Chapter 18 Understatement
Understatement
“Father?” Erik finished shaking droplets from dark hair, hissing slightly through his teeth to smoke the moisture into invisibility. You could keep the rain from touching you, but other spatters and stray droplets wormed their way in during winter, when everything was a grey aching mess.
At least, this far north it was.
“Ah, yes. Afternoon shift.” Ignatius considered the plate; on it, a wrapped vegetarian bagel sandwich sat, neatly cut in half and surrounded by an arc of plain potato crisps, misshapen gold coins. “She had a good appetite this morning. Perhaps she’ll want tea.”
“Maybe.” Erik glanced across the kitchen.
One long counter held plain white boxes—everything from outside had to be examined and re-wrapped, not only to keep their lirai insulated from reminders of lost freedom but also to make sure no thin thread of ill intent wormed its way into the temple.
Looked like Father had been busy shopping; he was an inveterate internet bargain hunter. “Who’s taking it in?”
“You may have the honor; Jake took her breakfast. I will visit the lady at dinner; I am told she has questions about her new status.” Ignatius’s frown was not quite magisterial, merely distracted.
There were distinct smudges under his dark eyes, and he moved stiffly.
A froth of parsley stood in a well-scrubbed water glass to his right; he selected a sprig and arranged it carefully.
“Restaurant quality.” Erik couldn’t help but smile, sobering when Ignatius glanced in his direction. Still, the old man looked pleased.
“It’s a good thing, to remind oneself of the…
oh, the aesthetics of food.” Father’s fingertips flicked, and an invisible preservation folded over the plate.
The tray’s domed silver cover stood ready at a precise angle, its surface showing a version of the kitchen and two men, distorted into monstrous shapes.
“It sounds snobbish, doesn’t it. In any case, it helps to have something novel to focus on, or to anticipate a small pleasure. ”
“Yeah.” But a Son had to be careful, too much novelty and your moorings started to slip.
It was a tricky balance; the god had as many whispers as there were dreams, and they were all shapechangers.
Erik almost wanted to ask how are you holding up, but Ignatius might be offended at the implications, no matter how well-meaning the inquiry. “So, it’s a little active out there.”
“Active.” Ignatius did not raise an eyebrow, but it was probably close.
“Yes, sir.” Erik had long ago fallen into Father’s habit of understatement. The bleak humor in such a practice suited him. “Any word from Control?”
“Not in the last day or so.” Ignatius paused, examining his elder son closely. “It’s… worrisome, Erik.”
Erik’s back ached and his shoulder bore a ring of fresh, savage purple-red bruising. It would fade quickly, but fighting without backup was a good way to get an overload of cumulative damage, not to mention run a greater risk of sliding off the rails.
Keeping the god out of your head during a fight robbed a Son of concentration needed to stay alive.
“They still want to wait for more daylight?” It boggled the mind, but this was just a frontier temple.
Even moving the relatively few miles to Rochester—not Stanfeld, as he’d thought—was fraught with danger.
“Apparently.” Ignatius’s gaze met his fully, and Erik was sure his own discomfort—and suspicion—was plainly visible.
“Great,” he said, and watched Ignatius cover the tray. The sorcery under the large silver dome would keep everything fresh, crisp or soft, and at optimal temperature.
God—any god—forbid a lirai should have to nibble soggy bread. Or get food poisoning.
Ignatius gave him another sideways look, one too worried to be properly amused. “My thoughts exactly. I shall continue the attempt, but it may become necessary to leave rather quickly.”
That was concerning, too. They could hold this temple almost indefinitely, but their potential in her pretty rooms needed the inoculation of the Flame sooner rather than later.
Her dreams would intensify now that she was exposed to active sorcery, and while the god’s madness wouldn’t brush her, contamination or other illness could very well sneak through.
“I’ll keep my go-bag packed,” Erik muttered, picking up the tray.
“Do that,” Ignatius said, equably, and glided for the sink to begin washing up.
* * *
“Come on in.” The lirai was at the windows, inspecting a grey afternoon—sleet trying mightily to morph into snow, but unless it warmed a few notches, tiny ice-freighted particles would keep spatter-rattling disconsolately at glass and stone.
She turned, studying him somberly, and maybe Jake had said something right at breakfast, because she looked…
Well, she looked reasonably relaxed. Her eyes still held shadows and the bruised half-moons of sleeplessness underneath were pronounced, but her mouth tilted up at the corners and she didn’t hug herself, or flinch when he set the tray down.
