardest of them all? No two relationships are the same, nor are the bonds between any two individuals. Only Mr. Harrison and you can figure out the formula that makes the two of you work.”

“But Tara said Mathius can try to force our bond if it doesn’t happen soon.”

“Yes, I imagine he could try, but even if he were to succeed, the connection between Mr. Harrison and you would be temporary.”

“And why is that?”

“Because a bond forged through vile, flagrant provocation is false and tenuous at best. I suppose, however, that this bond might last long enough for them to carry out their plans for Mr. Harrison.”

“Speaking of which, what can you tell me about demonic conversion?” I asked nervously.

“I assume you want to know the details of how the Servants plan to convert Quinn into a demon.” Tartuf’s words smacked me as harshly as Tara’s did when she first told me what the Servants were intending to do to Quinn.

“Actually, I’m more interested in learning how can I stop the conversion. How do I save him?”

“That all depends.” Tartuf shifted his stance. “Tell me, have you developed a strategy yet?”

“Umm, no,” I mumbled.

“Good. You only would’ve had to abandon it anyway,” Tartuf said in an undeniably dismissive tone. He opened up a blank journal, ripped out a sheet of paper and handed it to me, along with a pen. “Here, take notes.”

I searched for a flat surface to write on and settled for the top of the shortest stack of books on the corner of the desk nearest me.

“Conversion cannot be completed right away,” Tartuf began. “It takes time to properly contaminate the blood. If my calculations are correct, however, time is no longer on your side. Historically, the ritual itself must be performed on the fourth full moon after the preparation of the blood has begun, or the blood spoils.” Tartuf pulled out a little calendar from the pocket of his cardigan. “The blood was taken during the attack on the fourteenth of April, nearly a week before the Planter’s Moon, or the full moon that month. Assuming the Servants began preparing the blood immediately, the fourth full moon after the attack would fall on the Summer Moon, which occurs on July eighteenth.”

“But that’s only a month away!” I felt the blood rush out of my head—out of my body. I thought I was going to be sick right then and there.

“Yes. Thirty-one days to be precise.”

“Holy crap! What am I going to do? How can I stop this from happening in thirty-one days?” I clutched my chest with my hand, but it did nothing to stop the panic from imploding within.

“You will do what I tell you to do,” Tartuf said with authority. “First, write down the date. You are no longer Mr. Harrison’s Shepherd, so you no longer have an Incident Timer to help remind you when the attack will occur.”

My hand trembled as I wrote down “JULY 18.”

“Second, you need a game plan. Tell me, what do you need to do?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know?” I shot back. Was making me squirm some sick form of entertainment to him? “I thought you were supposed to be advising me!”

“I will not be around later on to give you the answers you need, so you must learn how to get inside the Servants’ heads and train yourself to analyze
their
game plan before coming up with one of your own, understand?”

I nodded numbly.

“Good. Now, take a deep breath and just think,” he directed more gently. “Ask yourself, what is the most obvious and direct way in which you could interfere with the ritual?”

“Okay … okay,” I mumbled in between breaths as I attempted to slow down the thoughts racing through my head, but they were all so jumbled together I began to think out loud. “The ritual must take place on the fourth full moon after they prepared his blood. They took Quinn’s blood in April, and working off the presumption they began preparing it immediately—” Suddenly, it clicked. I looked up at Tartuf triumphantly. “If the Servants don’t have the contaminated blood, they can’t perform the ritual!” I grinned. “Not in July, anyway. They’d have to take more of his blood, which would buy us at least another four months to develop a foolproof plan to get us out of this mess.”

“Very good.” Tartuf nodded with approval. “So, what is the next question you need to ask yourself?”

“How do I get Quinn’s blood back?” I replied quickly.

“Correct,” Tartuf replied with equal satisfaction.

“So, how
do
I get it back?” I asked uncertainly.

Tartuf wrote two names on the sheet of paper he gave me, Chase and Jaegar, and a phone number. “You need to contact these two. If anyone can help you, they can.”

“Who are they?”

“Moon Mercenaries.”

“‘Moon Mercenaries.’” I remembered Peter warning me they were as dangerous to us as they were to demons. “I was told to steer clear of them.”

“I’ll be the first to admit that Moon Mercenaries are an unsavory bunch,” Tartuf admitted. “But, as a whole, they are quite effective and efficient in doing what they do. And in my experience, these two are the best of the lot for your particular dilemma.”

“How do I contact them?”

“That is Jaegar’s phone number.”

“I’m just supposed to call them and tell them I need their help?”

“Or text them,” he said casually. “Either way, Jaegar is usually quick to respond. Tell him that we spoke, and I gave you his name. Both of them are already aware of your unique situation, but be sure to remind them of the time sensitive nature of this matter.”

“Okay.” I wasn’t crazy about the idea of contacting Moon Mercenaries, but I didn’t know what other choice I had, especially given the time constraints. “So,” I continued, clearing my throat, “what if I can’t get Quinn’s blood back in time. What then?”

“You need a Plan B,” he said perfunctorily.

“A ‘Plan B.’” I sat there a moment and thought about my alternatives. “If I can’t get the blood back, then I have to make sure they can’t get their hands on Quinn. I’ll just have to hide him—no Quinn, no ritual. The blood will spoil, which will still put them back at square one, buying me more time to protect Quinn.”

“I like where you are headed.” Tartuf tapped his lips with his index finger as he looked up at the domed ceiling. “The question is
where
? Where could you take him to ensure he would be out of the Servants’ reach?”

I immediately thought of the portal, but pushed the thought aside for fear Tartuf was reading my thoughts. “Umm, well, you seem pretty talented at making yourself scarce. Any ideas?”

“My apologies, but I cannot divulge the location of my current domicile. It’s for the best, actually, that you do not know. But there are places,
spaces
, so isolated you can almost vanish into thin air.” Tartuf eyed me suspiciously, making my stomach tighten from nerves. “I have heard Mr. Harrison has been unusually difficult to track over the past couple of months. I have also heard your friend Dylan was spending an inordinate amount of his free time with Quinn before agreeing to replace you as Mr. Harrison’s Shepherd. So perhaps the best person to ask for ideas is your colleague, hmm?” Tartuf squinted his eyes, concentrating his efforts on something—as if trying to penetrate my thoughts more deeply.

I nodded, unable to say a word. Tartuf studied me for a moment longer before turning to scan the shelves of books to the left of him. Either he got the answer he was searching for in my head or he’d given up trying to get it.