It could have been nothing. Or it could have been a crew member sneaking around with a camera, hoping for a shot he could sell to the tabloids. Photos of C-list celebs aren't worth much, but if you can get ones that are embarrassing enough, you can make a few bucks. One last survey, then I headed toward the road, making sure I wasn't slouching or squinting unbecomingly, just in case.
AFTER CALLING Paige, I went to the kitchen to grab a sandwich. I hadn't been in the mood for a communal lunch, and it was almost two now. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Grady stride in. His gait was fluid, almost gliding.
"Hello," I said without turning.
"I need to speak to you."
My fingers tightened around my coffee cup, but I kept my tone even. "Good. I need to talk to you too."
"A private word, then. In the garden, please."
Hmm...That sounded suspicious, but there was nothing in his bearing or his manner to suggest he had seduction on his mind. Quite the opposite. Cool and professional.
"I'm right behind you," I said.
I followed him through the house to the back doors.
He still walked with that odd gait--graceful and relaxed yet purposeful. Some affectation he was practicing for an upcoming segment?
When we reached the garden, I tried to catch up, but he only moved faster. Afraid Claudia was peering from a window? Seeing me "following" him into the garden wouldn't make her any happier.
Finally he stopped, his back still to me. Then, as he turned, he inclined his head in an oddly formal nod, coupled with a tiny smile.
"Jaime O'Casey. A pleasure."
A dart of panic raced through me. No one in the business knew my real name. But if Grady thought this gave him some leverage over me, he was wrong. Vegas was just a stage name; I wasn't hiding anything.
I looked at him. His gray-blue eyes now shone a blue brighter than the sky. Impossibly and unnaturally bright. I backpedaled. He grabbed my arm. His fingers were so hot I could feel them through my sleeve.
That dart of panic found its target and exploded. I yanked back. His grip didn't tighten, but didn't give either. Firm as an iron shackle. This wasn't Grady but someone--something--using his body, and I had a good idea what that something was.
"Kristof Nast sent me."
Damn Kristof! This was why he hadn't told me who he was calling: I'd never have agreed.
"I'm sorry," I said. "There's been a misunderstanding. I don't talk to--"
"Strangers? A wise choice, but I'm hoping this time you'll make an exception."
Amusement sparkled in those beautiful eyes. Entrancing eyes.
"I've come to help you, Jaime."
"I've had my share of help from your kind."
He tipped his head, his gaze searching mine. "Ah, I see. A youthful indiscretion. The price seemed fair, didn't it? That's the way it is. A demon's price always seems fair when you're blinded by the boon. Then you always end up paying more than you expect. But that's long past. You've received your boon. You've paid the price. An unpleasant learning experience, but it certainly could have been worse."
"Whatever bargain you're offering--"
"My dear child, I do not barter like a common merchant. Do you know who I am?"
I shook my head. He released my arm.
"I am Aratron."
Seeing my blank look, he gave a rich, warm laugh. "Does no one educate their children in demonology these days? For centuries, I had only to speak my name and even your kind would prostrate themselves before me, promise me their gold, their wives, their firstborn child in return for but a speck of my knowledge. Today? Bewilderment dulled by apathy. Not nearly as gratifying."
"Sorry."
He laughed again. "Eve knew who I was. Properly respectful even."
He walked to a bench and waved for me to sit beside him. When I resisted, his eyes sparkled. "I'm not going to gobble you up or incinerate you in a ball of white-hot flame. The last, while quite spectacular, doesn't promote good relations with mortals."
I perched at the far end of the bench.
"May I hope you at least know what a eudemon is?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," I said, a little too enthusiastically. "There are two kinds of demons. Cacodemons are the ones we can summon and make deals with. The chaos demons. The same kind that father half-demons like Eve. But eudemons..."
I drummed my fingers against my thigh, as if I were back in school again, proudly volunteering the answer only to get halfway through and realize that's all I had. "Can't say I know much about eudemons. Other than they aren't cacodemons. We can't usually summon them. They don't father children..."
