A Chalice of Wind (3 page)

 

Cherche nouveau: L’histoire de France.
Sophie tapped the words out on her keyboard, enjoying the instant gratification, the enormous well of knowledge at her fingertips. With every passing age, things became more wondrous. Yes, there were downsides to progress. There were many, many things she missed. But each new day revealed a new wonder also.

“Veux-tu le saumon?”
Manon asked, the phone pressed against her ear.
“Pour dîner,”
she clarified when Sophie looked at her.

Sophie nodded. She didn’t care what she ate. She couldn’t understand Manon’s various hungers: food, drink, cigarettes, people. Sophie thirsted for knowledge, for learning. One day, somehow, if she could fill her brain with enough truth and understanding—then perhaps she could begin to understand herself, her life, the lives that were irrevocably entwined with hers. Maybe.

A thin tendril of cigarette smoke floated over to her. Manon was still walking around, phone pressed against her ear, ordering food from the concierge.

The results of Sophie’s search filled her laptop screen, and she leaned forward. At that moment, with no warning, the words wavered, as if underwater. Sophie frowned, glancing at the floor to make sure the surge protector was active. This computer was practically brand-new. What—?

The words resolved themselves on Sophie’s screen as she watched them, taking them in. Manon hung up the phone and came to see what Sophie was staring at.

“We haven’t heard from him in a while,” Manon said unnecessarily.

Sophie said nothing.

“Are we going to go?” Manon asked.

Again Sophie didn’t reply. Her large brown eyes searched the room, the air, seeming to stare across thousands of miles, straight at Daedalus.

 

“And now Ouida,” Daedalus murmured, clearing his mind of all thought, all feeling. He existed but was unaware of his own being. He was one with the wood, the air, the glass, the flame. . . .

 

Okay, assuming this sample wasn’t contaminated, she could isolate about thirty cells, put them through trypsin-Giemsa staining, and have a nice set of chromosomes to examine. Ouida Jeffers carefully maneuvered the dish containing the genetic material out of the centrifuge. She heard the lab door swing open and shut but didn’t look up until the sample was securely on a shelf and the fridge door closed. Not after what had happened last Tuesday. A month’s worth of work literally down the drain. God.

“Excuse me, Doctor.”

Ouida looked over to see her assistant holding out a pink telephone message.

“This came for you.”

“Okay, thanks, Scott.” Ouida took the message. Maybe it was about that intern she’d interviewed.

Come to New Orleans, Ouida,
it said. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Breathing quickly, she glanced around the lab, her lab, so familiar, representing everything she’d worked so hard for.
We need you,
said the message.
At last. Daedalus.

Swallowing, Ouida sank down on a lab stool and reread the message. Relax, calm down. You don’t have to go. She looked through the window, honeycombed with wire for security. Outside the sky was clear and blue. New Orleans. New Orleans would be very hot right now.

 

As soon as he saw Claire, Daedalus grimaced. Clearly she hadn’t made huge leaps forward since the last time they’d met. He saw her sprawled gracelessly in a cheap wooden chair. Two uneven rows of upside-down shot glasses gleamed stickily on the Formica table where she rested her elbows.

The crowd chanted around her. A beefy, middle-aged man, some sort of Asian, Daedalus couldn’t tell which, seemed to rally himself. He tossed back another jolt of whatever white-lightning alcohol they were drinking. Beyond feeling the stinging burn at the back of his throat, he wiped his mouth on his work-shirt sleeve. Dark, half-closed eyes strained to focus on his opponent.

Claire’s attention was caught momentarily by the insistent ringing of the bar’s wall phone.

The ringing was blinked away as if it were an annoying insect. Claire smiled, and the crowd cheered at this show of bravado. Someone thunked down another heavy shot glass; an unmarked bottle tilted and splashed more rotgut, filling the glass and dousing the table around it.

The crowd started clapping in unison, shouting something. Her name? Some Asian word that meant “crazy white lady”? Daedalus couldn’t tell. She wasn’t going to answer the phone—no one was. She wouldn’t hear his message. He would have to try to catch her when she was more sober. Good luck. It would take her days, at least, to dry out from today’s little episode.

Her eyes glowing greenly, as if lit from within, Claire’s unsteady hand reached out for the glass. It wobbled, clear liquid running over her fingers. She didn’t notice. She held the shot glass to her lips and tossed back her head. Then, triumphantly, she slammed it down on the table. The crowd roared its approval; money openly changed hands. Across from her, the Asian man bluffed by reaching out his hand for another glass but then slowly leaned sideways, sliding gently against the table. He was lying on the floor, eyes shut, shirt wet, before anyone had realized he was out.

Daedalus groaned. All right, later for her.

 

At least Marcel wasn’t likely to be pickling himself from the inside out, Daedalus thought, closing his eyes and focusing on the man who’d been a mystery for as long as Daedalus had known him.
Marcel.
He pictured the youthful face, the smooth, fair skin, the blue eyes, the pale auburn hair.

The candlelight’s reflection didn’t move while Daedalus gazed at it.
Marcel.

Daedalus could practically feel the chill wafting off the stone walls in his vision. He mused that he could be seeing Marcel today, a hundred years ago, three hundred years ago, and it would all look the same: the rough stone monastery walls, the dim light, the orderly rows of desks. Three hundred years ago, every desk would have been occupied. But today few Irish families committed younger sons to God so they’d have one less mouth to feed. As a result, only two other occupants kept Marcel silent company in the large hall.

Marcel was hunched over a large book: an original, hand-illuminated manuscript. The gold leaf had faded hardly at all since the time it was ever so carefully pressed in place by a penitent servant of the Holy Mother Church.

