We lay together and she fell back asleep in my arms. I’d started to drift off, too, when Lou appeared by the side of the bed and gently nipped my hand to get my attention. I came fully awake and sat up carefully, disengaging and trying not to wake Morgan. She made a few mumbled sounds and turned over on her side, leaving me free.
Lou was staring fixedly at the window. I wondered if the shape-shifter had somehow found me, and I wondered if the wards would hold if it had. But Lou was alert, not nervous or excited. I got up cautiously, and as I did so, he relaxed. So odds were whatever had been out there had already taken off.
I grabbed a flashlight from the bedside table drawer and slipped outside, just to check. Nothing was there, but near the window I could see definite impressions in the dirt. Someone or something had been right outside the window.
Maybe a burglar looking for an empty flat. Maybe a pervert looking for a thrill. Maybe a flesh-eating monster. Maybe they were old marks I’d never noticed. There was no way to tell.
I managed to slip back into bed without waking Morgan and drifted off soon after.
The next thing I knew it was morning and I woke up to the sound of Morgan’s voice in the back room. As I sat up yawning, she walked back into the bedroom holding a cell phone.
“Morning,” she said. “I got a flight out today. I hate to rush off, but I’ve got to get moving if I want to make the flight.”
“You need a ride to the airport?” I asked. She shook her head no.
“Thanks, but no. I’ll take BART.”
I got up and made some coffee, but she wouldn’t even stay for a cup. She didn’t seem ill at ease, not at all, but she didn’t mention a thing about last night. Being a gentleman, I didn’t bring it up. Maybe she wanted to pretend it had never happened. Maybe she thought it had been a dream. Maybe it was just one thing too many to deal with right now. In ten minutes she was gone, and I was left drinking a cup of coffee with only Lou for company.
TWELVE
I MIGHT WELL HAVE SPENT THE REST OF THE day just hanging out in the house, pretending to think, avoiding actually doing anything, but Sherwood was having none of that. She didn’t call; she knew I’d just let the machine pick up. So she arrived at my flat at noon.
“Lunch,” she said.
“I don’t feel much like eating.”
“Maybe not, but I do, and you’re taking me out.”
“Really, I don’t—”
“Where do you want to go?” she interrupted.
I gave up. Once Sherwood’s set on something, there’s no denying her. But my favorite Mexican place, El Farolito, where I’d met Morgan, was ruined for me. It would just remind me of what still needed to be done. My favorite Japanese place, Takai’s, was another that brought back bad memories. If enough bad stuff continued to happen to me and my friends, eventually I’d run out of places to eat.
“You choose,” I said. “You’re the one who wants lunch.”
“Herbivore,” she said. “It’s nice out, and it’s walking distance.”
“Since when are you a vegetarian?”
“Since my ‘return.’ I can’t bear to even look at meat.” There’s nothing wrong with being vegetarian. I converted for a few months once when I was going out with Amy, a practitioner who was serious about the concept. The things we do for love. Or for something. Lou was not pleased with the new regime. He started disappearing at dinnertime, returning a couple of hours later looking well satisfied. He was not unhappy when Amy and I inevitably split up.
So I’d been to Herbivore a number of times. It was not only vegetarian; it was vegan. It was Amy’s favorite restaurant. But I never cared for it. A bit bland for my tastes—it takes more than a few months to shed the carnivore habit.
We walked down Valencia, Lou trotting dutifully behind. Until we reached the restaurant, at which point he looked at us with an unmistakable expression of “You have got to be kidding.” I wasn’t the only one who remembered the place. He did a U-turn and trotted back the way we’d come.
“I’ll save a doggie bag for you,” I called after him. “Sei tan. Your favorite.” He didn’t bother to even glance back.
The decor inside Herbivore’s is pretty cool—minimal, almost Japanese in feel, the bare off-white walls sparsely adorned with understated prints. The small front portion of the room looks out on the street, and a narrow line of tables runs alongside the wall next to the kitchen area.
I ordered a grilled portobello sandwich and Sherwood got a salad with odd things in it. After a few bites, she put down her fork and stared at me.
“What?” I said.
“So, what are we going to do about all this?”
“If I knew that, we’d be doing it instead of having lunch. The first thing, obviously, is to find this thing. But I can’t think of how. Lou’s no use—it’s immune to his tracking sense, just like the fake Ifrit was. Morgan might be able to help, but she’s left. Involving her any further would be criminal, anyway.”
“What about the Wendigo? I’ll bet he could find it. Maybe even call it.”
“Hmm. Possible, I guess. But he wouldn’t help us, not without something in it for him. And anyway, I have no idea how to find him again, either.”
“I think I might be able to.”
“Really? How?”
“I’m not sure how. But when he pulled me back, it established a connection between us. I don’t know what it consists of, but I’m sure it’s there. I can feel it.”
She resumed eating her salad, and I took another bite of sandwich. If she still had a connection to the Wendigo, in theory that might be enough to locate him. But the gap between theory and practice often looms large. That’s why Eli and Victor work so well together; Eli has a deep understanding of the principles of magical operations, while Victor is a master engineer—he’s the one who actually implements the spells, and sometimes designs the specifics as well.
But finding the Wendigo would just be the first step. I’d need something to bribe him—he wasn’t going to help us out of the goodness of his heart. If he even had a heart. But I did in fact have something to offer—more of those magically imbued stones. Problem was, if Victor and Eli found out, they’d both be outraged, for different reasons. I’d lied to both of them, telling them I’d handed over all the remaining stones, and I wasn’t eager to come clean about it. But without their expert help, I wasn’t sure I could come up with my own solution for finding the Wendigo again. Catch-22. Whenever you lie to friends, it comes back to bite you on the ass.
