The Stone of Shadows. R. A. Finley

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СКАЧАТЬ oversimplification. To get into a line took great effort. To leave took even more. Being swept past the intended destination was quite common, as was getting pulled into the wrong line at major intersections. Some travelers, the ones with too much knowledge but little skill, could easily become trapped, their chances of rescue slim to none.

      He’d never used the lines much himself, and never for such a length as this, but at least it looked to be an easy route. Granite Springs was situated only a few miles from a convergence of several strong lines.

      Frowning, he studied the map again. The town, given its seclusion and ease of access from a number of places on the globe, had all the makings of a major depot. Particularly if its primary industry was indeed tourism.

      He sat forward. If Granite Springs were a depot—or worse, being used by smugglers…Ah, ifrinn. He should’ve given more credit to Leticia’s choice of location. She could have made all sorts of acquaintances through her store. People who would be willing to help her for a price.

      What if she’d merely been a broker for the relic? He couldn’t imagine she’d betray the Brigantium like that, but he wasn’t exactly doing well on that score. He wouldn’t rule anything out.

      He sprang to his feet, heedless of the half-full cup on the arm of the chair. The cup which, to go by the angry shouts that followed as he wove quickly through the crowd, must have spilled.

      If Leticia had sent the relic to Granite Springs—and it was becoming more and more clear that she had—already, any number of insurmountable things might have occurred.

      Once outside, he slipped through the crowds of pub-crawlers, ducked into the first deserted passageway he found, and pulled out his Ronson lighter. He needed to inform Idris of his plans. To leave the country, particularly by such means, could (and no doubt would) be interpreted as another escape attempt. It didn’t matter that over a century had passed since he’d tried. Since he’d even dreamt of it.

      With the blood connection, his father could summon him at any time. And, unless he was within the protective charms of his home—a temporary sanctuary at best—acceptance wasn’t optional. The only place Idris couldn’t get to him was the Otherworld, but Cormac wasn’t liable to go there again, not after the hell of the first time, his one and only escape attempt. The physical scars, the result of punishment both from his mother’s family for daring to contact them, and from Idris upon his forced return, had taken years to heal. The other scars…well, he liked to think he’d become adept at ignoring them.

      He was an aberration, his cousins had been all too happy to inform him when he’d begged to be allowed to stay. A thing bred for Idris and Idris alone, his piece of a deal made with Cormac’s mother. She got what she needed to pay the debts preventing her from joining the rest of her family in the Otherworld, while Idris got the means to prolong his unnatural life. The blood of his blood that, although diluted by half, carried the power of the Sidhe.

      They’d worked for a time, the blood rituals…until, gradually, they didn’t. When it had become clear Idris was continuing to age and Cormac’s blood on the athame no longer provided Idris with enough power, the search for new methods—new tools—had begun.

      He flicked his lighter, stared at the flame as he sought to open a conduit. Moments passed. Frustrating moments during which he forced himself to remain still when what he needed to do was locate the specific access point to the line running through Green Park. Roughly only four blocks away, that line would take him to a larger one, and that to a larger one, and so on until he reached the Transatlantic Line.

      «You interrupt.»

      “Your pardon, Athair.” Cormac rubbed his temple as his father’s annoyance took the form of a dull ache. “I wished only to advise you of a necessary journey. The old woman may have had help—a relative in the States. I go there now.”

      The ache dissipated, replaced by a needling intrusion as the sorcerer demanded full access. Normally this was the point when Cormac raised a token objection, giving himself a few seconds to make sure anything he didn’t want to reveal was buried deep. Time was too short tonight. He let Idris in and, through the open connection, felt him sort through the day’s impressions and discoveries.

      The path could work both ways, if one knew what to do…and dared to risk it.

      He did. Too much of this whole situation didn’t make sense.

      Delicately, he peered through the link, into the edges of the sorcerer’s thoughts. He couldn’t chance more than pinhole-sized glances, and at first, he assumed he was seeing an old memory, one made back at the height of Idris’s popularity. The chamber, hazy with smoke. A large, central fire ringed by hooded figures. Bones, red and glistening, held out towards a steaming cauldron. Voices raised, chanting of power, for power, when there was already so much of it. Inside the chamber, inside the people who circled the fire. Inside the two who stood like shadows in their black robes. Cormac couldn’t see their faces, couldn’t see—

      «None of your concern, boy. Unless you fail me.»

      He started, the lighter dropping from his hand to clatter on the cement at his feet. The flame guttered, went out.

      «Do not fail.»

      The conduit snapped shut.

      For what might have been a long time, he didn’t move. He was too shaken, too stunned to feel fear, but it would come. Soon enough, it would come.

      So much power. Fewer followers than in the past, but nevertheless an inconceivable number for the present. Moreover, the memories had shown a ritual that required a high level of skill from each participant, not to mention a great deal of energy. It was well beyond anything Idris should’ve been capable of doing without help. Without Cormac’s help.

      Ah. There came fear, curling through shock’s icy cold to wrap around him like an ill-fitting jacket, claustrophobic and overwarm.

      It didn’t matter, he tried telling himself. The ritual, the power, the followers. None of it mattered as long as he got the relic. He and Idris had a bargain, a solemn oath drawn up in the Old Ways. To be kept upon pain of death. There was no way the old man would dare break it.

      This would be the last thing he would ever have to do for his father. The very last.

      Nothing else mattered.

      

      Granite Springs, Oregon

      In the end, Thia told Abby to go to lunch without her. Then she’d spent the better part of the afternoon trying to locate Lettie through calls to her family. She regretted it now. No one knew anything about Lettie’s recent activities—or state of mind—and Thia’s nerves had only grown more frayed as she politely endured talk of weather, vacation plans, and golf.

      Everything always came around to golf.

      She resisted the urge to bang her head on the desk, but couldn’t hold back a groan. With rare exception, the lives of the McDaniels revolved around golf. To them, it was something akin to a religion, and they were determined to bring all strays into the fold. As if talk of thrilling tee offs and breathtaking greens could make Thia forget those three humiliating weeks as Marlindale Golf Camp’s worst student ever. When that final camp tournament СКАЧАТЬ