Curse the Dark. Laura Anne Gilman

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ supposed to be talking, the two monks because they had almost forgotten she was there. In for a penny… “If nobody ever read it, how did you know it was gone?”

      “Ah. The parchment was bound between two sheets of slate, like a sandwich. We would check the edges every six months, to ensure that there was no water or spore damage to it, as we do all of our charges. At the most recent check three weeks ago, the young brother whose assignment it was sensed something wrong and opened the slate perhaps a bit more than was wise. Fortunately for him, the paper that had been left in the manuscript’s place did not have the same effect on him as the original would have.”

      “He’s still around, then?”

      “Oh, yes. You will wish to speak with him?”

      “Please.” Seemingly taking back control of the situation, Sergei turned to Wren with the air of someone used to delegating. “Stay here, look around, learn whatever you can. I will meet with the young man and see what he has to say.” Wren—recognizing the voice he used with Lowell, his gallery associate when the well-bred wonder got a shade too uppity—had to make an effort to keep a straight face as she nodded her understanding of her assignment. An assignment that was exactly what she had planned to do, anyway, had she been scouting the scene on her own.

      Teodosio and Sergei exited, leaving Wren alone with Frederich, who looked as though he’d still rather be anywhere else, although that expression had been softened a little by boredom.

      What had boyo been expecting? Clearly they were told we would be coming, but what exactly were they told they’d be getting? That was a valid question—Teodosio had not specified the Silence, and Sergei told her that more often than not their operatives worked totally detached from the main organization, so you could be working for them through a series of—what had Sergei called them? Cutouts, that was it. You could be working through cutouts and never know who was actually footing the bill. If that was the case here, then this Mattenni might not have said anything more than “two Americans coming, give them assistance.” Or he might have told them exactly what she was, and what she did.

      Not knowing limited her options considerably. They had agreed, on the flight over, to keep Wren’s status as low-profile as possible. Especially since the Catholic Church—Rome just down the block, as it were—was still a little hinky about the whole magic thing. The Holy See could be awfully touchy about anyone using current on their turf, sans dispensation. Without knowing if this particular little subsect was Cosa friendly or not, she’d have to be totally closeted.

      Moving over to the cabinet where Teodosio said the missing manuscript had been stored, Wren looked over at Frederich for permission, then slid the drawer open. It was shallow, maybe two or three inches deep, and the wood had been polished until it gleamed with the patina only really old, well-used furniture got. She took a deep breath, feeling for the stone around her. Normally she preferred to ground on wood or earth, more familiar, human-friendly bases, but she was focusing on something made of wood, so that wouldn’t work as well.

      Cool, firm, solid…. Standing in place, forever and yesterday….

      She had been right, there was a faint trickle of current in the stones, but it was deep and buried and sleeping. She left it alone. Satisfied that her body was settled, Wren reached down into her core, pushing a mental hand down and coaxing up one vivid blue tendril. It climbed up into her arm, pulsing with raw possibility.

      This was the tricky part, to engage but remain passive, receptive instead of proactive.

      And three and two and one and… She felt herself fall into the familiar working fugue state, where the entire world was narrowed down to what was exactly in front of her, the familiar hazy sharpness kicking her Talent into gear.

      Opening her palm over the surface of the drawer, Wren let the current flow gently out of her like a sprinkling of multicolored confetti falling in slow motion. Watching the current-confetti, she directed it to show her the item which had been there before, the shape and outline and concept of it, but not the details, not yet.

      Normally this worked better with words to shape the intention, but she didn’t want to tip her hand in front of her already unhappy observer, not when she was supposed to be in the closet, as it were.

      The current swirled, as though confused by her instructions, then seemed to catch on, flowing and coalescing into a rectangular shape. It seemed as though it were taking hours, but she didn’t dare look away to see what Frederich was doing.

      Wren blinked at what was forming under her hand, and had to hold on to her temper for fear of disrupting the current. A blank surface…that couldn’t be right. Oh. Duh. Show me the shape of what was in between the slate, she amended her direction, annoyed beyond belief at her own stupidity. Hadn’t Teodosio just told them about it being stored in an envelope of sorts, to protect it?

      She committed the image that appeared before her to memory, and slowly released the current, allowing the now-useless particles to dissipate.

      Pulling her hand back, she cast a quick look at Frederich. He had only moved a few paces, and from his still-bored expression she figured that only a minute or two had passed. Closing the drawer carefully, she pulled up another spark of current and fed it the memory she had in her mind of the parchment and its covering. Shaping the current into a bloodhound, she set it on the trail of the missing item. Where had it been? Where was it moved to? The spark flitted back and forth as though confused. Either the tracks were too old for it to follow, or it had been moved too often, to too many places in the room for it to settle on any one trail.

      Neither of those options made sense. Teodosio had told them that the parchment was checked every six months like clockwork, no less and no more, and that it was never taken out of its slate envelope, the implication being that it shouldn’t have moved very far from the drawer except on the occasion of it being stolen.

      Normally, on something like this, she would be looking for elementals to question. They were mindless bits of electrical fluff, but they were occasionally useful, if you could get them focused long enough. But elementals were lazy things that preferred to gather where there was already a source of current for them to rest in. A building without electrical wiring was not going to appeal to them.

      Appeal…current…elementals…slate covers…Something about that—

      Suddenly she was back in the tiny office off the bio lab in her old high school. John Ebeneezer perched on his usual stool, lecturing her about what she needed to know, to control her Talent, to be an effective conductor of current…

      Wren unconsciously pulled more current up out of her core, molding it in her hand like clay as she tried to remember. It was an old habit, from back when Neezer was on her constantly to think of current as an extension of her own body.

      Think, Valere, think. Slate was graphite, at least partially. Graphite conducted electricity. But slate was the least conductive form of the natural graphites, which is why it was okay for roofing…Why had they used slate to protect the parchment? Were they trying to keep current out? Or bring it in? Something was wrong. Something didn’t fit.

      “Ehi! Che cosa fai?”

      The sudden noise startled her, and she lost control of the strand of current. It leaped from her hand, hitting the ceiling and bouncing back at her, expanding onto a sparkling, sparking jellyfish shape as it stretched out like a living thing, visible to anyone, Talent or Null.

      Frederich screamed, and Wren swore, trying to recapture the current before it did damage to any of the furnishings. Frederich could take care of his own damn self and СКАЧАТЬ