taking. As usual, it caused an unstoppable flood of joy within him, almost embarrassing in its strength and the eagerness with which he embraced it.
Unseeing, tracing the symbols by memory in the air before him, Daedalus wrote the runes ôte , for birthright, inheritance; deige , for clarity, awakening; is , for obstacle, something frozen or delayed. Then he wrote the sigil for things revealed, veils dropped, and another sigil to enhance the sensitivity of his vision.
Then he waited. Inhale, exhale. The beating of his heart. Don’t search; let it be revealed.
The smoke formed a thin, hazy curtain in front of him. He watched, trying to divorce himself from want, trying to just be, with no expectations. Which was almost impossible for him, even after two centuries’ practice.
But there—there. In the smoke, the haze, an image was forming. A face. Black eyes, straight nose, generous mouth. A woman, not a girl. She was laughing.
Is this what I need to see? The image seemed to realize he was there. Its expression froze, looking surprised. Then it was gone, as if a wind had swept it away.
Daedalus blinked and shook his head.
He’d done that spell what—thirty times? Fifty? Seventy? He’d never gotten an image before. He wasn’t great at scrying—he found it hard to believe stories people told about seeing this, that, and the other thing. Only a few times had he received useful or pertinent information. So this was hard to take at face value.
Melita’s face, that was.
If he believed it, then she truly was nearby, after all this time. She wasn’t dead. He’d been searching for her for so long—could this be real? Was she nearby? Was she aware of what he was doing?
Lost in thought, Daedalus automatically cleaned up evidence of his spell. He hadn’t heard Axelle come home, but he cast his senses to make sure. No—no one was here but him. He put away the incense, the chalk, the stones.
Melita. If she were back, it would be either truly remarkable or truly, truly disastrous.
She Can’t Hide It
The woman behind the counter looked at Luc, then down at the collection of ingredients he was buying.
“Dove feathers, honey, dried foxglove,” she murmured. Her squarish brown hand turned a small green glass bottle so she could read its label. “Dried snakeskin.”
Luc kept his face impassive.
She met his gaze, as if weighing the light and the dark within him. He tried not to breathe a sigh of relief as she rang up the items and put them in a small paper bag. He paid and slipped the bag into his leather sack.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Do you—” the clerk said, making him pause. “Are you sure you be wantin’ these things, now?” Her voice was warm, her brown eyes knowing. She had a slight, singsongy Jamaican accent.
“Yes,” Luc said briefly.
“Do you be careful, then, man,” she said solemnly.
“Yes,” he said again, and left.
It seemed like decades ago that Clio had taken him here. Luc leaned against the broad trunk of the live-oak tree, looking down into the cradle formed by its thick roots. He and Clio had lain together in this hollow, hidden from passersby.
Now he stepped over the roots and set his small leather sack on the ground. He wished he were in . . . Africa. Or somewhere far away. Where he wouldn’t have to deal with Daedalus or any of the Treize.
Then Daedalus would just summon him by force. He grimaced. Claire was doing a burn, no doubt about it. She’d spent most of last night fantasizing about ways to kill Daedalus. It had been pretty funny. But goddess, her and Richard together—they were both so bitter and hard. It got to be too much after a while. Of course they all had cause to be that way. But after hours of eating and drinking with those two, Luc had felt like he’d been dipped in acid and rubbed with sandpaper. It had been a relief to leave them.
Luc heard voices. Probably students from Loyola or Tulane. He lay down, sinking onto the warm, dry earth. Someone
Unseeing, tracing the symbols by memory in the air before him, Daedalus wrote the runes ôte , for birthright, inheritance; deige , for clarity, awakening; is , for obstacle, something frozen or delayed. Then he wrote the sigil for things revealed, veils dropped, and another sigil to enhance the sensitivity of his vision.
Then he waited. Inhale, exhale. The beating of his heart. Don’t search; let it be revealed.
The smoke formed a thin, hazy curtain in front of him. He watched, trying to divorce himself from want, trying to just be, with no expectations. Which was almost impossible for him, even after two centuries’ practice.
But there—there. In the smoke, the haze, an image was forming. A face. Black eyes, straight nose, generous mouth. A woman, not a girl. She was laughing.
Is this what I need to see? The image seemed to realize he was there. Its expression froze, looking surprised. Then it was gone, as if a wind had swept it away.
Daedalus blinked and shook his head.
He’d done that spell what—thirty times? Fifty? Seventy? He’d never gotten an image before. He wasn’t great at scrying—he found it hard to believe stories people told about seeing this, that, and the other thing. Only a few times had he received useful or pertinent information. So this was hard to take at face value.
Melita’s face, that was.
If he believed it, then she truly was nearby, after all this time. She wasn’t dead. He’d been searching for her for so long—could this be real? Was she nearby? Was she aware of what he was doing?
Lost in thought, Daedalus automatically cleaned up evidence of his spell. He hadn’t heard Axelle come home, but he cast his senses to make sure. No—no one was here but him. He put away the incense, the chalk, the stones.
Melita. If she were back, it would be either truly remarkable or truly, truly disastrous.
She Can’t Hide It
The woman behind the counter looked at Luc, then down at the collection of ingredients he was buying.
“Dove feathers, honey, dried foxglove,” she murmured. Her squarish brown hand turned a small green glass bottle so she could read its label. “Dried snakeskin.”
Luc kept his face impassive.
She met his gaze, as if weighing the light and the dark within him. He tried not to breathe a sigh of relief as she rang up the items and put them in a small paper bag. He paid and slipped the bag into his leather sack.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Do you—” the clerk said, making him pause. “Are you sure you be wantin’ these things, now?” Her voice was warm, her brown eyes knowing. She had a slight, singsongy Jamaican accent.
“Yes,” Luc said briefly.
“Do you be careful, then, man,” she said solemnly.
“Yes,” he said again, and left.
It seemed like decades ago that Clio had taken him here. Luc leaned against the broad trunk of the live-oak tree, looking down into the cradle formed by its thick roots. He and Clio had lain together in this hollow, hidden from passersby.
Now he stepped over the roots and set his small leather sack on the ground. He wished he were in . . . Africa. Or somewhere far away. Where he wouldn’t have to deal with Daedalus or any of the Treize.
Then Daedalus would just summon him by force. He grimaced. Claire was doing a burn, no doubt about it. She’d spent most of last night fantasizing about ways to kill Daedalus. It had been pretty funny. But goddess, her and Richard together—they were both so bitter and hard. It got to be too much after a while. Of course they all had cause to be that way. But after hours of eating and drinking with those two, Luc had felt like he’d been dipped in acid and rubbed with sandpaper. It had been a relief to leave them.
Luc heard voices. Probably students from Loyola or Tulane. He lay down, sinking onto the warm, dry earth. Someone
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