"Those lobes that you felt, they're very small. I can't hold all of the memories of even one person. So I have to specialize, pick and choose. I try to take only certain kinds of information, the kind that I love best."
"I don't follow," Bron said. Outside, a hawk shrieked as it floated just above the field, trying to startle mice from hiding. Bron shivered.
"The memories that I love best," she said, "are all about music. I've learned all that I can. I've borrowed knowledge from so many great minds.... I've even traded for it. There are others like me, you see, other memory merchants around the world. We form something of a 'living library' of knowledge and experiences. Would you like to know what Beethoven knew? Or Caruso? Or Michael Jackson? I can share that with you. Let me know a favorite composer, and I might be able to call a friend, get some of the memories that you're after."
Nothing in his life had prepared Bron for this. "You, you said something about mythology," Bron said. "What are you really?"
"Can't you guess?"
Bron shook his head.
"In the Mediterranean, we were called the 'Ael,' the speakers for the gods. We have been called many things—and most of the names have been lost in time—the shazaal, the massa, m'kithra—but you'll recognize some of the more-familiar names—'witches,' 'demons,' 'angels.'"
"How can you be both angels and demons?" Bron asked.
"Some of us are evil," Olivia replied. "Some of us feel nothing for humans, and use them mercilessly."
"Like those guys that chased us?"
"Yes," Olivia said. "Like them. Bron, the information that my people hold is very precious. There are tens of thousands of us hiding around the world. We're like ... a vast storehouse of information that you can't even imagine—math, history, philosophy. There are secrets we know, hidden from mankind for thousands of years. We're trying to save the world, make it a better place. But our enemies would destroy much of that, take what we know, and throw it away."
"Why would they do that?" Bron asked.
Olivia grew quiet. "That's not for me to answer, not now. You'll find out soon enough."
She fell silent for a moment, then said, "In ancient Greece, they would have called me a muse, a goddess who comes to bestow the gift of music and inspiration."
"Oh," Bron said. He felt dumbfounded, as if he might explode with this revelation. She knew what was going on in his mind. He remembered his training sessions in his dreams, and now he understood why he was suddenly... talented.
"So," he wondered, "what do you want with me? Why are you telling me all of this? I mean, I could have lived here for years, and I never would have imagined something like this."
"You're wondering why a muse would give her gifts to you?" Bron nodded. "I'm a teacher. That's what I do—spread knowledge, and hopefully help bring a little light, and joy, and beauty into the world."
A white sedan pulled into the empty development and sat for a moment, blocking the exit. Olivia put her hand on the key, peered at the sedan through the rearview mirror.
Bron feared that they'd been found. He studied the driver, a middle-aged woman with bad hair and pale skin. She peered about, as if lost, then backed out and drove away.
Olivia let out a breath. Bron decided that there was nothing to worry about.
Bron asked, "Does Mike know what we are?"
Olivia shook her head. "No, and you must never tell him. He knows that he and I can't bear children, but he hasn't guessed at the reason, and I won't tell him. He ... did find out a couple of times. Before we got married, I made the mistake of trying to tell him. He became very frightened and upset, every time, and so I had to sneak into his room as he slept and take the knowledge."
Now Olivia reached out, took Bron's hand gently, and gazed into his eyes.
"That's another gift that I can bring you, if you want: forgetfulness. Are there any memories that trouble you, any dreams that wake you in the night?"
"No," he said. Bron had more than his share of painful memories, but he wouldn't want Olivia fooling around in his head.
She smiled benevolently. "If you understood my powers, you might think better of that. The offer will always be open. If dark thoughts trouble you, I can offer relief."
"I don't want anything from you," he said. "I don't need anything."
Olivia recoiled just a bit, as if offended, and Bron regretted his words. "There's something that you need," she said. "You need to understand who you are, what you are."
"How did you know that I was one of you?" Bron asked. "I mean, even I didn't know!"
"There are signs. There aren't many of us, but I spot others from time to time. You've got an odd shape to your skull, rather boxlike. That was the first clue. But then I smelled you, and I knew. Male masaaks your age give off... a scent, pheromones that draw women. When you go into musth, it will attract every female who is ready to breed within miles."
Bron had no idea what to think about that. "What do you mean, when I go into musth?"
"In a year or so you'll be old enough for your first musth," she said. "Your scent right now, it's very ... uneven. But when it comes, it will be powerful... and dangerous. We call it flourishing. Just as a flower puts out its scent, so will you. I won't be able to be near you then.
When I smell it beginning, I'll leave."
"I don't understand," Bron said, though he suspected that he understood her all too well. "What will happen?"
"You will begin to flourish, and any of our kind who taste your scent, any women who are fertile, will come to you. They'll smell it from miles and miles away. Do I need to make it any clearer?"
"What if I go away, into the mountains or something?"
"Then no one will find you. But the musth will come upon you again, and again, every six years or so. You mustn't fight it. If we're to survive as a species, you mustn't fight it."
Bron grew thoughtful, and for a long time he didn't say anything. "If I'm a masaak," he asked, "then why haven't my sizraels ever come out before this? I mean, until a couple of days ago...."
"Isn't that obvious?" Olivia said. "Someone erased some of your memories, the ones that let you know how to extend them. I suspect that it was your mother. She didn't have to take much, since you were only a child. Someone wanted you to live among the humans, learn to pass yourself off as one of them. We're different from them, you and me. If you had grown up with a masaak, it would only accentuate the difference in your mind. Some of our children learn to see themselves as superior to others. They grow up cold and cunning, without compassion. They see humans as animals to be herded and used."
Bron felt confused, betrayed. "I can't believe that a mother would abandon her own child that way. I mean, I don't know how different a masaak is from a human, but even a crocodile loves her young."
Olivia shook her head. "I can't guarantee that your mother loved you. Those people we saw Friday, they are masaaks, too. They're more than just a cult. They're more evil than you can imagine. The/re bred to be cold, dispassionate. The old man, he was training the young. Very often, their women mate in a frenzy, and then don't want to keep their young. So they give them to humans to raise.
"It's called 'brood parasitism.' Just as some birds lay their eggs in other's nests, so do some masaaks. That boy that you saw at the store, Riley? He was one of them, a child left to be raised by humans. But such children are still precious to our enemies, and in time they will be gathered up by their masters."
Bron wondered at this. He was cold and dispassionate, he knew. Or at least he could be that way. He'd learned to turn off any affection that he felt for most of the adults in his life. He'd loved the Stillman children, but in the end, he was able to turn even that off.