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 ball had followed its comrades into the water hazard, she’d retired her clubs and, with the hardheaded determination of eight-year-olds the world over, sworn that no one would make her take them—or any others—up again.
So far, so good.
She wished her uncle a pleasant time at Torrey Pines, then dialed the number she could no longer put off. She loved her parents, she really did, but talking to them over the phone was…a challenge.
Her father answered after four rings and, unsurprisingly, sounded distracted. Her mother was over at the neighbors, he finally managed to communicate. That was unfortunate for Thia, since the cause of her father’s distraction turned out to be a Verdict: Guilty marathon on TV.
“Hold on, honey—Dr. Steve’s about to corner the mob boss in the warehouse. Ha! Fantastic tackle,” he exclaimed with a chuckle. “Way to go, Steve.”
Thia made an appreciative sound. Tried to, at least. It came out sounding like a cross between a sigh and a gargle.
No matter how often her dad was told that the people on his shows weren’t real, that on television anything was possible, that nothing would change in the never-ending stream of reruns, he watched every episode with complete emotional involvement. If he had seen it six times in the last two months, it didn’t matter.
“They’ve cut to an ad for some damn thing,” he said, speaking to her at last. “People sitting in bathtubs outside, staring at a field of poppies. Why are they doing that? Are they on drugs?”
“Sort of.” There was no way she was going to get into that with her father. “I don’t want to take up too much time, Dad. Have you heard anything from Lettie? I was hoping to ask her a few questions about something at the store, and she didn’t answer when I called.” By now, she had her story down pat.
“There’s a time difference, you know. It’s late there now.”
“I called hours ago, Dad.” She took a calming breath, reminded herself he meant well. “Have you heard from her?”
“I can’t tell what this one’s for,” he complained, his attention clearly back on the TV. “Where’s the product name? How do they expect to sell anything without saying what it is? Scotland, I think. Futons? Tell me how that can be an ad for futons.”
It took Thia a moment to pick out the valid phrase. “She went up to Scotland?”
That hadn’t been on Lettie’s original itinerary, but one sure thing about Lettie was how rarely she stuck to plan. And she often went to Scotland, Thia knew; its products were in great demand. If Lettie had gone up there, that would explain why she hadn’t answered her London phone, obviously…although her cell would still work, wouldn’t it? Maybe not. Thia had never been, but from what she’d seen of photos and travel shows, Scotland had a lot of rugged terrain and many isolated areas. There had to be lots of dead zones.
“Probably,” her dad was saying. “Your mom called her last week or so, trying to put together our golf trip over there next spring. Might’ve said something about it. Good courses up there. Birthplace of the sport, you know.”
Thia’s eyes squeezed shut as she shook an impotent fist. Breathed. “I know, Dad. Did she say which city? Or how long she’d be?” She relaxed her hand, opened her eyes.
Too soon, as it turned out.
“Why would anyone put a perfectly good truck up on a huge boulder? We all know it didn’t drive there. No, she didn’t. Just Scotland.” Her father snorted derisively. “Zero percent for the first year but what about the second? It’s all in the microscopic print right there—not that there’s time enough to read it. All right, there you go, Steve,” he cheered, the show’s music playing in the background once more.
Right. She bit back a sigh. This was all she was going to get. “Okay, Dad. Thanks—and say hi to Mom. Love you,” she added, because she did.