I nodded. I knew that.
“‘. . . and the Mohammedan troubles, the magickal must be sought out with a firm and thorough hand. Our dealings with them must be meticulous to reduce their numbers comprehensively and quickly.’”
“That’s horrible,” I said. “That sounds like genocide.”
“It was exactly like genocide. Religion as a political entity is always horrible,” Bruiser said, his tone final.
“But—” I stopped. My religion wasn’t supposed to be horrible. It was supposed to be based on love and generosity and forgiveness. But history had always suggested otherwise. And my other spirituality, the Cherokee, had a bloody and violent historical aspect that made the old pope’s comments seem conventional. How was I supposed to look at the mores of history and compare them to today’s violence and judgment? Current events suggested that humanity was no better today than it had ever been, that we had learned nothing. And my own job description suggested just the same. Vampire hunter. Vampire killer. My throat clogged on the implications, I said, “Go on.”
“That’s all. The rest of the pages in this folder appear to be from the same era and written by the same hand. Politics. Purchases of land. Taking of property and holdings from the people ‘disappeared’ by the Church.”
He shifted through the papers, pausing to read here and there. I refreshed his coffee, feeling disturbed for lots of reasons. He closed the file and stood, returning it to the box, his fingers moving through the pages and files. He reached deeper in and pulled out a very old book. “Ah, this is what you’ve been hoping for, I think. Treatise of the Magikal.” Bruiser opened the book and paged through the front; looked at me from under his eyebrows. “Shall we take this to the other room?”
“Yeah. Okay.” I started him a fresh cup and followed him to the living room. Overhead, I heard stirring, as Alex got up for the day and went to the bathroom. Soon he would bring me info on Satan’s Three, and my quiet time would be over. And I’d go back to being what I was and doing what I did. Bruiser sat on the couch, and after a moment, I curled up on the other end.
“This book is from the seventeen hundreds, printed in Germany. My familiarity with the tongue is limited, so I’ll read, translate, and then summarize it for you.”
“How do you know all this stuff? Languages and all. I mean, I know you’re old, but—” I stopped myself. “I mean you’re not old old, but you’re . . . just . . .”
“Old?” he asked, that same warm laughter in his tone. I shrugged uncomfortably, and he asked, “How old are you, Jane?”
I jerked my eyes from my tea mug to his face. Chills snaked along my limbs, any remaining warmth from our kiss chased away by the question.
“Are you as old as I? I was born in nineteen hundred and three.” His eyes were crinkled slightly as he watched me struggle with the question. “Until we emigrated to the colonies, I had a classical education, learning Latin, Greek, French, mathematics, philosophy, and history. Once I entered Leo’s household, I was tutored by a variety of Mithrans in numerous subjects. I like languages, their histories and mutability, the cultures they reference and revive from the ashes of time.”
“I don’t know,” I blurted. A weight lifted from my shoulders when he didn’t react. “Found in the woods when I was twelvish. No memories. Raised by wolves. All that nonsense. It made the papers.”
Mate to know all of I/we, Beast thought at me.
Bruiser raised his eyebrows politely, asking silently for more. For no reason I understood, I answered. “I was about five on the Trail of Tears.”
“The nunahi-duna-dlo-hilu-i,” Bruiser said softly, his voice holding no nuance at all.
Shock that he pronounced it perfectly went through me and my heart rate sped. “Yes.”
“The trail lasted from 1831 to 1838, and involved many tribes in the eastern part of the States. The Cherokees were the last tribe moved. Forcefully. Brutally. So you might have been born anytime from eighteen thirty to eighteen thirty-three.”
He didn’t look like he was about to freak out so I nodded once, a jerk of my head.
“You’re robbing the cradle, then,” he said. Humor filled his face. “You’re a cougar.”
Laughter burbled out of me, part of it relieved nerves, the other part surprise at the play on words. “I’m not that kind of cougar,” I said, my tone lofty. Unthinking, I added, “I haven’t slept with you yet.” A hot blush followed the shock through me like lightning when I heard that last word come out of my mouth.
“No. Not yet,” he agreed, but his words were no longer smooth, or amused. He sounded something else, something heated and waiting. Bruiser returned his eyes to the old book and started reading, his eyes going back and forth across the page.
I managed to keep my breath from whooshing out with relief, but my skin felt hot and prickly. Beast purred inside of me, oddly satisfied. Upstairs, Alex started a shower and thumped around in the bathroom.
Long minutes later Bruiser said, “The magical beings have existed for thousands of years. There are numerous kinds, and they appear to be divided along racial, ethnic, and familial lines, though that is thought to be due to travel restrictions and inbreeding in prehistoric tribal times, not an actual genetic or racial difference that denotes ability or power levels. The writer seems to be saying that all witches are equal. But not really.”
“Helpful. Not.”
“Mmmm. The persecution of the magical began after the fall of Atlantis”—his eyebrows went up together—“in the year 5,000 BC, following a great worldwide flood. That makes it seven thousand years ago. A flood that killed off The People of the Straight Ways.”
“Say that again.”
Bruiser looked up at me. “The People of the Straight Ways?”
“Yeah. That could tie back with the l’arcenciel—the light-dragon that bit Leo and Gee. Back with stuff I heard when I was working south of Chauvin, hunting that escaped prisoner.” Bruiser inclined his head. “I was told that they built lots of the ancient canals found in Louisiana, Mississippi, Florida, New England, and all over the world. Do you know about them?”
“L’arcenciel, or the arcenciel. The L is the article.” I gave a nod of understanding, and he went on. “I’ve come across the term once or twice, but not with any particular emphasis or related to any flood. Or related to the flood.” He closed the book and pulled off the white gloves. “You look tired. When did you last sleep?”
I thought about that for a while and sipped my cold tea. “I don’t remember when I last slept for a whole night. I’ve been on vamp hours. And then my house was targeted by a bomb maker. And then I got cut up by a master swordsman.”
“And broke his neck.”
“Yeah. That too. So I don’t know.” I added, by way of ambush, “What do Satan’s Three want with Leo? And me?”
With a faint smile, he said, “You’ll have to ask Leo that.” Bruiser held up the book and asked, “May I take this with me? I’ll read and summarize it for you as I go and send it to you via e-mail. The contents don’t sound as if they need immediate attention.”
So much for verbal surprise attacks. I flipped my hand in a modified shrug. “Sure. If you find anything out about the iron spike of Golgotha or any of the other magical items, let me know.”