said, “I couldn’t remember their names.”
Eris let go in surprise. “You couldn’t remember the Fates’ names?”
Strife was clutching the right side of his face and backing away from her. “No.”
“It didn’t occur to you to call and ask me?”
“I thought you’d be mad,” he said.
“It didn’t occur to you to go to the library and look up the myth?”
“Forgot about the library,” he said. “Haven’t used one in fifty years.”
“Or the Internet? You couldn’t walk down the block and hop into one of Portland’s six billion Internet cafes?”
“I screwed up, Mom. I did. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry.” She cursed again. It would have been so easy. If some other mage had been able to get into the building with a relocate spell, then Strife would have been able to too. She would have been able to, if she’d been willing to use her magic on that plane. “You’re sorry.”
“Don’t hurt me, Mom,” he said. “Please.”
She backhanded him anyway, just for old times’ sake, and walked across the street.
“ Ma’am . “An amplified voice reached her from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. “ Back away from the building. You could get hurt .”
So the police were monitoring this. Great. That was all she needed: her transformation from Erika O’Connell to this punk chick who hit Stri all done in front of reliable eyewitnesses.
But she couldn’t think of that. She kept walking.
“ Ma’am. Back away —”
With a flick of the wrist, she shut off the noise. She reached the building, created a little magical fog, and looked for the edge of the protect spell.
If she guessed right, whoever had done it had done it quickly, and would have left a hole or two.
But as much as she looked, she found nothing. This was the tightest spell she had ever seen. And it looked a little familiar. She would save part of it, and look for the signature later.
What she needed was a bit of that glass shield. Just a piece.
“Stri?” Eris said, beckoning him forward.
He came, carrying the skateboard under his left arm and covering the side of his face with his right. He looked like a modern Quasimodo, only with a jean jacket instead of a hump.
He stayed just outside of arm’s reach as he asked, “What?”
“Did you do any damage to that glass jar shield?”
He frowned. Or partially frowned. Or hid half of his frown. She couldn’t tell with his hand there. She was tempted to grab it and move it down, but she didn’t. She wanted him to answer her.
“No,” he said after a moment. “But when it started out too big it crashed onto the sidewalk. There should be pieces somewhere.”
Eris smiled at her son. “You can be such a good boy when you want to be,” she said.
He gave her an uncertain smile. Her own smile faded.
“Well,” she said. “What are we waiting for? Help me find those pieces— now .”
The Fates settled around the glass-topped table as if they were going to recite Homer’s Odyssey in the original Greek. Vivian, who was looking better, decided to make herself some tea, and offered Dex some. He wasn’t much of a tea drinker, but he knew he’d better fortify himself. He had a hunch the story the Fates were going to tell might take the rest of the day.
As the Fates spoke, he watched Vivian work around her apartment—her delicate hands gathering the remains of the chocolate box, the sway of her hips as she walked into the kitchen. He had to force himself to concentrate on the Fates’ words, because he really wanted to think about Vivian.
Apparently, the Fates said when they finally had Dex’s attention, the Powers That Be were dissatisfied with the Fates’ performance since—well, they weren’t sure. They argued about the date until Vivian came into the dining room, bearing tea on a tray and more cookies than Dex had seen since he’d helped some Girl Scouts save a dog in the 1970s.
Anyway, doing the math, and subtracting a little for the vagaries with which
Eris let go in surprise. “You couldn’t remember the Fates’ names?”
Strife was clutching the right side of his face and backing away from her. “No.”
“It didn’t occur to you to call and ask me?”
“I thought you’d be mad,” he said.
“It didn’t occur to you to go to the library and look up the myth?”
“Forgot about the library,” he said. “Haven’t used one in fifty years.”
“Or the Internet? You couldn’t walk down the block and hop into one of Portland’s six billion Internet cafes?”
“I screwed up, Mom. I did. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry.” She cursed again. It would have been so easy. If some other mage had been able to get into the building with a relocate spell, then Strife would have been able to too. She would have been able to, if she’d been willing to use her magic on that plane. “You’re sorry.”
“Don’t hurt me, Mom,” he said. “Please.”
She backhanded him anyway, just for old times’ sake, and walked across the street.
“ Ma’am . “An amplified voice reached her from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. “ Back away from the building. You could get hurt .”
So the police were monitoring this. Great. That was all she needed: her transformation from Erika O’Connell to this punk chick who hit Stri all done in front of reliable eyewitnesses.
But she couldn’t think of that. She kept walking.
“ Ma’am. Back away —”
With a flick of the wrist, she shut off the noise. She reached the building, created a little magical fog, and looked for the edge of the protect spell.
If she guessed right, whoever had done it had done it quickly, and would have left a hole or two.
But as much as she looked, she found nothing. This was the tightest spell she had ever seen. And it looked a little familiar. She would save part of it, and look for the signature later.
What she needed was a bit of that glass shield. Just a piece.
“Stri?” Eris said, beckoning him forward.
He came, carrying the skateboard under his left arm and covering the side of his face with his right. He looked like a modern Quasimodo, only with a jean jacket instead of a hump.
He stayed just outside of arm’s reach as he asked, “What?”
“Did you do any damage to that glass jar shield?”
He frowned. Or partially frowned. Or hid half of his frown. She couldn’t tell with his hand there. She was tempted to grab it and move it down, but she didn’t. She wanted him to answer her.
“No,” he said after a moment. “But when it started out too big it crashed onto the sidewalk. There should be pieces somewhere.”
Eris smiled at her son. “You can be such a good boy when you want to be,” she said.
He gave her an uncertain smile. Her own smile faded.
“Well,” she said. “What are we waiting for? Help me find those pieces— now .”
The Fates settled around the glass-topped table as if they were going to recite Homer’s Odyssey in the original Greek. Vivian, who was looking better, decided to make herself some tea, and offered Dex some. He wasn’t much of a tea drinker, but he knew he’d better fortify himself. He had a hunch the story the Fates were going to tell might take the rest of the day.
As the Fates spoke, he watched Vivian work around her apartment—her delicate hands gathering the remains of the chocolate box, the sway of her hips as she walked into the kitchen. He had to force himself to concentrate on the Fates’ words, because he really wanted to think about Vivian.
Apparently, the Fates said when they finally had Dex’s attention, the Powers That Be were dissatisfied with the Fates’ performance since—well, they weren’t sure. They argued about the date until Vivian came into the dining room, bearing tea on a tray and more cookies than Dex had seen since he’d helped some Girl Scouts save a dog in the 1970s.
Anyway, doing the math, and subtracting a little for the vagaries with which
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