Storm in a Teacup (29 page)

"What do you want to talk about?"

"I want to confirm something one of your kind told me."

"One of my kind?" He cocks his head to the side. It reminds me of a puppy, if puppies had the strength of two eight-hundred pound gorillas.
 

"His name is Mason. He's staying in my apartment. We want to help you."

"Help how?"

I can't believe I'm about to say this. Alamea will have my head. "The Mediators want you all dead. I'm a Mediator. But I don't believe it's right to kill creatures that have the ability to choose for themselves."

"Choose how?"

"You're here. You were born here, right?" I point to the center of the clearing. "Your mother birthed you there. Not ten yards from here. Her name was Lena. And you've come back here."

"How do you know that?"

"I was there. Watching."

"What do you want from me?"

A lot of questions, this one. "I don't know. You don't kill humans, do you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

He stands now, looking agitated. I don't like that. "Memories. My mother. She saw people...get murdered. She saw them die. She hated it."

I can't say I get the girl's thought process, wanting to release more hellkin into the world. She couldn't have known what her child would be capable of — the good and the bad. "Then why was she helping hellkin?"

He closes his eyes as though he's trying to see something and the world's in the way. His words are far more halting than Mason's, even if his sentence structures are correct. Lack of practice? "They said they would punish the ones who hurt her family."

That would do it, I suppose. "So she agreed to host for demon eggs."

"Yes. But she didn't know what the demons really were."

"How?"

His eyes close, flicking back and forth under his eyelids as if he's flipping through a file folder of memories looking for the right one. "Magic. And a fertilized demon egg." He reaches out and touches a hand to the center of my stomach, just over my navel. He pauses, then repeats. "She didn't know what the demons really were."

Most people don't. Maybe we Mediators do our jobs a little too well. Something's slipping through the cracks if this many people are lining up to invite the demons into the world.

"You don't want to be a demon," I say.

The shade shakes his head.
 

"Do you have a name?"

He shakes his head again. "My mother's name was Lena?"

"Lena Saturn."

"Then I will be Saturn."

I tell him I'll send Mason to see him, and he agrees to wait. The trees are ten shades darker than they were when I arrived. I'm no closer to having anything to report to Alamea. I can't lie to her; she'll know. And I can't just kill every shade I see. It's wrong.
 

For the first time, the heavy weight on my chest increases not when I think of demons and their kin, but when I think of the Mediators.
 

As I return to my car, I can't get Saturn out of my mind.

I don't think he knows he's chosen the name of a god.

One thing I like about Mason is that he won't freak out when I tell him I went to Forest Hills alone. What's bothering me is how I seem to have only met nice shades since the warehouse. That can't be right.

There's no way we killed all the naughty ones when the warehouse blew up. It means they've gotten a lot more careful. Careful killers are the hardest ones to catch.

I know that from watching all the crime scene shows.

Speaking of crime, our warehouse explosion doesn't seem to have reset the scales for Nashville. It hasn't gotten worse, either, just plateaued into a steady stream of knifings, break ins, and bar fights. On my way home, more and more shops along Charlotte Pike wear boards over their windows.

Gryfflet's sitting in the kitchen with Mason when I walk through the door.

My heart does a somersault and lands on my spleen. They're drinking...tea?

"Gryfflet? What are you doing here?"

He looks up, cabbage-y face loose with relief. His eyes look tight around the edges, though. Something's not right.

"I came by to see how you were doing after the fight. Devon said you visited him this morning and sent him food. I've been checking up on him for Gregor." Gryfflet gets up from his chair and balances on his heels for a moment. I motion to him to sit back down, and he obliges after a beat.
 

So Gryfflet's helping out the Summit. I hope they're paying him. "You've met my friend Mason, then."
 

Gryfflet nods and downs the rest of his tea. "We've been talking about meat."

"What?" Not good, not good, not good.

"A big box of pork arrived when Mason was making tea. He says he's on a caveman diet."

That's one way of putting it. One look at Gryfflet's face says he believe Mason's story like he believes in St. Nick. How am I going to fix this?

"Mason, weren't you going to go get coffee with your friend tonight? I ran into Saturn in Forest Hills. He said he'd wait for you." I hope Mason's smart enough to get it. I think he is.
 

He is. He frowns, but stands up. "It was nice to meet you, Gryfflet."

"You too."

Mason starts toward the balcony. Shit.

"I brought all your clothes in from where you hung them. No need to go out there."
 

He looks confused for a moment, but then nods and goes to the front door.
 

The door closes behind him. Not for the first time, I wish Mason had a phone. Though I don't know where he'd store it on most of his little missions. Up his ass?

"Does he always go barefoot?" Gryfflet asks.

Balls. "Um, yeah. He's weird about shoes. Says they pinch too much. He's got feet like a troll though. Can walk on anything."

The only sound is Gryfflet's thumb tapping on the rim of his teacup.

"What are you doing, Ayala?"

He knows. Of course he knows. He's a fucking witch who's already seen shades up close. No way could I have fooled him for a second. I half-expect Mason to burst through the door, but it's quiet. I go to latch the door, knowing he'll just come through the balcony door later.
 