"To most supernatural mortals, that's all that's important. It's almost impossible to summon us. We can't create you. We are, you might say, neutral. Indifferent even. To both your joys and your suffering. You do not interest us...except in the most academic way."
"And that's what you are. A eudemon."
"That's what Aratron is, a fact you can easily confirm with a call to Robert Vasic. And I claim to be Aratron. But whether I truly am is not so easily established. In fact, I daresay, it cannot be established all. You know, from my voice, from my touch, from my eyes, that I am no low-ranking demon. These things I cannot fake and even one unschooled in demonology knows the marks of a demon of power. But could I not be a cacodemon such as Baal or Balam or Lucifer? Were I one of them, would it not be wise to come in the guise of a eudemon like Aratron?"
"I guess so..."
"You look at me as if I'm mad. Why raise such possibilities? Because, child, if I do not, you will--now or after you've given the matter due consideration. I cannot prove that I am who I claim to be. You can call on Kristof, but you do not trust him. You trust Eve but she is, conveniently, unavailable. What you can do, though, is consider whether Kristof would do such a thing, not to you, but to her. Eve is very protective of her friends. Given their relationship, would he introduce one to a cacodemon?"
"No."
"Then, in the absence of absolute proof, that will have to do. Eve knows me. She has established a working relationship with me and I'm fond of her...as fond as I can be of a shade. I wouldn't want to damage my relationship with her by hurting you."
"Okay. So you're here to help me and you want...nothing for it?"
"Oh, of course I want something, but I cannot imagine you'll begrudge me what I wish."
"And that is..."
"Knowledge. I have little except that, but more of it than you could ever fathom. I collect knowledge and sometimes I share it. In exchange for new knowledge, of course. What you are investigating fits nothing you know, correct?"
I nodded.
"And nothing your scholars know, correct?"
Another nod.
"And, I must admit, nothing I know. Therefore it is new. That is what intrigues me and why I would guide your feet onto the right path."
"Which is...?"
"You already know." He smiled. "I'm simply here to tell you that you're right."
I shifted on the bench. "I'm no good with puzzles."
"Then don't make this into one. Your scholars and your experts tell you this is not any known form of magic. They also tell you that it most closely resembles something else."
"Human magic. Which is impossible."
"Why impossible?"
Aratron leaned back, that tiny smile on his lips, not mocking but encouraging, like a patient teacher who wanted me to succeed at this lesson. I always preferred the sarcastic teachers, the bored teachers--the ones who expected little from me. Impossible to disappoint.
"This is not a graded assignment, Jaime."
I started, as if he'd read my mind.
And what made me think he hadn't?
"If you'd like me to give you the answers, I will," he said, the rich timbre of his voice muted, "but I think you'd prefer to work it out yourself. They aren't riddles or trick questions. You haven't missed any clue. You've simply overlooked a possibility that I don't blame you for overlooking. The pos
sibility of the impossible."
"I don't understand."
"Why is human magic impossible?"
"Because it doesn't work."
"Ah."
I looked sharply at him. "Does it?"
"It's never been known to, aside from the occasional minor spell mastered by a nonspellcaster. But even then, the caster almost always had some diluted magical or demonic blood. And the spells were only the simplest. Certainly nothing that would drain or fragment a soul."
"Then it is impossible."
"Fifty years ago, man had never set foot on the moon. Does that mean such a thing was impossible?"
"Of course not. Science just hadn't evolved..."
I stopped.
"Evolution..." Aratron mused. "Funny thing."
He twisted and snapped a rose from the bush, severing the stem with his thumbnail. He caught his thumb on a thorn and a drop of blood slid down his wrist. He followed the path of the blood, then examined the bloodied thorn with the cool scrutiny of a scientist examining cause and effect.
He turned his hand over and touched his index finger to the puncture on his thumb. "Hurts, I suppose."
"You don't feel it?"
"I do, but it doesn't mean anything to me. Were you to have done that, you'd have learned to handle the rose more carefully."
He wrapped his hand around the rose and I shivered, imagining the thorns driving in. When he opened his fist, his palm was smeared with blood.
