“At least four.”
Genies. All of the problems a sphinx posed, with a great many of the same capabilities, but sphinxes were created, and genies were natural, born of elements and divine remnants. A keen eye for the balance and the cosmic makeup of reality, an ability to alter that balance and makeup, and, generally speaking, genies operated on the macro scale. Moving mountains, so to speak, or building castles in the span of a day. Hard to use without causing a great deal of alarm among non-practitioners. Guardians for the Sorcerer’s demesne?
“What else?”
“Glimmers. Almost-people, like shadows come to life.”
“Vestiges. Good. Keep going.”
“A very big ghost.”
Lots of possibilities there.
“Sweat and metal,” said one of the youngest Satyrs. One of Nathan’s. “Something almost human, but not quite. Violent.”
Vague, but any information was good information.
“Fox. I like the smell of her.”
Suspicions, but it wouldn’t be good to jump to conclusions.
“Burning wires,” said the youngest Satyr. “Elemental. It’s not very old.”
“Good.”
“One… wraith-vestige?” the middle Ibix brother suggested. “It smells like rotted branches, and birds, and the abyss. It doesn’t smell very big, but it passed by here not long ago.”
“Excellent,” he said.
“And something that smells like fat and bile and blood.”
“I believe Sandra mentioned that one. A butcher. Stay away, it likes innocents, and you’re innocent enough for it. The Sorcerer might let it slip the leash to come after you, just to hurt Sandra. Not an official breaking of the rules of hospitality.”
His coterie nodded, taking in his orders.
They arrived at the apartment.
“Nobody home,” a nymph spoke up.
“All for us?” the priest commented. “Good.”
He set down his bag on a bench in the middle of the lobby, unbuckling it and laying out the contents.
A scepter, topped with a pinecone, a branch with grapes at the end, a horn of ale that could drive a man into a killing madness, half finished, a carving of a bull in amber, a carving of a lion in gold. A small sickle meant for the cutting of grapes from the vine, and a great horn belonging to a beast long dead, sizable enough to be used as a club.
Gifts from his god.
He’d come prepared for war.
■
He stood at the end of the path to the Duchamp household. He didn’t approach, only watching. A few individuals cast him curious glances.
He hadn’t really groomed, but that wasn’t his style.
Sandra was rallying her own troops. Calling in favors. The Duchamps from out of town were returning home, and many brought husbands.
Always in pairs. Husband and wife.
A dozen different kinds of practitioners, coming and going in a matter of two or three minutes.
Someone would have tipped Sandra off. She appeared in the doorway.
Her expression was still so hard to read. Different emotions now, though. Her eyes shone a little.
She approached, oblivious of the people who turned to watch. Her hand brushed his hair, and his scruffy cheek.
“You’ve gone a little gray,” she said.
“You’ve barely changed at all,” he said.
She embraced him.
Still his wife. They’d never divorced.
“I can hardly believe you need me,” he commented, “All these people. Even if he has genies and angels.”
“These ones will deal with Johannes, or they’ll try,” she said. “You… ah, we both made a mistake here, and it’s a twist of fate that it hasn’t bitten us already.”
“Mistake?”
“I asked you to stop someone from leaving Toronto, and you promised you would. They came back, shucking off much of their identity, which is why you don’t remember. That was your broken promise.”
“Ah. You don’t sound so worried.”
“I’m not. I made a mistake too, telling you you’d know him when you saw him. That wasn’t true, apparently, not as he escaped. You can remedy it, and keep it from being a lie. While these people deal with the Behaims and Johannes, I need you to go after the Thorburns. I think you’re uniquely equipped to do it. They’re off balance, it’s the optimal time to do it.”
He squeezed her tight, feeling a tightness in his own chest. He let her go, backing away.
“Of course,” he said.