Shadows Before the Sun

“Well, no pressure or anything,” I said, knowing exactly the risk involved. “And what the hell were you and Leander talking about anyway?”

He gaped for a minute, his focus still on Sachâth. “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 cushion, 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 passed along to Titus 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 Titus 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. Lightwater 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. Lightwater 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 Lightwater her two damned days first. She wanted to study me, and my power. No way in hell I was going to chance Sachâth 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 relationship 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 sidhé 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 Sachâth, 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 Sachâth 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 Sachâth 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 Sachâth wasn’t perfect. There was a flaw in the First One assassin, 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.”

She chewed thoughtfully for less than ten seconds before she said, “Simple.”

I smiled. “Oh, is it?”

“Yeah.” She flipped her spoon until it was pointing to the ceiling. “You just take it from the darkness overhead. It’s all raw energy from Charbydon anyway.”

And just like that my twelve-year-old kid floored me. Floored. I dropped my spoon, clattering milk and cereal all over the table. My mouth hung open and she just looked at me, then around the room. “What?” she asked, cheeks full of cereal.

“Nothing. Nothing.” I grabbed the spoon and bowl, standing up, shaking. “You’re just . . . that’s just . . . genius. And right. It’s right.”

Her mouth split into a smile, and she continued chewing cheerfully, completely in bliss at being right. After she swallowed, she said in a very aristocratic tone, “I shall mark this day down in the annals of the Madigan Family Saga. The day Emma Riley Garrity, the Genius, was right. Right, I tell you! Right, I say! Right, right, right!” She punched her spoon into the air with each word.

Rex shuffled into the kitchen, all sleepy and grumbly. “Right. Whatever. Coffee. Emma. Stop being happy. It’s too early for happy.”