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"That's what we are, then? Temporary aberrations? I've heard the theory. So it's true?"
"True?" He turned the flower over in his hands. "No, it remains a theory and ever shall be. That is the conflict of science and faith. I can say that supernaturals are random mutations that, from an evolutionary perspective, succeeded in some way. The facts support that. But if some higher power was to say, 'No, I did that--it was part of the plan,' how can I argue the point? What I can tell you is that these mutations come more often than you would imagine. Most last only a generation or two." A slight smile. "Evolution or a grand creator busily experimenting? It doesn't matter, does it?"
"I guess not."
"Some of these mutations persist for centuries only to die out when what makes them unique is no longer necessary...or no longer unique. Imagine if those scientists in there--" he waved toward the house, "--discover a way for any human to communicate with the dead. What would happen to your kind?"
"We'd...die out?"
"Nothing so drastic. You'd simply merge with the gene pool. Necromancers as a unique race would cease to exist. It's happened before. Dryads, elves, nymphs, all the woodland races--there was no place for them in the modern world. Their time had passed. It matters not. Others come."
"Genetic flukes evolving into races. But that must take generations."
"True, but sometimes it's more than a random genetic 'fluke' that causes change."
He lifted the rose to his nose, then offered it to me.
"Smell anything?" he asked.
I sniffed. "It's very faint."
"A mutation. Not by nature, but by man. Create a hardier rose, a more disease-resistant rose, a longer lasting rose. A decided improvement over wild roses and yet..." He sniffed and sighed. "There are drawbacks."
He looked at me. "You say man-made magic is impossible because it has never existed. But what if..." he dropped the rose onto my lap, "...something clicked? The collision of nature and science?"
LEARNING CURVE
TWO HOURS LATER, I was sitting across from Jeremy, in the corner of a half-empty restaurant. We were keeping our voices down as I told him about my visit from Aratron. I don't know why we bothered--anyone hearing us talking about the evolutionary theory of supernatural races and the potential emergence of a new power would only mistake us for screenwriters trying to cash in on a paranormal trend. As for my garden visit from a demon? It was Hollywood. Deals with the devil were a way of life.
We were in a tiny restaurant with better food than atmosphere. When my seafood linguine had arrived, I'd slipped some of it onto his plate. He didn't protest, just accepted it with a murmur of thanks, as he always did. A werewolf's high metabolism made dining out less than satisfying, and it wasn't like I needed the food. My stylist was already complaining about the three pounds I'd gained in the last year. I was trying to ignore him, but after a lifetime of panicking if the scale needle so much as quivered, it wasn't easy.
"So," I said as I picked at my plate, "the gist is that Aratron thinks someone--some group--has broken the barrier, by either in-depth scientific experimentation or plain old dumb luck."
"You mean they've hit on a form of human magic that works."
I nodded. He set down his wineglass and stared at the blank wall behind me, his dark eyes equally blank, shutters pulled as he thought.
After a few moments, he said, "I'm not the best person to investigate this. Man-killing werewolves I understand. Humans killing with magic? I barely know where to begin."
A chill settled in the pit of my stomach. "You'd rather not help, then."
"Of course I want to help." His knee brushed my leg. "What I'm saying is that I'm in over my head." A twist of a smile. "And it's not a place I'm accustomed to being. I'm the Alpha. I lead in full confidence." The smile sparked in his eyes. "Usually. But with this, I should do what any good leader does--take it to an expert. But to whom? It's a matter that might concern all the races. Where should that go?"
"To the interracial council. Which, unfortunately, is us."
"Sad, isn't it? There should be some..." He waved his hand.
"Body of elders? Wise old men and women who do nothing but send out troops of highly trained investigators to protect the interests of the supernatural world?"
"Instead they get us. Part-time volunteers, untrained, unbudgeted and usually flying by the seat of our pants."
"It's nice to know I'm not the only one on the council who doesn't always feel up to the job."
"Did you think the rest of us do? In werewolf matters, yes, I am an expert. In necromancy, you are an expert--"
"I wouldn't say--"
"You've never let us down. If you don't know the answers, you find them. That's all we ask. Paige? Magic is her specialty and, between her and Lucas, they do just fine--remarkably fine, given their youth. So if this is magic, does it go to them? They know little or nothing of human magic. So who is the expert?"
