Charlie Madigan: Shadows Before The Sun Part 22

She peered at me, then Hank over the rim of her gla.s.ses. "Who may I ask is inquiring?"

"Detectives Madigan and Williams," I answered.

"One moment, please."

As she left the room, I glanced around the small front office, noting that it looked like my accountant's office, and not what I expected from the mysterious Leander.

"Right this way," the receptionist said, returning to lead us down a long hallway to an end door, which she held open and then closed behind us.

The room was the size of my entire downstairs cottage in Candler Park. Two gigantic windows offered views of the city. The chair behind the ma.s.sive desk was empty and it looked as though neither one had ever been used much. To the left were two couches with a coffee table between them and beyond that an entire wall of books from floor to ceiling.

Leander, however, was to the far right with his back to us, playing a pinball machine.

Hank gave me a look that said, You're s.h.i.+ttin' me. This is the guy?

Oh yeah, this was the guy. There was no mistaking the power in the room. We walked over. The words Bally's Wizard! were painted across the back gla.s.s along with some curvy, barely clad women, and if I wasn't mistaken a guy that looked like the Who's Roger Daltrey in the middle wearing a Pinball Wizard T-s.h.i.+rt.

From the less than impressive score, either Leander had just started playing or he sucked at pinball. I was guessing sucked, since he lost the ball seconds later.

Leander barely acknowledged me. His gaze went straight to Hank. They stood several feet apart, about the same height and weight, both broad shouldered, both powerful, and easy on the eyes. "So you brought back the last son of Elekti-Kairos," he said to me while studying Hank.

"Actually, he kind of brought me back," I said, giving props where they were due.

Hank stared so intently at Leander that my hand moved to rest on the grip of my firearm. The energy in the room shot up and the hairs on the back of my neck rose.

Leander folded his arms over his chest. "Ignoring it won't make it go away, siren."

"So what does, then?"

"Nothing, really. Time. Distraction. Women. Killing things . . . they just make you forget for a little while."

"What are you?" Hank asked.

Leander c.o.c.ked a smug eyebrow and then finally turned his attention to me. "Where's the tablet?"

"Destroyed."

He leaned back against the pinball machine, his casual stance deceptive because I could feel the surge of anger that ballooned around him. "Then you waste my time."

"I'm going to face Sachath," I said, surprising both Leander and Hank.

Leander recovered first and snorted. "Didn't figure you for a total head case."

Hank was watching me, his eyes narrowed, his mind working. "What makes you think you can defeat it?" He knew I'd never face Sachath unless I felt I had a chance.

"Yes, do tell," Leander added, amused.

"Since you know about Ahkneri's existence . . ." I said to Leander. "She gave me a vision. She showed me the last battle she fought with Sachath." Leander straightened and the quiet intensity that stole over him made me stutter.

I forged on, though, and told them about the vision, what Ahkneri had told me about the nature of Sachath, and of my talk with Pendaran. Leander looked a little pale, and strode over to a cabinet and poured himself a drink. He tossed it back in one gulp and then turned to us, cradling the empty gla.s.s in his large hand. "So you think all you have to do is pull together three primal energy sources and that will be the end of the Creator's a.s.sa.s.sin."

"Do you have a better idea?" I shot back.

But Hank was watching Leander. "Has that ever been tried?"

"Not to my knowledge," Leander admitted. "Sachath was always engaged by First Ones and their Disciples. Every weapon conceivable was tried, to my knowledge," he felt the need to add again.

"The indigenous people of Elysia and Charbydon developed outside of the Creator's influence," I said. "They sprung from the primal deities and energies that emerged in those worlds' infancy. Like the sirens, fae, and nymphs," I said. "And the jinn and the ghouls . . ."

"So you want to hit Sachath with powers that aren't connected with the Creator," Hank said.

"Right. I just need to figure out how to bring them together. Pen can direct the Earth's arcane energy . . ." I looked at Leander. "I just need a means to use Elysia's and Charbydon's. I don't know what you are, Leander, but you must have some idea of how I can do this."

He eyed me for a long time. "Did you read the tablet?"

I blinked at his change of direction. "Um . . . yeah. I read it."