I sit down across from Gryfflet in the chair Mason's vacated. It's still warm. Thank goodness he was wearing clothes.

"He saved my life, Gryfflet."

Gryfflet frowns. "When?"

"The warehouse. I was surrounded by shades. When you got the lights on, I saw them. So many eyes, all focused on me. Mason snatched me out of there before they could get me — and before the warehouse went boom." I pause to gauge his reaction. I see none. No censure, but no acceptance either. Just blank. "He turned up here last week. He's never hurt me. The meat's for him. He doesn't have to eat people if he doesn't want to. And he doesn't want to."

"You're saying these things have a conscience?"

"I'm saying the shades have free will."

Gryfflet watches me as if to make sure I'm not joking. If only he knew how not joking I am.
 

"I guess it's possible. They gain a lot of their physiology from their human sides. It stands to reason that they would gain a few other things as well."

"I think that's what happened. I don't think the hellkin were counting on it, but I think they got it anyway."

"What are you going to do? The Summit's not going to like this at all. Didn't they just give you a medal?"

"Heard about that, eh?" I sit back in my chair, splaying my feet out in front of me. "I don't know. But if these creatures have free will — "

"They are still very dangerous."

"Do you think I don't know that?" I can't tell him what Devon told me. Proof as it is that we went into our bomb-happy situation without having all the information, it's also evidence of how volatile the shades can be. "Look. I've met a few others who don't want to hurt humans. I don't know what it is that makes them different, or even if all of them could come to the same conclusion given time. I do know that the more violently we respond to them, the more blood and carcasses we're going to get in return."

There's one other thing, and I hate to ask it. But I have to.
 

"Please don't tell Gregor, Gryfflet. I need more time to figure this thing out. Time I didn't bother to take last time. I don't have all the information. I need to find out more. See if they're all open to living peacefully, and if not, find out what to do about the ones who aren't."

"I'll give you one week. After that I'm going to Gregor." Gryfflet rises from his chair. For someone who looks as flabby as he does, he's got steel underneath after all. "You didn't come in contact with that one's mind. Not the one at Madeline's diner. You didn't feel it."

"I didn't have to. I saw it smile right before it mutilated someone."

"It's not the same. I'll grant that your Mason is different. His mind is quieter, more sure of itself. And gentle. But be careful. They're not all like him, and you know it. Don't let yourself forget."

I haven't, and I won't. Looks like my little witch friend has a bit of the psychic in him.

I let Gryfflet see himself out and lock the door behind him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

The next few days pass in relative quiet. No surprise visitors, and no work drama. And still, I feel uneasy.

I bring home Thai food Thursday after work and eat it with Mason on the couch. Well, I eat it. He's eating raw pork nuggets.

Next time I'm getting him beef again. Raw pork smells like ass in a dirty gym sock.

He says he's found five more shades who have the same moral code as he does. I think he and Saturn have become friends.

Mason moves his arm to spear a bit of pork, and I see a gash across his tricep.

I reach out and touch his arm without thinking. "What happened there?"

"It's nothing."

"It's the first mark I've seen on you. What happened?"

It had to have been last night. We went out together and took out a couple slummoths, but then I came home and he split off to look for shades, like we've done since Tuesday.

"A Mediator found me. I was on my way home and being careless."

There's a hollow stillness in my chest. I think that's terror. "A Mediator? Did you —"
 

"Hurt him? No. He slashed at me when I was running away. Lucky shot."

"That's all?"

"That's all."

So I'm not the only one they've put on shade-hunting duty. Either that or someone was trying to be a hero.
 

I don't like it.

"We'll have to be more careful tonight, Mason."

My phone buzzes, and I jump, dropping a grilled shrimp on my couch. "Dammit." I pluck the shrimp from the leather and hurry to the kitchen.

It's Alamea. The spot on my couch is suddenly less worrisome. "Alamea. Hi."

"How's our little project coming?"

"Slow." At least that's the truth. "I think they've gone into hiding. I've only seen a couple this week, and they high-tailed it away before I could get close."

"Then you think we have them spooked."

"Yeah. I think blowing up the warehouse showed them they didn't have free reign." I look at Mason, who's dabbing at the shrimp-spot with a paper towel, his bowl of pork set carefully on an end table.

"Very well. I'd like you to come to the Summit tomorrow for a meeting. You can give me a more detailed progress report then."

"Okay. I'll come right after work."

"That's fine. Happy hunting."

At least one of the Summit leaders knows how to properly end a phone call.
 

"What do you think she wants?" Mason asks.

"I don't know. Probably just a report."

"What are you going to tell her?"

"As much of the truth as I can — that they've all run off before I had a chance to do anything. That I haven't seen any in the city center. I'll leave it at that if I can."
 

It's only nine, but my nerves feel like they've been exposed to an Arctic blast. I gear up for patrol.

"Where are you heading tonight?" I buckle on my sheaths.
 

"West. I might find some others there. Saturn said he knew of a few."