“Oh, hey. It’s you.” She even sounded pleased. Well, she was probably lonely, with her world turned upside down and confined to a frontline temple’s substandard liraim. “I was expecting the old guy.”
“Father will visit you at dinner, he said.” Erik hurried to add more, in case she didn’t get that they were on call for her and not the other way ’round. “Unless you want me to summon him now.”
“God, no.” Her shudder looked only half theatrical. “Where’s Jake?”
Did she prefer their Younger already? It was only to be expected. “He’s on guard outside the temple, but I can get him in if—”
“Nope.” A quick, graceful shake of her pretty head, dark hair rippling and bouncing as she moved. “I was just curious. Unless you’d like to escape?”
Was she asking if he found her company upsetting? Wonders never ceased. Then again, she was probably searching for any habit, routine, or certainty. It occurred to Erik that she might like a television, though a laptop was entirely out of the question.
At least, for now. “No ma’am. Was outside all morning.”
“Shopping?” Bright, polite interest lit her eyes, and it wasn’t fair. She was a Dreamer, of course, and the power and scale of their gifts shone through them, especially after the Flame’s burnishing.
Even without it she was gorgeous, and he was just a big dumb brute. Killing the beasts, beautiful. They’re weak in the light, but the chance to get a mouthful of you is powerful motivation. One he could, after all, relate to. “Not precisely.”
She waited, crossing her arms defensively after all, cupping sharp elbows in soft palms.
“It’s winter,” he said, finally. “When the sunshine’s weak, some of the shadowbeasts can come out to play. If there’s something they want badly enough.”
“Meaning me.” Her chin rose slightly, she studied him from top to toe, and suddenly there wasn’t enough air in the room. Strangely enough, she didn’t seem to be having any trouble breathing, not like her shock-laced gasping the other night.
“Meaning you.” What else could he say? At least he didn’t sound like a squeaky preteen babbling incoherently at the prettiest creature on earth.
Or at least he hoped he didn’t.
“But they didn’t know about me before you guys found me?”
She was a smart cookie, all right. “You probably avoided the worst of them with low-level precognition.” It was just barely possible, he supposed, and the thought of what could have happened to an unprotected potential—to this unprotected woman—threatened to turn his guts into an ice-lake.
“Maybe you want to talk about this after lunch?”
“Think it’ll ruin my appetite?” A shadow of pained amusement filled those pretty dark-blue eyes.
Erik forced his throat to work, his tone to stay level and flat. “Don’t want to take the chance.”
“I don’t think my appetite could get worse. But if it makes you upset—”
“No ma’am.” She thought he’d get upset? It was an exotic idea, almost laughable, and he dropped his chin, staring at the hardwood floor and the antique, threadbare throw rugs so she wouldn’t see the stupid smile threatening to twitch his lips. “Just want you to be comfortable.”
“Awful nice of you.” She lifted the silver cover and stared at the bagel sandwich like it had personally offended her. “You want some potato chips?”
“I wouldn’t say no.” Not to a token bite or two, at least.
“Why do you repackage everything?” Their potential settled gingerly in her seat, refusing to look up at him. “Is it really that bad if I know exactly where this place is?”
Ah. Still thinking like a kidnap victim. “It’s not that. It’s a protective measure, so nothing can hitch a ride into the liraim.”
“Hitch a ride?”
Having a civilian to instruct was an exotic experience.
“Like an ill-wishing, or a telltale, or a seeker. The unclean have a thousand ways to try to reach the lirai, and even a potential in an active temple’s got to be careful.
You don’t know enough yet, so we’ll be careful for you. ” Before and after you do, beautiful.
“Okay.” She took another peek at the bagel, as if expecting it to grow teeth and lunge for her. “So it’s like… washing everything before you wear it because of the finishing chemicals used on textiles?”
“Pretty much.” He would never have been able to put it so elegantly.
“Okay.” She eyed him sidelong as he lowered himself slowly into the seat least likely to crowd her, and gave him half of the sandwich. “We’ll share.”
If you only knew who you were breaking bread with. His eyes prickled; he took a deep breath. “Yes ma’am,” he muttered.
“It’s not ma’am, it’s Liv.” She set herself to dividing the crisps into two roughly even piles, and Erik realized he was going to have to eat his half of the damn sandwich, red bell pepper notwithstanding.
He hated the vegetable’s grassy taste with a passion, but a lirai’s gift was too important to be wasted.
Ever.