I frowned. Where did that one lead?
“Oliver?” she asked.
“Hey, Kacey. Just trying to find Tom.”
She looked at me funny. I realized not too many customers chased the owner into the kitchen, but it wasn’t often you heard someone make a reference to hunters, even if obliquely. The way Tom referenced the hunters told me that he knew something.
“Anything I can help with?” she asked.
“Nah. Just need Tom.” I nodded toward the cooler. “I think he went back there. Mind if I check?”
She shrugged, giving me a look that told me how she thought I might be a little crazy. I’d grant her that. Chasing Tom back here when I really should be looking for what Adazi wanted so I could save Devan might be a little crazy.
I hurried toward the cooler and pulled it open, stepping inside. The door closed after me. The air temperature dropped by nearly fifty degrees, and my breath plumed out. Shelves with rows of industrial-style boxes stacked on them filled most of the space. Tom was bent over one and turned to look up at me.
“Oliver?”
I hesitated near the door. If I’d read this wrong, there would be some interesting questions to answer, but I could deal with that. Besides, I suspected I already had a reputation as being a little off, especially considering the fact that I’d returned to live in my father’s house after it sat empty for so long.
“Tell me, Tom, did you recognize the howls that night Jakes died?”
Tom stood slowly and wiped his hands on his apron. I glanced at the box and saw he’d been reaching for a stack of hamburger patties. “Of course I did, Oliver. Last time I heard that sound was the night your father took you out of Conlin.”
My breath caught. “How well did you know my father?”
Tom pushed his glasses up on his nose again. “Most people around here knew him somewhat. Especially after he donated those sculptures to the park.” He smiled widely. “You know, he’s about the most skilled artist I’ve ever seen.”
It was there in the way he said artist. Then I knew that Tom knew.
“Are you a painter?” I asked.
Tom shook his head. “Never had the talent, I’m afraid. I like to dabble, but anything more than paint by numbers, and it starts to look like a child did it.”
I thought about what else to ask, how to approach the question I needed answered. “Are there other painters in Conlin?”
“Sure,” he said.
I felt myself tense. How hadn’t I noticed? Hell, how had Devan not noticed? She was attuned to sense them, and she’d somehow missed the fact that there were other painters in town?
“I mean, you and that girl who showed up about the same time as Jakes died.”
“You know her?”
Tom moved past me carrying a stack of frozen patties and pushed the door to the cooler open. “I can feel her.”
I stood rooted in place for a moment. I shook myself and hurried after Tom, before the door whisked closed. He stood at the counter, separating the patties and restacking them.
“What do you mean that you can feel her?”
Tom didn’t look up as he worked. “Why don’t you ask me what you really came here for?”
I shifted on my feet. “Mostly because I’m not really sure what I came here for. I thought maybe I’d find Jakes, but instead, I learn you know more than you let on here.”
Tom looked at me over his fogged-over lenses. “Don’t we all know more than we let on?” he asked.
He turned back to his work, letting the question linger.
I watched him as he pulled apart the frozen patties and tore away the paper separating them before setting them back in a neat stack. Within a few moments, the patties were all separated, and he moved to the gas cooktop and flipped the dial until flames burned with bluish red heat.
“What do you know about where Devan went?” I asked.
Tom stopped his preparations and turned to me. The look on his face had changed. No longer did he have that warm, friendly expression. Now there was something harder. I couldn’t explain what it was, but I wished I hadn’t left my pocketful of charms back in the house. The only charm I had on me was the one woven into my belt, and if I used that, the Rooster would likely be leveled. I didn’t really want to be responsible for that.
“I think you’ve already learned where she went,” Tom answered.
“Yeah. I know who has her, just not what he wants.”
Tom blinked. “If he’s come here, then he wants something of your father’s.”
“Why?”
“You know why. You know who—and what—your father was.”
I didn’t bother correcting him and telling him my father wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be. “Yeah, but I didn’t realize there were so many in town who knew what he was.”
Tom offered a tight smile. “Really? Didn’t the sheriff tell you what they did for your father?”
“Not entirely.” I pulled the page Adazi had left me out of my pocket and unfolded it. I flipped it in front of his eyes. He scanned it and nodded. “You’ve seen this before?”
“No. But I’ve seen markings like it before.”
“Where?”
Tom sniffed and turned back to the cooktop, twisting a few nobs and setting a pan down. “You really should head back out of town, Oliver.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
Tom didn’t answer. He placed the hamburger patties onto the cooktop where they sizzled. “Let the others know their dinner will be ready in a minute,” Tom said.
“Who?”
When he didn’t answer, I turned and made my way out of the kitchen.
I was surprised to see Jakes sitting at the counter with a man who looked like his older brother. Both were muscular and dark complected. Their dark hair shared a similar loose style. Both had muscles that seemed to spill out of their clothes. But Jakes wore his sheriff’s uniform. A woman sat quietly next to Jakes, though I didn’t recognize her. She eyed me carefully.
