“Is that the necklace or Roderick?” Curran asked.
“It’s the boy. He has power and it’s obscuring whatever magic signature the necklace is giving out.” Doolittle pointed to a point on the graph. I squinted. A series of paler sparks punctured the blue.
“This is probably the necklace,” Doolittle said. “It’s not enough to go on. We need a more precise measurement.”
We needed Julie. She was a sensate—she saw the colors of magic with more precision than any m-scanner. I stuck my head out into the hallway and called, “Could someone find my kid, please, and ask her to come down here?”
Five minutes later, Julie entered the medward. When I’d first found her, she’d been half-starved, skinny, and had had anxiety attacks if the protective layer of grime was removed from her skin. Now at fourteen, she had progressed from skinny to lean. Her legs and arms showed definition if she flexed. She was meticulously clean, but recently had decided that the invention of brushes was unnecessary and a waste of time, so her blond hair looked like a cross between a rough haystack and a bird’s nest.
I explained about the necklace. Julie approached the boy. “Hey. I’m going to look at the thing on your neck, okay?”
Roderick said nothing.
Julie peered at the metal. “Odd. It’s pale.”
“Pale yellow? Pale green?” Any tint was good.
“No. It looks colorless, like hot air rising from the pavement.”
Transparent magic. Now I had seen everything.
“There are very faint runes on it,” Julie said, “hard to make out. I’m not surprised you missed them,” she added.
“Can you read them?” Curran asked.
She shook her head. “It’s not any runic alphabet I was taught.”
Doolittle handed her a piece of paper and a pencil and she wrote five symbols on it. Runes, the ancient letters of Old Norse and Germanic alphabets, had undergone several changes over the years, but the oldest runes owed their straight up-and-down appearance to the fact that historically they had to be carved on a hard surface: all straight lines, no curves, no tiny strokes. These symbols definitely fit that pattern, but they didn’t look like any runes I’d seen. I could spend a day or two digging through books, but Roderick didn’t have that long. We needed information fast.
Curran must’ve come to the same conclusion. “Do we know any rune experts?”
I tapped the paper. “I can make some calls. There is a guy—Dagfinn Heyerdahl. He used to be with the Norse Heritage Foundation.”
The Norse Heritage Foundation wasn’t so much about heritage as it was about Viking, in the most cliché sense of the word. They drank huge quantities of beer, they brawled, and they wore horned helmets despite all historical evidence to the contrary.
“Used to be?” Curran asked.
“They kicked him out for being drunk and violent.”
Curran blinked. “The Norse Heritage?”
“Mhm.”
“Don’t you have to be drunk and violent just to get in?” he asked. “Just how disorderly did he get?”
“Dagfinn is a creative soul,” I said. “His real name is Don Williams. He packs a lot of magic and if he could have gotten out of his own way, he would be running the Norse Heritage by now. He’s got a rap sheet as long as the Bible, all of it petty stupid stuff, and he’s the only merc I know who actually works for free, because he’s been fined so many times, it will take him years to get out of the Guild’s debt. About two years ago, he got piss-drunk, took off all of his clothes, and broke through the gates of a Buddhist meditation center on the South Side. A group of bhikkhunis, female monks, was deep in meditation on the grounds. He chased them around, roaring something about them hiding hot Asian ladies. I guess he mistook them for men, because of the robes and shaved heads.”
“And why didn’t anybody point out the error of his ways to this fool?” Doolittle asked.
“Perhaps because they are Buddhists,” Curran said. “Violence is generally frowned upon in their community. How did it end?”
“Dagfinn pulled a robe off one of the nuns and an elderly monk came up to him and hit him in the chest with the heel of his hand. Dagfinn did some flying and went through the monastery wall. Bricks fell on his face and gave him a quickie plastic surgery. Since the old monk had raised his hand in anger, he went into a self-imposed seclusion. He still lives near Stone Mountain in the woods. He was greatly revered and the monks got pissed off and went to see the Norse Heritage Foundation. Words were exchanged and the next morning the Foundation gave Dagfinn the boot. The neo-Vikings will know where he is. They kicked him out, but he’s still their boy.”
Curran nodded. “Okay, we’ll take the Jeep.”
“They don’t permit any technology past the fourteenth century AD in their territory. You’ll have to ride a horse.”
Curran’s face snapped into a flat Beast Lord expression. “I don’t think so.”
“You can jog if you want, but I’m getting a horse.”
A low rumble began in Curran’s throat. “I said we’ll take the Jeep.”
“And I said they will put an axe into your carburetor.”
“Do you even know what a carburetor is?” Curran asked.
I knew it was a car part. “That’s irrelevant.”
Doolittle cleared his throat. “My lord, my lady.”
We looked at him.
“Take it outside my hospital before you break anything.” It didn’t sound like a request.
A careful knock echoed through the door. A young woman stuck her head in. “Consort?”
What now? “Yes?”
“There is a vampire downstairs waiting to see you.”
CHAPTER 4
The vampire sat on his haunches in the waiting room, an emaciated monstrosity. Vampires were nocturnal predators. Daylight burned their skin like fire, but the People had recently gotten around this restriction by applying their own patented brand of sunblock to their undead. It dried thick and came in assorted colors. This particular vampire sported a coat of bright lime-green. The sunblock covered the undead completely, every wrinkle, every crevice, every inch. The effect was vomit-inducing.
The vampire turned its head as I walked in, its eyes focusing on me with the intelligence of its navigator, sitting in an armored room miles away. The nightmarish jaws opened.
“Kate,” Ghastek’s dry voice said. “Curran. Good morning.”