Cold Days

Vadderung waved a hand. “Nonsense. There are laws that govern the progression of time in relation to space, like everything else.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that the echoes caused by the temporal event are proportionately greater than the span of time that was bridged,” he said. “Had the attack been launched from a century ago, or hence, the echoes of it would have begun far, far in advance of the event—centuries ago. These echoes have appeared only within the past few days. I would guess, roughly, that the attack must originate only hours from the actual, real-time occurrence.”

“Which is tomorrow,” I said. “So it’s happening sometime today or sometime tomorrow.”

“Most likely not tomorrow,” Vadderung said. “Altering one’s past is more than mildly difficult.”

“The paradox thing?” I asked. “Like, if I go back and kill my grandfather, how was I ever born to go back and kill my grandfather?”

“Paradox is an overrated threat. There is . . . a quality similar to inertia at work. Once an event has occurred, there is an extremely strong tendency for that event to occur. The larger, more significant, or more energetic the event, the more it tends to remain as it originally happened, despite any interference.”

I frowned. “There’s . . . a law of the conservation of history?”

Vadderung grinned. “I’ve never heard it phrased quite like that, but it’s accurate enough. In any event, overcoming that inertia requires tremendous energy, will, and a measure of simple luck. If one wishes to alter the course of history, it’s a far simpler matter to attempt to shape the future.”

I grunted. “So if I go back in time and kill my grandfather, what happens?”

“He beats you senseless, I suspect,” Vadderung said, his gaze direct.

Oh, man. Vadderung knew about Ebenezar. Which meant that either he was higher in the old man’s circle of trust than I was, or he had access to an astoundingly scary pool of information.

“You know what I mean,” I said. “Paradox? Universe goes poof?”

“If it works like that, I’ve never seen it, as evidenced by the fact that . . .” He spread his hands. “Here it is. I suspect a different form of apocalypse happens.”

I frowned. “Like what?”

“A twinned universe,” Vadderung said. “A new parallel reality, identical except for that event. One in which you never existed, and one in which you failed to kill your grandfather.”

I pursed my lips. “That . . . doesn’t really end well for me in either case.”

“An excellent reason not to meddle in the natural course of time, wouldn’t you say? Meddling with time is an irrationally, outrageously, catastrophically dangerous and costly business. I encourage you to avoid it at all costs.”

“You and the White Council,” I said. “So it’s going to happen sometime today or tonight.”

Vadderung nodded. “And nearby.”

“Why?”

“Because the energy requirements are astronomical,” he said. “Bridging a temporal gap of any length is something utterly beyond the reach of any mortal practitioner acting alone. Doing such a thing and then trying to project the spell over a distance as well? The difficulty of it would be prohibitive. And do not forget how much water surrounds the island, which will tend to mitigate any energy sent toward it—that’s one reason the Well was built there.”

I nodded. All of that hung together, based upon everything I knew of magic. People always assume that magic is a free ride—but it isn’t. You can’t pull energy from nowhere, and there are laws that govern how it behaves.

“So this . . . time bomb. It has to come from how close?” I asked.

“The shores of the lake, I suspect,” Vadderung said. “The island itself would be the ideal location, but I doubt that it will cooperate with any such effort.”

“Not hardly,” I agreed. “And you can’t just scribble a chalk circle and pull this spell out of your hat. It’s got to have an energy source. A big one.”

“Precisely,” Vadderung said.

“And those things tend to stand out.”

He smiled. “They do.”

“And whoever is trying to pull this off, if they know enough about futzing with time to be making this attempt, they know that the echoes will warn people that it’s coming. They’ll be ready to argue with anyone who tries to thwart them.”

“They most certainly will.” He finished his coffee.

I had made the right call here. Vadderung’s advice had changed the problem from something enormous and inexplicable to something that was merely very difficult, very dangerous, and likely to get me killed.

“Um,” I said. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but . . . this is a high-stakes game.”

“The highest, yes,” he agreed.

“I’m thinking that maybe someone with a little more experience and better footing should handle it. Someone like you, maybe.”

He shook his head. “It isn’t practical.”

I frowned. “Not practical?”

“It must be you.”

“Why me?”

“It’s your island,” Vadderung said.

“That makes no sense.”

He tilted his head and looked at me. “Wizard . . . you have been dead and returned. It has marked you. It has opened doors and paths that you do not yet know exist, and attracted the attention of beings who formerly would never have taken note of your insignificance.”

“Meaning what?” I asked.

There was no humor at all in his face. “Meaning that now more than ever, you are a fulcrum. Meaning that your life is about to become very, very interesting.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

He leaned forward slightly. “Correct that.” He looked at his watch and rose. “I’m afraid I’m out of time.”

I shook my head, rising with him, blocking him. “Wait. My plate is already pretty full here, and if you haven’t noticed, I’m barely competent to keep myself alive, much less to prevent Arkham Asylum from turning into the next Tunguska blast.”

Vadderung met my eyes with his and said in a growl, “Move.”

I moved.

I looked away, too. I’d seen too many things with my Sight already. And I had a bad feeling that trading a soulgaze with Vadderung would not improve my performance over the next day or so.

“Where are Hugin and Munin?” I asked.

“I left them at the office,” he said. “They don’t like you, I’m afraid.”

“Birdbrains,” I muttered.

He smiled, nodded to Mac, and walked to the door.

“Can I do this?” I asked his back.

“You can.”

I made an exasperated sound. “How do you know?”

Odin turned to look back at me with his gleaming eye, his teeth bared in a wolf’s smile, the scar on either side of his eye patch silver in the light coming through the door. “Perhaps,” he murmured, “you already have.”

Then he opened the door and left.

I scowled at where he’d been standing, and then slouched back on my barstool. I grabbed my beer, finished it, and set it down a little harder than I had to.

Mac was back at the grill, making some of his famous steak sandwiches for Thomas and Molly. I waved at him, but before I could say anything, he had already added another steak to the first two. My stomach growled as I got up and went to Molly and Thomas’s table.

Perhaps you already have.

Now, what the hell had he meant by that?