Jakes frowned at me as I came out of the kitchen. “Morris?”
“Your dinner will be ready in a minute,” I said.
He opened his mouth to say something, then bit it off and clamped his mouth shut.
I thought about showing Jakes the drawing that Adazi had given me, but what would that serve? Already, I knew he wouldn’t help, regardless of what it might mean for Devan. I would have to figure it out on my own, though I didn’t really know what that meant.
I left the Rooster without another word.
7
As Tom had suggested, I drove out of town. There was only one real way to leave town. I headed west on Highway 16 like I had earlier in the day. Why would Tom have suggested that I head out of town? Could there be something there that I had missed? But if so, how would Tom have known about it? Or maybe there was something else, something that had to do with my father. Tom knew him better than he let on, of that I was certain. Maybe he even knew where he’d gone.
I reached the barn where I’d found Adazi and parked, leaving the lights shining into the barn. Getting out carefully, this time I made certain I had a few charms. I should have returned to the house, maybe even gotten Taylor, though I kind of wanted to be alone. Taylor was willing to help me find Devan, but more than that? She was mostly interested in my father.
It was an interest that I shared, but not for the same reason. I wanted to learn from my father so that I could keep Devan safe from the Druist Mage. Maybe even keep myself free of the Trelking, though that was less important.
The inside of the barn looked no different than it had before. The air had a musty odor and stunk of the power that had been thrown around earlier. Even this much later, I could still sense it in the air, like a burning ozone scent, the bitter stink following a lightning strike that left a definite mark. I could track three distinct energies. Surprisingly, mine was not the weakest.
Taylor’s buzzed against my senses, leaving a tingling sensation. I could
tell where she’d left her circle and the way she’d shaped the ball of power, whatever that had been. When I had more time, I’d ask her to show me how she’d made that. Not that I expected to be able to replicate it. My ability was probably too weak for that, or at least different, but it might be cool to see, if nothing else.
Then there was mine. I could still feel where I had formed the circle. Had I not made the circle, Adazi would likely have blasted me. Or would he? He needed me if he intended to reach this orb he’d drawn. How would he have found it, otherwise?
I didn’t know. And maybe I was wrong.
I made my way to the back of the barn. The loft he’d jumped down from loomed in shadows overhead. A solid ladder snaked up the wall in the back, leading to the loft. None of the energy I felt as distinct to Adazi radiated from the ladder.
Back near the main part of the barn, I turned slowly, looking for Adazi’s work. It took a moment to recognize his mark burned into the floor. Actually burned. I crouched down, looking at it, trying to understand what he’d done. Had he really seared his mark into the wood? That would work no differently than using ink. It might work better in some respects, because it would be a more permanent design.
Painting required several elements to be effective. There was the pattern. Basic shapes had specific purposes and could be combined to make increasingly complex purposes. Then you add color. The color of the pattern adds another layer of complexity. Inks could be mixed in various colors and when added to the shapes, could be used to form different intents. Then the painter had to infuse will, that part of himself that powered the magic.
But power required levels of permanence. Most painters practiced in pencil because nothing was really permanent when made in pencil. Mistakes wouldn’t be magnified as they were when done with inks. Once the patterns had been practiced, most painters moved on to ink. Ink patterns were more permanent, and when combined with the infusion of the right amount of power, they could augment the painter’s natural ability even more.
That didn’t mean they were the only options. My father had layered the house in Conlin with protections, actually painting them on. Most painters rarely worked in actual paint. Strange, but it was true. Paint needed to cure and dry, and most painters refused to allow the necessary amount of time, but when done correctly, using paint was even more powerful than powdered inks.
The burned marking in the wood would be even more powerful. Much like the carvings on the banister leading to the basement, the level of permanence to the pattern was what gave it power. Adazi had needed power here.
Had that been how he managed to attack us so quickly and with such strength?
Maybe Taylor was right. Maybe he wasn’t some sort of supernatural, otherworldly power, but nothing more than your average painter, only one with time to prepare.
Of course, even a well-prepared painter could cause significant damage. Hell, he’d almost knocked back Taylor, and I knew how powerful she was. Besides, he was known to occasionally serve the Druist Mage. Maybe that meant he had access to a different type of power—possibly a different type of knowledge—than I had ever experienced. Even my time serving the Trelking wouldn’t give me the same kind of knowledge that the Druist Mage had access to.
I stepped onto his pattern. With a hint of powdered ink and the barest touch of power, I infused Adazi’s pattern.
Pain bloomed through me. I almost abandoned the pattern, but stopped. As I did, there was the sense of something else. I stepped away, but kept my connection. The pain persisted, but the connection remained strong. I funneled a little more power through the connection. Not much more. The pain from even this much was nearly unbearable. Either I didn’t use the pattern correctly, or Adazi had done something that made certain others couldn’t use his pattern. I recognized what I could do, though, and released the connection.
Not what I expected.
