The Stone of Shadows. R. A. Finley

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      Not for the first time, he felt a niggling unease, a suggestion he wasn’t seeing the whole picture. Leticia had always been an upstanding, if unusual, member of the Brigantium. This comprehensive, almost desperate search…it was as if her own people held her under suspicion.

      Of what, though, he couldn’t fathom.

      He wandered over to the desk, not that he expected to find anything. But he needed something to do while the search-and-seizure crew finished its work below.

      A stack of photographs, their frames dismantled and set nearby, came as a pleasant surprise. As he began to leaf through them, he understood why they’d been left behind. They were personal, mostly snapshots of Leticia in various locales, sometimes with people, more often posing solo. He found himself flipping through them more quickly, seeing Leticia at different ages, different aspects. Same exuberant smile, though. The same as on that long ago day when sheer luck on her part—and curiosity on his—put them face to face in Lancashire. Here, tonight, in the skeletal remains of her home, the memory became like a living thing, at once powerful and achingly fragile.

      Full of energy, she’d come striding down the coal-stained streets as if the world around her was a fresh, unspoiled adventure. He’d spotted her in plenty of time and had identified her as a Novitiate—easy enough to do when one knew the signs. And it would’ve been easy enough, too, for him to have avoided detection. But he’d been intrigued, he remembered, a melancholy smile tugging at his mouth. She’d seemed so vibrant, not at all the sort to shackle herself to the stodgy bunch of bookworms and curators that was the Brigantium. So, on a whim, he’d stepped out, undisguised, from his hiding place between two boarded up buildings.

      Her reaction had been deliciously surprising.

      She’d walked right up, her bright, blue eyes meeting his without a hint of alarm though she had to know who—and what—he was. Then, before he could decide what to do with her, she’d smiled and thrust out her hand.

      “Forgive me for introducing myself,” she’d said, her American-accented voice as clear and guileless as the rest of her. “I’m Leticia McDaniel.”

      Then she’d grinned, almost like a child being presented with an unexpected treat, and he’d found it impossible not to smile in return. Making certain all his shields were in place, he’d clasped her hand lightly, made a simple bow. “Cormac,” he’d said and promptly returned his hand to his side.

      “Yes. I know,” she’d replied with a little laugh before surprising him again, this time with a graceful curtsy. “It is an honor. Truly.”

      He recalled now that he’d nearly said the same. Thankfully, he’d stopped his tongue before it could do anything so foolish. Instead, because it amused him and he couldn’t see any harm, he’d shifted into his raven form, taking to the air right before her eyes. Her cry of delight had stayed with him long after he’d flown into the countryside. Long after Leticia would have discovered he’d beaten her to the illuminated manuscript she’d been sent to retrieve. Her laughter and his triumph. He hadn’t been sure which had pleased him more.

      Still wasn’t, though it didn’t warrant much thought.

      Their chance meeting had seemed of little import at the time, but in the scheme of things had become akin to the handshake before a chess match—one whose games were to be played over many decades and, more often than not, at a substantial distance. Since Lancashire, they’d not met face to face. Not until, of course, four days ago. He felt a pang of something best not considered and set down the photos.

      Several phones rang in tandem, one on the desk and, more faintly, several on the lower floors. He set his hand on the receiver, listened to people scramble throughout the house, their excited voices asking what to do. From the sound of it, they were gathering in the front entryway where the tinny sound of a recorded greeting played. No digital messaging service for Leticia, apparently. Her voice went on, uninterrupted long after the footsteps quieted, and Cormac entertained himself by imagining the Brigantium’s people staring anxiously at some technologically ancient machine. Maybe even one with a cassette tape—something so outdated and uncommon that the youngest might think it magical. A beep sounded. When he heard the caller begin to speak, he picked up.

      “It’s me, Thia,” the woman said, and his interest was pricked. Her voice was tight. Nervous. And, somehow—the register, perhaps, or the accent—reminiscent of Leticia.

      “I had some…questions,” the woman was saying, clearly rattled. “I don’t understand what you…what it is I should do. About the—about things.”

      Beyond her verbal struggle, her distress was palpable, like a cold mist settling on his skin. She was hiding something, that much was obvious, and all of his instincts were screaming. Despite the risk of alerting the people below, he reached out with his senses—something that had been much easier to do before the age of fiber optics and computers, when phone lines had provided an actual, physical bridge.

      In the span of a heartbeat, surprising him by the speed of connection, he got a fuzzy, muted sense of the woman. Alone in a small, cramped space. Surrounded by…magic. Different types, different strengths. Objects, he realized, making up a much larger area around her. People moved among them, separated from her but close. Music played softly in the background, accompanied by the sharp rat-a-tat of…a printer? No. A cash register.

      A store.

      Phone cradled on his shoulder, he spread out the photos, searched for the one he’d seen with—

      There. A young woman, tall and slim with untamed, russet hair grinned up at him in a way very like the Leticia in Lancashire—so like, he’d mistaken her on his first look-through. Behind her was a shop window filled with exactly the sort of things he’d sensed. The name “Eclectica” was neatly painted on the glass. Leticia’s store. He turned the image over. Blank. She’d revealed her first name—Thia—but Thia what? She was clearly related to Leticia, but how closely? Just how involved might she be?

      It was all he could do to keep from speaking, from doing more than his tentative sensory exploration, as the need to make contact built, threatening to overcome reason. He forced himself to pull back entirely.

      There was a drawn-out silence, one so weighted that he grew concerned. Was she sensitive, aware of the connection made, then roughly broken? Could she use the Sight?

      “Please be all right,” she begged, her voice suddenly hushed and thick with emotion. Cormac felt the sting of something which, if he hadn’t known better, he might’ve mistaken for a conscience. Leticia, as he knew and Thia clearly did not, was as far from all right as one could get.

      He could tell her she was wasting her time and energy on worrying. He could save her the pain of that—and only give greater pain. He was being ridiculous. The Brigantium could tell her as easily as he. More, really, since they were in the house legally. He’d make himself a target with the first syllable he uttered. What did he care about her, whether she knew or—

      “I love you,” she said, soft in his ear.

      He jerked, shocked, and the phone dropped from his shoulder. He bobbled the catch, shoved it awkwardly onto its cradle, ending the call. Only when it was too late did he curse himself for a fool.

      Those words had not been meant for him.

      In the quiet, he took a slow, steadying breath. Thia’s photo stared up at him from the СКАЧАТЬ