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“Perhaps I should stay and keep an eye on him,” Antoine says nervously.
“No chance,” Shark responds firmly, and pushes out the suave chief executive, ignoring his spluttering protests.
Some of the rooms on the uppermost floor have beds, or couches that pull out into sleeping cots. Members of the higher echelon move around a lot between buildings owned by the Lambs. Given the secretive nature of their business, they often prefer to stay onsite rather than check into hotels.
I’m sharing a room with Spenser and James. They don’t speak to me much. They know I’m part of Beranabus’s world of magic and demons, but they’ve had little first-hand experience of that. They find it hard to think of me as anything other than an especially large but otherwise unremarkable teenager. I’m not too bothered. I find most of their conversation pretty boring — weapons, planes, helicopters, war, battle tactics. I’m happy to be excluded.
I spend my spare time experimenting, testing my powers. I don’t know how much I’m capable of doing on this world, in the absence of magical energy. I want to find out what my limits are, so as not to exceed them and leave myself exposed.
I’m pretty good at moving objects. Size doesn’t seem to matter — I can slide a heavy oak wardrobe across the floor as easily as a telephone. I spend a couple of hours moving things around. I’m pretty beat by the end, and not back to full health until the next morning. It’s reassuring that I can recharge, but worrying that it takes so long once I’ve been drained.
Other maneuvers are more demanding. I can heighten my senses — to eavesdrop on a conversation, or view a scene from a few miles away — but that takes a lot of effort and quickly eats into my resources. I can’t change shape, but I can make myself partially invisible for a very short time. I can create fire and freeze objects, but again those demand a lot of me. I can shoot off several bolts of magical energy, but I’m good for nothing for hours afterwards.
There are all sorts of compensating spells that I could make use of if I knew them. But I refused to dabble in magic when I lived with Dervish and I didn’t need spells in the Demonata universe — if a spell was required there, Beranabus took care of it. He wasn’t interested in training Kernel or me, just in using us to bully and kill demons.
I wish I’d demanded more of Beranabus and Dervish. Mages can do a lot with a few subtle spells. As a magician I could do even more. I get Meera to teach me some simple incantations, but we don’t have time to cover much ground.
I worry about my uncle constantly. What’s he doing?
Where is he? Time moves differently in the other universe, usually faster or slower than here. Years might have passed for him, or only minutes. Is he alive or dead? I’ve no way of knowing. Beranabus taught me how to open windows, so I could go and find them. But I couldn’t guarantee how long that would take.
I have to remain here until our mission’s over. I’m the reason the others are involved, the one who vowed to track down Prae Athim and uncover the truth. I can’t cut out early. That would be the selfish act of a child, which I’m not. I’m a Disciple. We see things through to the end. No matter how scared and alone we feel.
Four days pass. Everyone’s impatient for news, but Timas refuses to provide us with partial updates. On the few occasions that Shark barges into Antoine’s office and demands answers, the reply is always the same. “I’ll summon you promptly when I’ve concluded my investigations.”
Timas finally reaches that conclusion shortly before dawn on the fifth day. Shark hammers on our door, waking us all, then sticks his head in and shouts, “The office! Now!”
Five minutes later we’re all huddled around Timas and his computers. We’re bleary-eyed, hair all over the place, typical early morning messes. Except Timas. As far as I know, he’s worked almost nonstop since I last saw him, sleeping only two or three hours a night. But he looks as perky as an actor in a TV commercial.
“I’ve found them,” he says without any preliminaries. “They’re on an island. It has no official name, but the Lambs nicknamed it Wolf Island. Prae Athim purchased it through a fifth-generation contact several years ago.”
“What’s a fifth-generation contact?” I ask.
“A contact of a contact of a contact of a contact of a contact,” Timas intones. “She conducts most of her business that way, making it almost impossible to trace anything back to her personally. Almost,” he repeats with a justifiably smug smile.
“Where’s the island?” Shark grunts.
Timas passes him a stapled printout of about twenty pages, then hands copies around to the rest of us. The small sheaf is crammed with all sorts of info about the island, its history, dimensions, wildlife, plant life, natural formations. There are several maps, most of the island, but also of the surrounding waters, noting currents, depth, temperatures, sea life.
“They’ve built a base,” Timas points out. “Page nine. They constructed it on the island’s largest crag, so they need only face an assault from one direction if the werewolves get out of control. That extra measure wasn’t a necessity — the fortifications are sound, with more than six separate security systems in place, powered by a variety of independent generators. The werewolves might have the run of the island,
but the people inside the compound are quite —”
“The beasts are running free?” Shark interrupts.
“Yes. That’s on page four. They were set loose once delivered to the island, though they can be recaptured, singly or in small groups, using a variety of equipment provided for such a purpose.”
“Maybe Terry was right,” Meera says dubiously. “Perhaps Prae took them there to let them live naturally.”
“I think not,” Timas purrs, “and would refer you to page fourteen, appendix Bii, in support of my opinion.”
Antoine and a few of the others flick forward. Shark tosses his copy of the report aside and snaps, “Don’t play games. Just tell us.”
“No games,” Timas says mildly. “The appendix outlines everything concisely. But if you would prefer an oral report…”
“I would,” Shark snarls.
“No!” Antoine gasps, turning a shade paler beneath his tan. He must be a speed-reader because he’s already flicking from page fourteen to fifteen, eyes scanning the lines super-fast. “This can’t be right. I would have known.”