Was Adazi tied to his pattern? Everything he’d done in his attack had been linked to this pattern, I was certain of that now. It still didn’t explain how he managed to jump from the loft or how he moved with what I considered otherworldly speed, but maybe there was another pattern I didn’t see.
I spent the next ten minutes searching through the barn, including the loft, but saw no other patterns. Only the one I associated with Adazi, the mark he made on all of his paintings. Maybe he didn’t know any others. If that were true, that would be too easy. Probably, he’d discovered one that he was as attuned to as most painters were attuned to color. Supposedly, painters could find patterns that worked for them the same way.
Before leaving the barn, I carved another flourish onto Adazi’s pattern, tilting it in such a way that it inverted. With my addition, Adazi’s mark became arcane. Unnatural, as they would call it in Arcanus. It already had aspects that were arcane, but I inverted it completely. Part of me was tempted to see what would happen were I to power it, but without knowing, I could injure myself. Or worse. And then there would be no one to help Devan.
When I left the barn, darkness had begun settling. A fat, silver moon hung bright in the sky, leaving the barn and my truck looking washed out. A shift in the shadows caught my attention and I spun.
I didn’t see anything.
I moved toward the truck when I noticed another shift in the shadows to my left. Spinning, I raised the one charm I had in my pocket out in front of me, ready to press it. The damn thing might destroy the barn, but it would do so without destroying me.
Part of me expected to see Adazi creep out of the darkness, but that would be too easy. Besides, he had given me three days. I’d only used the one.
When it came again, I decided I’d had enough. Quickly reaching into one of my satchels, I flung a handful of powdered green ink into the air and infused it with power, creating a shimmering light so I could see. It also weakened me. It took a lot of power to use it like that.
Yellow eyes stared out at me from the field near the barn.
“Jakes?” I said. “If that’s you, then just come out. I’m tired and frustrated and only have a little more time to reach Devan.”
A low growl rumbled. The eyes started toward me.
Not Jakes.
But that didn’t mean it wasn’t another shifter. If it was, it would know about me—it would know about my father—so it wouldn’t attack. Would it?
I couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling I had as the shifter made its way toward me. I made a quick circle in the dirt around me. Better to be careful than unprepared; I was a boy scout like that. Had I really wanted to be careful, I could have simply gotten into the truck. With all the patterns Devan had worked through the steering wheel and around the dash, the damn thing would likely survive a nuclear attack. What would a shifter be able to do compared to that?
But I didn’t really fear the shifters. Not after working with Jakes and seeing how they served my father.
“What are you doing?” I asked as the shifter made its way toward me.
It didn’t stop, just kept prowling ever closer.
A nervous feeling worked through me. I infused my circle with power.
The shifter snarled, a deep and wounded sound, and jumped past me to make its way into the barn, leaving me standing, staring after it.
What the hell?
I debated going after the shifter, but inside the barn, I’d have to burn off too much power just to see. Already, I’d thrown around about as much as I felt comfortable in a day. I needed rest, even though I doubted I’d sleep. Not while Adazi still had Devan. But there were other ways for me to recuperate. And now, I needed to find Jakes to find out why one of the shifters had tracked me here.
* * *
The truck rumbled along the road back into Conlin. As I neared the big, lit sign, Welcome to Conlin! with the “t” unlit, making it look like some Irish greeting, I slowed. Then I stopped and threw the truck into reverse.
There weren’t any cars behind me. With Big Red, I’m not sure it would have mattered if there were.
That was new.
I’d never seen the patterns on the sign before. Mostly because I hadn’t looked. Had I not come out here at night, I’m not sure I would have seen them now. I stepped close to the sign and ran my hand over the letters. A soft humming came from them. Not an electrical hum, though there was one of those. This was a magical hum, a low-level energy that stayed layered atop the letters. The signature to the energy was familiar. It was the same as that which protected my house.
My father had placed the protections here, but why on the sign?
I walked around it, listening for another energy signature, but didn’t find any. There was nothing all that exciting about the sign, either. It was a tall, rectangular brick sign, with lettering that looked to be made two decades ago, outdated, as was so much else in Conlin. Without knowing that my father had placed these protections on the lettering, I would have wondered why the city left it alone, but I was beginning to think others in the city knew of my father and what he was.
If that was the case, it meant others in town in positions of authority knew about the Elder. I already knew about the sheriffs. Jakes and his father and whoever he’d had with him at the Rooster tonight. How many of them were shifters? Could there be others I didn’t know about?
If there were, then it meant there was more to Conlin than I had ever guessed.
I got back into the truck and drove into town. When I passed the park, the flickering lights drew my attention to Agony. I could see only the top of the sculpture from the road where it towered above the center of the park. The sculpture pulled power, but I had never learned the purpose. With my father, there was always a purpose.
I swung the truck around and made my way back to the Rooster. Jakes’s car was still there, along with a half-dozen other cars.
The Painter Mage: Books 1-3 Page 23