I did have Lou, though, with his marvelous tracking ability. It might not work on beings like the Wendigo, but maybe I could isolate his ability and, using the rune stones as enhancers, transfer that ability to Sherwood. I turned my attention back to her and caught the tail end of her sentence.
“. . . Eli could figure it out,” she was saying.
“Sorry. I was thinking. What?” She looked at me in exasperation.
“I said, ‘I’m sure Eli could figure out a way to use my connection to find it.’ ”
“I’m sure he could. But I’ve got another idea.”
She looked at me suspiciously. Sherwood knew me far too well, knew that taking things into my own hands and cutting Eli out of the loop was not my usual operating procedure. Something was up. But she let it pass.
“What, then?”
“Louie. He’s got that tracking ability, and even though it won’t work with the Wendigo, I’ll bet I could channel it through you. Then, with the connection you already have, you might be able to track him down yourself.”
“You think?”
“Certainly worth a try,” I said. I thought it probably wouldn’t work, not without some extra help—like those stones—but I didn’t mention that.
Halfway back to my flat, Lou reappeared from under a parked car. He must have found something good to eat, because he was holding no grudges. He trotted along happily next to Sherwood and me, taking the occasional side excursion. He’d always liked Sherwood and was happy to see us together again, even if we weren’t really together.
As soon as we got home, I opened the trunk where I kept the rest of the stones and pulled out five of them. The minute Lou saw what I was doing, he jumped up in Sherwood’s lap and turned his back on me. He did not approve of those things. He was probably right.
I stuffed four of them into a pocket and held on to the fifth. Poor Lou. He thought he was showing disapproval by jumping up on Sherwood, but it was exactly where I wanted him to be.
“Concentrate on the Wendigo,” I told her.
I let out a pulse of talent, directing it though the rune stone. Then I bent it and sent the enhanced energy through Lou, who sneezed violently as it coursed through him, then through Sherwood and back through Lou, creating a feedback loop. Sherwood straightened up suddenly, almost throwing Lou off onto the floor.
“I’ll be damned,” she said. “It worked. I can feel him.”
“Can you tell where he is?”
“No, not exactly, but I’ll bet I can find him. It’s like a heat source in a cold room—diffuse, but you can tell what direction it’s coming from. And he’s fairly close by. I can tell that much. Somewhere south, I’d say.”
“Great,” I said. “Let’s go.”
“Shouldn’t we let Victor and Eli know?”
“We don’t need to. We’re not going to be doing anything. We’re just going to talk to him.”
Sherwood got that I didn’t want to involve the two of them, although she didn’t know why. The old Sherwood would never have let that pass, but now she just shrugged her acceptance. But when she stood up and Lou hopped off her lap, she stopped.
“It’s gone,” she said.
“Pick Lou up.” Lou submitted with good grace, although of course he didn’t care for it.
“You’re right,” she said. “It’s back. I’ve got to be holding Lou for it to work. Good thing he’s not a Great Dane.”
We climbed into my van, Sherwood in the passenger seat and Lou in her lap. She directed me with hotter and colder, like the children’s game. Finally she got a handle on it; west on Cesar Chavez, then south on San Jose, winding through the city. We passed Geneva, then a couple of blocks later, Sherwood said, “Go back. We passed him.” At the corner of Niagara Street I stopped and looked around. Nothing seemed promising—no parks, no wooded area, just the usual collection of houses, and a Muni yard down the block.
“There,” she said, pointing over to the right. “Somewhere there.”
I could barely see a long low building painted a sickly green, half hidden by some trees. It clicked suddenly and I knew where we were.
“That’s Bluestone Studios over there,” I said. “A couple of floors, lots of little rooms for bands and artists—forty or fifty, as I remember. I was here about five years ago, checking out a friend’s band. What the hell would the Wendigo be doing here?”
“Maybe he likes music,” Sherwood said.
“Or musicians. I’m still not sold on his being harmless.” We got out of the car and walked over toward the building. Sherwood was carrying Lou, who had given up squirming.
“He’s definitely inside,” Sherwood said as we approached the building. The entry door was propped open with a metal folding chair, and musicians carrying instruments were passing in and out.
We walked in and down a long hallway, listening to the muffled sounds of guitars, keyboards, and drums, all behind closed doors. From the hallway, all the sounds blended together like some enormous modern performance piece.
When the corridor crossed another hallway, Sherwood turned left without hesitation, passed a few more doors, and stopped in front of a door painted a bright red. She put Lou down and gestured at the door.
From behind it came the sound of a highly distorted guitar running fast scales and a drummer doing speed rolls. I knocked on the door, loudly enough to be sure I would be heard over the instruments.
The room went instantly silent. We waited a moment, but there was no sound of movement from inside. Sherwood looked at the door, then back at me.
“What’s that about?” she whispered. The silence from behind the door was contagious, as if we had been caught doing something illegal just by knocking at the door.
I shrugged and knocked again, and now that the room was silent, it sounded twice as loud. There was the suggestion of movement inside, then the door opened a crack. I could just see a young stocky guy whose face showed a pitiful attempt at a beard. The faint sweet whiff of high-quality dope wafted out past him.
“Yeah?” he said, suspiciously.
I put my foot over the doorjamb in the best PI movie fashion so he couldn’t slam the door on us. On second thought, he still could, and if the door was heavy enough, it would probably break my foot. I withdrew it as unobtrusively as I could.
“We’re looking for a friend,” I said.
“Who?”
Good question. He saw me hesitate and the suspicion on his face deepened into paranoia.
“Are you guys cops?” he said. Sherwood laughed.
“Are you serious?”