He frowned at the board as Bergman pulled his laptop off the seat beside him. “Looks like my schedule just opened up,” he said with a smirk. As he powered up the computer he told me, “If you want to see it on the TV it’ll take some time to find the spot on the DVD. But if you want to watch it straight from here, I can have it up in less than a minute.”
“The sooner the better,” I said.
We all crowded into the banquette to watch the recording of Pengfei’s hissy fit. When it had played out I said, “Did anybody see it?”
Vayl began to nod, the look of dawning comprehension making him seem younger. Less burdened. He said, “When she slaps him his armor does not react.”
“Exactly!” I said. “Look! Scales don’t run up his face like they did when he was threatened last night.”
“That’s interesting,” said Cassandra. “But how does it help us?”
“That’s how we get past his defenses. By making him think I’m Pengfei. We’ll have to take her out first, but”—I shrugged—“that was going to happen anyway.”
I could tell the idea intrigued Vayl, but the risk to me took him so far out of his comfort zone that he had to think it over. He slid out of the banquette and went to retrieve his cane from the bedroom. I could hear him muttering all the way there and back, though he stopped talking before I could do any actual eavesdropping. I would’ve told him only crazy people talk to themselves, but I was in no position to judge.
Cole also got up. He went to the fridge. And as he poured himself a mug of orange soda he said, “I don’t see how we can pull that off, Jaz. You’re about two inches too tall, for one thing.”
“Plus you can’t speak Chinese,” added Bergman. “And even if you stuck with English, you couldn’t manage an accent without sounding like some idiot redneck making fun of all Asians everywhere.”
“He’s right about the accents,” I told Cassandra regretfully. “I can’t even do that nasal Chicago twang, and my dad lives there.”
“Well, I can’t help you with sounding Chinese, but looking the part could be easier than you think. What about some sort of disguise spell?” she asked.
I felt Bergman shiver, as if he’d brushed up against a low-voltage electric fence. Keeping my face turned well away from him I said, “Generally I stick with the old-school method, but I’m willing to try it. Can you do something like that?”
“Maybe. But—”
“What? No! You’re a psychic,” Bergman told her, as if she’d suddenly developed Alzheimer’s. He spoke so loudly I wanted to stick my fingers in my ears. “You have visions,” he insisted. “You don’t do spells. That’s for witches. And wizards. And, and”—he noticed we were all looking at him funny—“those other oogly boogly types.” He wiggled his fingers to emphasize his point.
I shook my head. “Bergman, I kid you not, if you don’t get your head into the twenty-first century I am going to take you out behind the woodshed and tan your hide.”
“What?”
Cassandra reached over me and flicked Bergman on the shoulder to get his attention. “A bomb is a powerful weapon, yes?”
“Of course.”
“So not just anybody can build one.”
“Well . . .”
“I could not get on the Internet, find a good plan, and by the end of the day construct myself an explosive device, could I?”
“Yeah . . . but it’s not a fair comparison.”
“Why not?”
“They’re two entirely different things.”
Cassandra leaned forward. “They’re both tools used as a means to an end.”
“The philosophy behind them is light-years apart.”
They were nearly nose to nose now, not a comfortable position for me, since I sat between them. “Bergman,” said Cassandra, “I could build a bomb if I wanted to, although it would help if I had an interest in science. And if you had a bent toward magic, which by the way you
He recoiled so fast you’d have thought she spat in his face. I held up my hand. “Stop,” I told him. “I know you’re about to say something I’ll regret, so don’t even go there.”
“But—”
“Bergman, I love you like a brother and I respect your right to believe whatever you want to believe. But you can’t be on this team if you offend somebody every time you open your mouth.”
He opened his mouth. Then he shut it again. “Excellent choice,” I said. I stared at him for a second longer, trying to see how deeply this magic thing disturbed him, but he’d barred the gate. So I said, “Now, Cassandra, about this spell . . .”
“I’m not sure it would work, after all,” she told me. “It would only affect your looks. Your voice would remain the same.”
“Well, crap.”
We sat in silence for a while, all of us staring at one monitor or another, hoping for inspiration to come give us a big kiss on the forehead. Instead something cracked against the side of the RV.
