She read it twice, nodded, and pocketed it. I signaled for Bergman to hang the amulet back around the guard’s neck. I expected him to get all icky-poo on me. He did it without complaining, but he did wipe his hands down the sides of his pants several times after.
Vayl returned, explaining that he’d explored the tunnel far enough to discover it led to the industrial center of the warren, where they heated the water they used to power the warren, and where they’d built the artificially lit farms they called gnoves.
“Let us take the alternate route,” he suggested. “I believe Ruvin’s family waits at the end of it.”
“Along with the rest of the town,” I said.
“Just so,” said Vayl. “Which is why you must all stay directly behind me. I will be able to camouflage our approach.”
“Except for the scent of Febreze?” Cassandra suggested.
Vayl considered her comment. Then he said, “The guard was expecting trouble. These creatures will not be. You would be amazed at what busy, self-absorbed people never see or choose to ignore.” She watched us both for a second. “I suppose, knowing how successful you two have been at this kind of work, I’ll have to take your word on that.”
I sent Astral ahead to warn us if anyone was coming, and we continued into the second tunnel. This one had been built much taller. As they often did, the gnomes had probably squatted in tunnels built by bigger creatures, bringing in more and more families, steadfastly refusing to leave until the original owners were forced to find more peaceful lodgings elsewhere. Those others must’ve been our height, or even taller.
Which was what got Vayl and me started playing our Who Was Here First? game.
“I like the Lofhs for this warren,” I said from over Bergman and Cassandra’s shoulders. Jack glanced up at my comment like he’d met a few of the tall, shy, wallpainters. “I read that a tribe immigrated to Sydney back in the 1800s. Maybe a few came south.”
Vayl ran his fingers across the well-worked stone as we walked toward a dawning light. Astral had already shown me it belonged to a flickering set of wall lamps that gave the warren a haunted-house atmosphere. “My guess is that these tunnels were built by the Rikk’n. I remember hearing that they had built several underground towns in the region before gnomes discovered they preferred talking to fighting and crowded them out.”
Bergman said, “You know, if my mom knew these others shared a name with the little red-hatted statues she sticks in her garden every spring she’d throw a fit! Don’t gnomes have any redeeming qualities?” Vayl thought for a second. “They generally die quietly.”
“Astral’s at the end of the tunnel,” I said. “She’s registering some manufactured light. Enough, at least, to keep the Ufranites from constantly bumping into each other.” Always the scientist, Bergman said, “I’m guessing the ones who run the gnoves wouldn’t appreciate going from pitch dark to fake sun day after day. Same with those who venture outside.”
“I agree,” said Vayl. “Perhaps your theory will help us in the future,” he added tactfully. “But now we need to know what Astral is seeing.”
I said, “It looks like a town square. The floor is flat and the ceiling’s so high it doesn’t even register.
Kiosks have been carved out of the rock, one right after another, from the entrance right around the curve of the room. Gnomes are lined up at them, trading coins for food and stuff that glows and… yeah, I think I see a T-shirt booth. Most of the Ufranites are gathered in the center of the area, which is almost parklike. Hell, they even have a bandstand with potted trees in the back. Anyway, I see blankets on the floor with plates, silverware, and tubs of food set out on them. Families are sitting, talking to each other and their neighbors. Lots of smiles and giggles. I’d say maybe eighty gnomes have collected, including fifteen to twenty kids.” I bit my lip. “You don’t suppose they’re getting ready to eat Ruvin’s family tonight?”
Vayl’s pinched nostrils told me he’d considered it. “Do you see any cooking implements? Perhaps a large fire or a cauldron?”
I stared hard into Astral’s projection. “No. Just that overgrown gazebo everybody’s sitting around. It’s holding a three-piece band with a drum and a couple of stringed gourds. I wouldn’t call what they’re doing to those instruments playing, though.” Gnome music sounded like a constipated guy trying—and failing—to clear his obstruction.
Cassandra had been crouching beside Jack, petting him to keep him calm as she leaned against the tunnel wall. Now she held up a hand, her distant expression on the one I usually dreaded. But maybe this time her vision had nothing to do with the death of one of my relatives.
“The shaman is coming,” she whispered. She glanced up at us, her focus still far away. “He’s like a huge ball of black fire in my mind’s eye.” She paused. “Something is off about him.” She put a hand to her forehead, dug her fingernails in. “He doesn’t seem… quite real. Why? Why would—” She stopped, her wide eyes staring into mine, panic swimming so close to the surface that I grabbed both of her arms without thinking.
“What is it?”
“My vision flipped. I was trying to get a better view of the shaman and suddenly I was Seeing a man’s face. He’s dead.” Tears spilled from her eyes.
“Do you recognize him?”
She shook her head. Went still. “Someone… is trying to speak to me.” She ran her hands along the floor, staring off into the distance like she was blind.
“Cassandra!” She jerked her head toward me, frowning as her eyes refocused. “The man,” I reminded her. “Describe him.”
“Dirty-blond hair. His eyes are open. They’re dark blue. He’s still snarling, like he died fighting. There’s a scar, like a half-moon, running from the side of his left eye down almost to the corner of his mouth.” Oh. Fuck. “Cassandra, this is important. Look at his neck. Is there a tattoo just under his ear? It would be—”
She finished my sentence with me. “—of a wolf’s head.”
Vayl and I nodded at each other. We didn’t need our extra connection to discuss how the shock had blown holes in our concentration. How we wanted to kill something. Right. Now. Because the man in Cassandra’s vision had been one of ours. An agent named Ethan Mreck, who’d spent the past few years infiltrating one of the biggest threats to peace left in Europe. A band of wolves called the Valencian Weres.
As a werewolf himself, Ethan had moved in circles no one else could even visualize. Which was why his undercover work had brought our department so much valuable information. In fact, his intel had sparked our last mission, leading us to destroy Edward “The Raptor” Samos, the worst enemy to U.S. National Security since Adolf Hitler. We’d also severely crippled his girlfriend, the Scidairan coven leader, Floraidh Halsey. After those successes, we’d hoped Ethan could help us find a way to pull the plug on the Valencian Weres, who’d definitely be making a power play now that they smelled the chance to gain territory. But Ethan was dead.
I watched our psychic’s darting eyes, saw her mouth tighten, and knew she was trying to pin down wisps of images that wanted to be caught and categorized about as bad as a butterfly does. I tried to help. “The fact that you Saw Ethan here, in the warren—that means the gnomes have to be connected to the Weres he was investigating, don’t you think?”