"To me?" He lifted his palm. "Merely interesting. Now, I am sure that the man who owns this body will not appreciate me having done that, but if what you call pain doesn't bother me, how am I to take pity on him? Yet, although I cannot feel the pain, I understand that it exists, and that explains to me the purpose of these thorns."
"To defend the flower. To increase its chances of survival."
"Evolution. As men might evolve so that they may turn into wolves, to better hunt, find food, defend themselves. An aberration, to be sure, but is that not the point of aberrations? The root of evolution? A man who is part wolf, with superior strength, superior sensory abilities. An advanced predator. It works and yet--" He lifted his bloodied finger. "There are drawbacks, flaws, imperfections in the design. A world of werewolves alone would destroy itself. As an aberration, though, it works...for now."
"That's what we are, then? Temporary aberrations? I've heard the theory. So it's true?"
"True?" He turned the flower over in his hands. "No, it remains a theory and ever shall be. That is the conflict of science and faith. I can say that supernaturals are random mutations that, from an evolutionary perspective, succeeded in some way. The facts support that. But if some higher power was to say, 'No, I did that--it was part of the plan,' how can I argue the point? What I can tell you is that these mutations come more often than you would imagine. Most last only a generation or two." A slight smile. "Evolution or a grand creator busily experimenting? It doesn't matter, does it?"
"I guess not."
"Some of these mutations persist for centuries only to die out when what makes them unique is no longer necessary...or no longer unique. Imagine if those scientists in there--" he waved toward the house, "--discover a way for any human to communicate with the dead. What would happen to your kind?"
"We'd...die out?"
"Nothing so drastic. You'd simply merge with the gene pool. Necromancers as a unique race would cease to exist. It's happened before. Dryads, elves, nymphs, all the woodland races--there was no place for them in the modern world. Their time had passed. It matters not. Others come."
"Genetic flukes evolving into races. But that must take generations."
"True, but sometimes it's more than a random genetic 'fluke' that causes change."
He lifted the rose to his nose, then offered it to me.
"Smell anything?" he asked.
I sniffed. "It's very faint."
"A mutation. Not by nature, but by man. Create a hardier rose, a more disease-resistant rose, a longer lasting rose. A decided improvement over wild roses and yet..." He sniffed and sighed. "There are drawbacks."
He looked at me. "You say man-made magic is impossible because it has never existed. But what if..." he dropped the rose onto my lap, "...something clicked? The collision of nature and science?"
LEARNING CURVE
TWO HOURS LATER, I was sitting across from Jeremy, in the corner of a half-empty restaurant. We were keeping our voices down as I told him about my visit from Aratron. I don't know why we bothered--anyone hearing us talking about the evolutionary theory of supernatural races and the potential emergence of a new power would only mistake us for screenwriters trying to cash in on a paranormal trend. As for my garden visit from a demon? It was Hollywood. Deals with the devil were a way of life.
We were in a tiny restaurant with better food than atmosphere. When my seafood linguine had arrived, I'd slipped some of it onto his plate. He didn't protest, just accepted it with a murmur of thanks, as he always did. A werewolf's high metabolism made dining out less than satisfying, and it wasn't like I needed the food. My stylist was already complaining about the three pounds I'd gained in the last year. I was trying to ignore him, but after a lifetime of panicking if the scale needle so much as quivered, it wasn't easy.
"So," I said as I picked at my plate, "the gist is that Aratron thinks someone--some group--has broken the barrier, by either in-depth scientific experimentation or plain old dumb luck."
"You mean they've hit on a form of human magic that works."
I nodded. He set down his wineglass and stared at the blank wall behind me, his dark eyes equally blank, shutters pulled as he thought.
After a few moments, he said, "I'm not the best person to investigate this. Man-killing werewolves I understand. Humans killing with magic? I barely know where to begin."
A chill settled in the pit of my stomach. "You'd rather not help, then."
