* * *
CORMAC LAID them all out on his table at home: one of the mangled coins of Dux Bellorum, the first one that had belonged to Kumarbis himself; a pair of goggles with very dark glass and aged leather that once belonged to a demon who might very well have come from Hell; the USB drive that had belonged to Amy Scanlon, in its reliquary; and Milo Kuzniak’s mirrored amulet, which didn’t have anything to do with the others, but he might as well keep it with the rest of the trophies. The rest of the clues. Mysteries with loose ends hanging.
If only objects could talk, to find out where this had come from, who it had belonged to, and did the elder Kuzniak find it or steal it, and on and on. He still didn’t have a way to look into the future to see what was coming next.
We could find a practitioner of psychometry—
No. It didn’t matter, it wasn’t important. What was important: looking forward.
The Long Game—it’s bigger than the vampires, isn’t it?
Likely. But he was betting the only vampire who knew that was Roman. He was manipulating the whole thing, gathering power, collecting spells and rituals, and it couldn’t be for any good purpose.
He could walk away. This wasn’t his fight.
But you won’t. You can’t.
Kitty and Ben wouldn’t walk away. He wasn’t in this to figure out what Roman was really up to and what he planned next. He was here to make sure they didn’t get themselves killed or worse. That was good enough for him.
* * *
SINCE SOLVING the problem of Amy’s book, he hadn’t checked the e-mail tied to the online version, which the Webmaster had left active. Before heading to bed for the night, he looked and found unread messages waiting for him, including one from his learned correspondent. The one Amelia had a crush on.
Not a crush. Professional admiration.
Right, whatever you say. Cormac read the e-mail.
“I notice you removed Amy Scanlon’s book from your Web site. I assume that means you successfully decoded it?”
He had a dilemma. He didn’t want to say yes—that would show way too much of his hand, and this guy was way too interested. He typed out a carefully ambiguous response: “Still working on it, but I decided having it online wasn’t solving anything.”
Hard, not to sit there staring at the screen, waiting for a response. He was inclined to take a walk around the block, even this late at night, but Amelia suggested reading a book instead—a history of Pompeii and the eruption of Vesuvius. He kept glancing up at the screen.
It’s the illusion of being instantaneous, Amelia complained. It raises expectations intolerably.
When the e-mail arrived, an hour or so later, the computer dinged its arrival.
The response read: “I would like to meet you. You have skills and knowledge, and I can use someone with both.”
Well, that was interesting.
We are looking for employment, aren’t we?
“That depends. I get the feeling this guy isn’t offering employment, but something else.”
You’re nervous.
“You bet I am.” He typed in a response: “I don’t know anything about you. Who are you?”
They waited. The next message arrived.
“I am called Roman.”
The words swam, then grew large. Coincidence. Maybe it was a coincidence.
Not fucking likely.
Cormac grit his teeth and raced to come up with a reply, because this was happening real time now and any pause would raise suspicions. He couldn’t let on that he’d heard the name before, that he knew who his correspondent was. He ought to shut down communications entirely—but that would also raise suspicions. And this—it was too good a lead. If only he could figure out exactly what to say, the words that wouldn’t make Roman suspect he was talking to an enemy. This had to sound ordinary, to make Roman complacent. Draw him in without bringing doom on himself. He’d never hunted anything like this.