Ritual Magic

“You?” Her eyebrows lifted, as did the corners of her mouth. “Must mean you woke up on the wrong side of perfect yet again.”

“I believe I did.” He smiled down at her dark eyes, the beautiful oval of her face . . . her skin was soft, but nothing like porcelain or ivory or anything so fragile and protected. His nadia was a California girl who’d been impatient with her mother’s lectures about sunscreen when she was young, and still forgot it more often than not. Often on purpose, he suspected. Her skin was sunshine and honey, not cream, and right now she smelled of toothpaste, of almonds from her lotion and apple from her shampoo, and Lily. The loveliest smell in the world.

A smell that stirred him . . .

“Wrong time, wrong place,” she told him. That wasn’t telepathy. If his face hadn’t given away his reaction, his body certainly had.

“True.” He eased away, but took her hand. “End of time-out. Let’s go deal with something other than my delicate feelings.”

She snorted softly, squeezed his hand, and went with him.

* * *

LILY liked Isen’s house. She liked it even better now that she wasn’t living here anymore. Though that, like most truths, had layers. Because she had lived here for a few months the place felt homier to her now, which was funny because it hadn’t felt like home when she was staying here.

Minds are weird, she decided. Hers included.

They’d assembled in the great room at the back of the house. It was large and flooded with light in the daytime; now the windows were covered by remote-control-operated blinds that hadn’t been there a month ago. Isen was showing off his new toy—the remote—to Karonski. One of the blinds started to lift, paused, and headed down again.

Rule headed straight for the new toy. Lily paused, looking around.

Near the fireplace, Li Qin smiled at Hardy, who seemed to be singing something to Cynna. At the far end of the room, Cullen sat at the big table with Arjenie, both engrossed in their discussion—magical shit, no doubt. They both loved to talk about magical shit. He had little Ryder on his shoulder. She was asleep. Grandmother sat at the other end of the table, and as Lily came in, Benedict handed Grandmother a cup and saucer.

That would be tea, not coffee. Grandmother detested coffee. Lily had never seen anyone in this household prepare or drink tea, and Grandmother was extremely particular about hers. She moved closer to listen.

Grandmother held the cup near her face. She inhaled, then sipped. Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “It is good tea.”

“Carl,” Benedict explained.

“You may sit beside me,” Grandmother informed him. “I wish to hear about your daughter. She is recovering?”

Benedict didn’t talk much. He didn’t smile much, either, but when he did, it transformed him. He sat beside Grandmother now, all but glowing. “The doctor let her wake up this morning and try some healing. She did great. She says there’s nothing wrong she can’t fix, given time and rest. They’ve taken her off the sedatives so she can keep herself in sleep most of the time. That’s better for healing.”

From out of nowhere, Lily was hit by this wave of feeling—feeling both vast and weightless, universal and utterly particular to this room, this moment, these people. Every one of whom she loved. Every one of whom had woken up this morning on the wrong side of perfect, just like Rule, just like her, each of them capable of annoying, delighting, or disappointing her; capable of heroism, misunderstanding, quarreling, laughing, or sitting stubbornly on some stupidity he or she refused to abandon. All of them so different, and so connected.

The feeling ebbed, then passed. She thought: Love? Karonski? And of course that was ridiculous, but even as she shook her head at herself, she knew that it could be both ridiculous and true. This . . . all this, the room, the people here, the odd little pairs and groups they’d formed, the ways each was finding to connect to the others . . . this was what she fought for. For these people, yes. And for moments like this, punctuated by coffee or tea, with a baby on one man’s shoulder and a saint humming over by the fireplace . . . everyone gathered together to work toward their common goal. She fought for them, and for people she’d never met and never would, people who deserved a chance to make their own moments, built from their own flawed choices, with the people they found.

If everyone is here, a crystalline voice announced in her head, we should begin.

THIRTY-THREE

JUDGING by the sudden silence in the room, that had been a Sam-to-everyone communication. Judging by their expressions, they’d been as startled as Lily was. Even Grandmother’s eyebrows shot up.

Lily hadn’t known Sam could do something like this—talk to all of them when he was about thirty miles away keeping a telepathic eye on Nettie. “I want some coffee first.”

Attempt to do two things at once. I have serious matters to impart, but wish to know what you have learned before I do so. Abel Karonski, you may begin.

“Fine,” Karonski said. “First I want to bring everyone up-to-date on the victims, because that’s where we’ve been focused, now that we know how they’re all connected. We’re up to three hundred and twelve. They aren’t all in San Diego. Debrett’s cousins, for example . . .”

Lily listened with half an ear as she headed for the kitchen. He wasn’t saying anything that was new to her, though the others probably hadn’t heard it in detail. Debrett’s cousins, for example, were in bad shape, though not comatose like their parents. The one in Belize was being flown back here. The other was being treated in Denver. But they’d found more, so many more—Debrett’s coach in high school, who’d moved to Albuquerque and had thought he was going crazy; people he’d served with in the Marines; friends from college and from church. Many of them were only slightly affected, like the ones at the pipe company, but some were more seriously messed up.

Two of the victims had died. Barbara Lennox had slid from a coma into death; records showed she’d been Debrett’s first grade teacher. And a man in San Francisco who’d gone to grade school with Debrett had been killed in an auto accident right about the time someone slit Debrett’s throat. He’d suddenly and inexplicably lost control of the car. Not drunk, not on drugs, no obvious medical condition. Lily figured he’d suddenly forgotten how to drive.

In the kitchen, Toby was turning the crank on a gadget that peeled, cored, and sliced apples. Julia stood at the restaurant-style range stirring something under Carl’s supervision. She flashed Lily a quick smile. Lily filled two heavy mugs with coffee, knowing Rule would want one, too. She’d rewrapped her wrist before they left, and it didn’t hurt at all to carry a mug in that hand. Maybe her left hand wouldn’t be out of commission too much longer.

She got back just as the others were seating themselves at the big table. Isen had a pad and pen ready. One of his more unexpected skills was shorthand.

Rule took the mug with a smile. Lily sat and pulled out her own notebook. Isen’s notes would be more complete, but she still wanted her own.

Karonski was finishing his summary about the victims. “Those affected the worst seem to be the ones who either knew Alan Debrett as kids or who had a strong emotional connection, like his aunt and uncle, though there are exceptions, like the former teacher who died early this morning. We don’t yet know if there was another, deeper connection between her and Debrett, or if her physical frailty—”

Physical condition means little, Sam informed them. It was amazing how well a voice that was no more than iced thought could cut off normal conversation. This is one of the two subjects I need to introduce. Your supposition that the chief predictors of major damage are an early connection to