"Out loud?"

"Yes," I said slowly.

"In the ancient tongue?"

"I believe so. Why?"

He walked to another wall of cabinet and bookshelf combinations, and pulled out a drawer. Inside he retrieved a metal cylinder and then walked back to me. "Here."

I took it. It was cold. "What is it?"

"Your antidote."

My hand tightened around the metal, and my heart lurched inside of my chest. "What do you mean? This"-I shook it at him-"is the cure to ash?"

"Yes. But maybe you shouldn't shake it like that."

I froze. "But why?" And I didn't mean the shaking.

"Because, Detective, the entire point of retrieving that tablet was to read it, out loud, and in the language of the First Ones. Since you have done that, I'm upholding the bargain."

Wariness flooded down my back, setting off every warning bell I had. "What the h.e.l.l did I read, Leander?" But based on what he told me before about the tablet, I had a good idea. "I woke a Disciple."

He grinned. It wasn't happy or smug or even satisfied. It was feral.

"Tell me something, Leander," I said. "Where did the Disciples come from?"

"They were among the first generations born to the First Ones when they seeded the worlds. The first Adonai, the first humans . . . There were none more powerful than them save the First Ones. They offered their swords and their lives. Some guarded mothers and fathers, some guarded lovers, husbands, wives . . ."

And then I took a chance. "I saw you in the vision."

There was no reaction at all in those golden eyes, almost like he'd been waiting for me to say it. "You saw what you wanted to see."

"I know what I saw."

His voice was soft, but lethal. "No, you saw your precious Ahkneri turn her back on her own Disciple to save another. That is what you saw." He moved back to the pinball machine. "As for Sachath . . . If your plan will work"-he shrugged-"who knows. But I will lend my aid at the time and place. Just call my secretary. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm extremely busy running my empire."

He turned back to the pinball machine, pulled the lever, and set the ball free.

Hank wasn't happy with me. I could tell. It might've been the heat radiating off his hand when he grabbed mine and pulled me to a private spot in the lobby. Or it might've been the p.i.s.sed off gleam in his eyes, or the plowing of his fingers through his hair and then the exasperated way he parked two fingers on his hip, dropped them, and paced before me.

"When did you plan on telling me about this idea?"

"Today."

"Christ, Charlie!" he hissed and dragged me over to some tall palm trees in pots. "You can't seriously think . . ."

"You're the one who said in the cab we had to get rid of it!"

That seemed to take some steam out of him. "I know what I said." He stared up at the ceiling, blew out a deep sigh, and then faced me again. "We have one shot. One. And that's it."

"Well, no pressure or anything," I said, knowing exactly the risk involved. "And what the h.e.l.l were you and Leander talking about anyway?"

He gaped for a minute, his focus still on Sachath. "The NecroNaMoria." Completely deflated, he slumped into a nearby chair. I did the same in an adjoining one. "Whoever he is, it happened to him. Even if he hadn't said anything I knew . . ."

"What do you mean, you knew?"

Hank shook his head as though he was confused by it all. "I don't know if I can even put it into words. It's a sense of him being . . . not whole . . ." He let out a heavy breath, and gave up. Obviously not really something he wanted to think about.

I let that simmer for a moment, honestly not knowing how to respond, and disconcerted by the notion that if Leander exhibited a sense of not being whole, then Hank most likely did, too. I stared at Hank, this big, capable guy, sprawled on the chair, his head back against the cus.h.i.+on, who was still cracking stupid jokes and trying to fall back into the person he was before the Circe got ahold of him, and knew he was struggling. On the inside. Where no one could see. Where he wouldn't let anyone see.

"You get a feel for what he is?" I finally asked.

He lifted his head off the back of the chair and scrubbed a hand down his face, leaning forward in the chair, knees apart, hanging his forearms over them. "He's not siren. I don't know what he is, Charlie. You really think he's a Disciple?"

"I don't know. I was hoping to get more of a reaction out of him."

"Was he in the vision or were you just bluffing?"

"I don't know. I thought . . . if not a Disciple then what is he?"

"He didn't deny it."

"No . . ."