"Of course I want to help." His knee brushed my leg. "What I'm saying is that I'm in over my head." A twist of a smile. "And it's not a place I'm accustomed to being. I'm the Alpha. I lead in full confidence." The smile sparked in his eyes. "Usually. But with this, I should do what any good leader does--take it to an expert. But to whom? It's a matter that might concern all the races. Where should that go?"
"To the interracial council. Which, unfortunately, is us."
"Sad, isn't it? There should be some..." He waved his hand.
"Body of elders? Wise old men and women who do nothing but send out troops of highly trained investigators to protect the interests of the supernatural world?"
"Instead they get us. Part-time volunteers, untrained, unbudgeted and usually flying by the seat of our pants."
"It's nice to know I'm not the only one on the council who doesn't always feel up to the job."
"Did you think the rest of us do? In werewolf matters, yes, I am an expert. In necromancy, you are an expert--"
"I wouldn't say--"
"You've never let us down. If you don't know the answers, you find them. That's all we ask. Paige? Magic is her specialty and, between her and Lucas, they do just fine--remarkably fine, given their youth. So if this is magic, does it go to them? They know little or nothing of human magic. So who is the expert?"
"I guess it's about to be us. Self-taught. With a huge learning curve looming in front of us."
AFTER DINNER we walked for a couple of city blocks, then Jeremy headed into a park. Trust a werewolf to find green space anywhere.
A park probably isn't the safest place to be after dark in L.A. but Jeremy didn't hesitate. For him, safety was rarely a concern. I envied him that--Elena too--able to go anywhere after dark, walk into deserted parking lots, cut through alleys, knowing that any rapist or mugger who thought that pretty blond looked like an easy mark was in for a shock...maybe his last.
We passed a couple of street thugs, not yet old enough to be out of high school, hidden in the shadows of a willow. Jeremy put his arm around my waist. I couldn't help notici
ng how he drew me a little closer, so his hip brushed mine, or how his hand gripped my waist, pulling me into his circle of protection.
He didn't speed up or slow down, but met the leader's gaze full on, dipped his chin and murmured a greeting. They let us pass.
We'd gone a few more yards when another figure appeared on the path. A man, shoulders hunched, dressed in black, face hidden in the shadow of his hood. I glanced at Jeremy, but his gaze was fixed on a point past the man, his face as relaxed as the arm around my waist. A single unarmed assailant doesn't pose much risk for a werewolf. But as confident as Jeremy is, he's never cocky, which meant he couldn't see him.
Sure enough, as we drew closer, the man lifted his head, his face pale under the dark hood, and stared at me, confused. He knew the glow he saw around me meant something, and was racking his brain to remember what it was.
Not slowing, I looked up at Jeremy. "Did I tell you I talked to Paige? About the children?"
"No, what did she say?"
The man stopped. "Hey, aren't you--?"
"She's going to look into it and ask around. We should run it by Robert too, see whether he knows anything."
The man had gone quiet, staring after me. I kept walking and talking. After a moment, he mumbled something under his breath and continued on his way, convinced that either he was mistaken, or I wasn't strong enough to hear or see him. I sighed--part relief, part regret, as always.
WE STOPPED on a slope down to a small, man-made lake. Downwind, as always, so Jeremy could smell anyone approaching from behind.
We sat on the grass. I hadn't done that in...well, probably not since I was old enough to worry about walking around with grass stains on my rear. Jeremy offered to put down his jacket for me, but I refused, insisting my pants were old and the night was cool. Neither was true, but I wanted to just kick off my shoes, settle in the grass beside him and, if I got dirty, laugh about it.
I started talking, as usual. It takes awhile to draw Jeremy out if the topic is anything but business. That used to discourage me, but Elena says he's like that with everyone--so good at getting people to talk about themselves that they rarely realize he never offers anything in return.
Even when he does share, none of his stories are about himself, but when he talks of his family or his Pack, he's always there, in the background. So I get my insights that way. Sometimes, in talking of Clay as a child or the twins, he'll make a brief segue into his own childhood, enough for me to know it hadn't been a pleasant one. That glimpse behind the shutters meant more to me than he could imagine.
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