Daedalus sent his message, smiling at his own creativity, proud of his strength. Marcel could deny what he was; Daedalus never would. Ouida could ignore her powers, the same powers that Daedalus reveled in daily. Sophie could fill her time with learning and other intellectual pursuits. Daedalus spent his time harvesting strength.

Which was why he was greater than they; why he was the sender and they the receivers.

In the monastery, Marcel’s thin shoulders hunched over his manuscript. The beauty of the art in the margins was filling his soul with a too-pleasurable torment—was it a sin to feel such human joy upon seeing the work of men before him? Or had their hands been divinely guided, their illuminations divinely inspired? In which case Marcel was only paying homage to their God by his admiration.

His lips barely moved as he read the Latin words. But—he frowned. He blinked and rubbed a rough sleeve over his eyes. The letters were moving. . . .
Oh no.

Panicked, Marcel looked up. No one was paying attention. He shielded the book with his body, keeping it out of sight. He would never escape. And never was such a long time. Now he accepted that the fine-edged black letters had rearranged themselves. He read the newly formed words.
Urgent. Come to New Orleans at once. Daedalus.

Marcel brushed his rough sleeve across the cold sweat dampening his brow. Then he sat, struggling to feel nothing, as he waited for the words to disappear, to become again a prayer in Latin, lauding God. He had to wait a long time.

 

The last storm had stirred the waters so that fishing or crabbing was pointless. Better to wait till the water cleared, a week, maybe two. Besides clouding the waters with silt, the storm had littered the sandy beaches with all manner of driftwood, dead fish, an empty turtle shell, uglier human detritus: a bicycle tire, someone’s bra. There was a story about
that,
Richard bet.

He wanted a smoke, but last time he’d lit up, four different people had given him hell. Whether it was because he looked so young, despite the pierced nose, pierced eyebrow, and visible tattoos, or because they were just worried about this part of the world being polluted, he didn’t know.

Might as well give up for now. Go back home, sleep, whatever.

An unexpected tug on his line caught Richard by surprise, and he almost dropped his pole. But his fingers tightened automatically and he quickly turned his reel. He hoped it wasn’t a catfish. They were a bitch to get off the line, and ones this big weren’t good eating. The flash of sun on silver told him it was something else.

The reel whirred while he pulled. Long, slender body, shiny silver, with spots. Spanish mackerel. Under the length limit—it would have to go back. Richard pulled the line closer, running his fingers down the wet line to unhook the fish.

Its mouth opened. “Richard,” the fish croaked.
Ree-shard.

Richard blinked and then started to grin. He glanced around—unlikely that anyone else could hear his talking fish. He laughed. What a funny idea! A talking fish! This was hysterical.

“Richard,” the fish said again. “Come back to New Orleans. It’ll be worth your while, I promise. Daedalus.”

Richard waited a moment, but the fish had exhausted its message, apparently. Quickly he slipped his fingers down the hook, flipped the fish off it. It dropped the eight feet to the cloudy olive-drab water, its flanks flashing.

Hmm, New Orleans. It hadn’t been that long since he’d been back. But long enough. He grinned. A road trip. Just what he needed to cheer himself up.

 

Daedalus laughed softly to himself, watching Richard gather his gear. It would be good to see him again. Probably.

A sound downstairs drew Daedalus’s attention. Moving deliberately, not quickly, he doused his candle and put his glass globe in the cupboard, draping a square of black silk over it. He smudged the circle of salt on the floor, erasing its lines with his foot, then smoothed his hair back.

He felt drained, hungry, thirsty. He’d done a lot in one day—perhaps too much. But there was no time to waste.

“Y
eah, so she was pissed,” Racey reported, flipping her streaked hair back. She leaned against the wall in the tiny curtained dressing cubicle and took a sip of iced coffee.

“Yeah?” I asked absently, unhooking my bra so I could try on a tie-dyed halter top. “What’d she say?”

“She said the next time I missed a circle, my ass would be grass.” Racey cocked her head, which made her short, asymmetrical haircut look almost even.

I gave a quick grin—Racey’s mom was a riot. More like an older sister than a mom. My grandmother was cool in her own way, but you couldn’t get away from the fact that she was a grandmother. True, she was aging well—in fact, her looks hadn’t changed much for as long as I could remember. Those were the genes I wanted to inherit—those and Nan’s
force de magie.
“And she’d be the lawn mower?” I guessed.

“Yep. Turn around so I can see the back.”

“I’m going to look.” I pushed open the Indian-bedspread curtain and stepped out to look in the full-length mirror mounted on one wall. I loved Botanika—they always had cool stuff. Food, coffee, tea, witch supplies like candles, oils, crystals. Books, music, incense. A small selection of retro clothes, tie-dyed and batik and funky. Plus it felt so normal here. I’d told Racey about my horrible vision, but only a bit, and I hadn’t really told her how freaked I’d been. Even now, days later, I felt a bit weird, like something was about to happen. It was stupid.

Outside, the mirror was cheap and warped, so that I had to stand on my tiptoes to get a good view of the halter. I looked at myself, thinking,
I so lucked out.
Conceited? Well, yeah. But also realistic. Why should I pretend that I didn’t enjoy my natural assets? I tugged the shirt up so my silver belly ring showed. Cool.

“Was your grandmother mad?” Racey asked, stirring her coffee with the straw.

“Oh, yeah.” I grimaced. “She was burned. I had to vacuum the whole house.”

“Poor Cinderella.” Racey grinned. “Good thing you have a small house.” The contrast of her dark brown hair streaked with white gave her a faintly camouflaged look, like a zebra or a tiger. Her big brown eyes were rimmed in teal today. She’d been my best friend and partner in crime since kindergarten. It helped that her parents and my grandmother belonged to the same coven. The coven we had blown off, the night of the new moon, so we could go bar hopping in the Quarter.