Hank opened his hand, staring down at his palm for a long moment. "Well, I know how to solve the Elysian part of your problem. Straight from the deity herself." He lifted his head and held out his branded palm. "Primal Source Words."

Since we were comparing weapons . . . I lifted my arm, the one with the symbols, and smiled weakly. I hadn't told him everything. "Ancient divine weapon."

His crooked smile threw me off-balance. "Some arm you got there, kiddo." At my confusion, he said, "I saw you use it. In the cave. When Arethusa died."

Oh. Right. "Yeah, well, I was a little distracted."

"You and me both."

"So now what?"

"Well, now we work on the third power problem."

And what was likely to be the impossible one. "Charbydon."

20.

The cure for ash had been pa.s.sed along to t.i.tus Mott. It would need to be studied; its properties identified, then re-created and put through a series of tests before using it on live subjects. For now, we were keeping it under wraps-no need to get anyone's hopes up if it didn't work. But I was pretty sure that whatever t.i.tus discovered in that cylinder would be the key to ash's demise.

I'd sent out the courier the day before and had just gotten a reply. Light.w.a.ter said no. Apparently a stickler for details, she required her two days with me before giving me her marker. That had been the deal struck, and that's the way it would stay. I wanted to send another courier saying that if I died then she'd never get her two days, but decided it was pointless. Light.w.a.ter wasn't a fool; she knew exactly the kind of gun I was under. And she'd had the nerve to write Good luck.

I couldn't exactly go into Ithonia and give Light.w.a.ter her two d.a.m.ned days first. She wanted to study me, and my power. No way in h.e.l.l I was going to chance Sachath coming again. The next time it did, I was sure it would be my last.

And I'd yet to go to Hank's apartment to have my wicked, wanton way with him, and was pretty sure this contributed to my bad mood. Last night, he'd come back to my house and eaten dinner with me, Emma, and Rex. And since I hadn't told Emma anything about a relations.h.i.+p existing between Hank and me, I wasn't going to go home with him after. We ended up back at the station to work late with Sian, researching the sidhe fae, every myth and legend I could get my hands on concerning the First Ones and their Disciples, and the ITF database for Charbydons in the city (and beyond) who were old enough and powerful enough to beg, blackmail, or threaten into helping me.

Lost cause, really.

I'd made enemies of the two most powerful Charbydons in the city: Grigori Tennin and the Master Crafter of Atlanta, the ghoul, Nuallan Gow. Hank was willing to put his life on the line to fight Sachath, and Pen had an ulterior motive he thought was worth the risk, but there was no Charbydon who'd be willing to do anything of the sort. In fact, they'd stand on the sidelines cheering Sachath for the win.

The following morning, I was tired and cranky as I sat at the kitchen table eating a bowl of cereal, not looking forward to starting yet another day of endless frustration and roadblocks. Soon Sachath would come whether I used my power or not. I had to be prepared, had to face it on my own terms. I had to win.

The Creator didn't account for everything.

I kept coming back to those words Sandra wrote in her letter. I felt certain she was telling me Sachath wasn't perfect. There was a flaw in the First One a.s.sa.s.sin, the flaw being, in my opinion, that it was only created to kill First Ones. Not other beings. Sure, the fail-safes were there, but had those other races been taken into account? They were only in their infancy, not even a blip on the radar during the time of the First Ones. Had the Creator taken into account that ages later those "blips" would become intelligent and powerful?

I was sure I was on the right track, but I hit a wall when it came to the Charbydon issue.

Emma flounced down the stairs, dropped her backpack in the middle of the kitchen floor, grabbed a bowl and spoon, and then slid into a chair at the table. She grabbed the cereal and milk from the middle of the table and poured. After her first bite, she said, "So?"

"So what?"

"Mom." The expectant look she gave me was wan and no-nonsense, and very much like . . . me. "The problem. What is it, what's bugging you? We only have fifteen minutes, so be quick."

I returned her look, shaking my head, and deciding to play along. "Okay. Fine. Say you had a project where you had to draw on power. Not just any power, but the arcane energy from each world, really primal stuff. So three different sources. And you have Earth and Elysia covered, but not Charbydon."