“The Sight?” I asked, realizing with a sigh that it would be another morning of questions.
The gnome shook his head. “How do you think that MacDonald knew you were here? That the Enforcers always seem to know what you’re up to? Wizards see like you and I, but they also See—they can perceive everything within the areas they have marked as their own. MacDonald has marked Calgary and the oil-sands projects as his territory; he Sees everything.”
“Then how did the cabal sneak in?” I asked in my slow drawl.
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Eric told me quietly. “Some of the Enforcers have been given a portion of his Sight; it allows them to operate without pestering him with questions. Even if he somehow missed the feeders, they should have seen them. Somehow, this cabal not merely snuck into the city undetected but has evaded detection since.”
“With one of those?” I pointed at the pyramid.
“Something similar,” he admitted, “but not one of these—they are the mostly closely held secret of the gnomish smiths. I have only been permitted to make three. Oberis has one for when he absolutely needs it, I have this one for moments like this, and a third conceals my workshop, just in case.
“But what I miss, Jason, and what I fear is key here, is how they could conceal every vampire all of the time. You tracked Sigridsen by purely mortal means, really. The Enforcers should have known where she was the moment she was turned.”
“You think some of the Enforcers have been corrupted?” I asked. That was a nerve-wracking thought. Wizards were supposed to be all-knowing within their area—the Sight Eric mentioned. Deceiving one enough to betray him...well, I wouldn’t try it.
“It’s at least possible,” he said grimly. “I don’t know how to investigate that, but it’s something for you to consider, a link you need to watch for.”
“Honestly, I feel like I’m grasping at straws, and they keep setting themselves on fire,” I admitted. “I’ve lost my best sources through the Clan, and I’m not sure how to go forward.”
Eric nodded. “I have some more information for you,” he told me. “I’ve called in some favors, and one of my contacts has agreed to meet with you—he works for the Calgary Police, so he has access to databases we don’t.”
“That’s more than I had,” I said gratefully.
“His name is Aheed Ibrahim,” Eric continued. “He’s not human, but he’s not a breed of inhuman you’ve met before. He’s a djinni.”
I blinked. “I thought they really were only a myth.”
“Very little is only a myth,” the gnome reminded me wryly. “However, the djinn are very rare—unlike most inhumans, they are only fertile with each other. They are also quite powerful—Aheed is easily the equal of a lesser noble of the Court. He, his wife and their two children, however, are a tenth of the djinn in North America.
“Aheed drives hard bargains, and djinn are tricksters by nature,” Eric added. “Like in the old stories of them granting wishes, anything he does or offers will have a price—make sure you know what it is before agreeing to it. He’s mostly a good guy, so it will rarely be huge, but be careful what you agree to.”
“When do I get to meet him?” I asked.
Eric shrugged and pulled a second set of snowshoes out of thin air.
“I was thinking after breakfast?”
SNOWSHOEING through the buried city with Eric was a humbling reminder of where my physical prowess ranked against one of the true fae. I picked up the tricks and knacks quickly but was still hard pressed to keep up with a man slightly over half my height.
The sad part was that I could tell he was holding back, as much to avoid notice from the handful of people digging their way out around us as to let me keep up. He had more practice with the ’shoes and was faster and stronger than I was. On his own, Eric could have made the several-mile trip to Aheed’s small inner-city bungalow in maybe fifteen minutes.
It took the two of us a little under an hour, which was still better time than we would have made driving in the mess of snow and slush the city had become. Snowplows were out, and people with heavy trucks were out driving repeatedly through the snow, packing it down for others who didn’t have four-wheel drive.
Between the city workers and the gusto with which many of the city’s people had thrown themselves into opening up roads and clearing pathways, I would be surprised if the city wasn’t mostly open by evening. I was impressed.
Aheed’s bungalow was one of the ones where the owner had clearly been out as early as I had. The driveway and front paths were cleared, but snow had drifted down over the course of the day to provide an inch or so of surface cover.
Eric strode confidently over the new snow and rang the doorbell. The door was swiftly answered by a woman who looked in her early twenties. She was dark-haired and dark-skinned, clearly of Middle Eastern extraction.
“Ah, Mr. Eric,” she greeted the gnome. “And this would be your friend you wanted to introduce to my husband? Come in; get out of the cold.”
“Jason Kilkenny, be known to Nageena Ibrahim,” Eric told me as he led me into the warm bungalow. It was easily twenty-five, thirty degrees Celsius in the bungalow. Somehow, it didn’t surprise me that the djinn kept their house at a level most of the city’s other occupants would regard as eye-meltingly hot.
“Mr. Kilkenny, welcome.” Nageena inclined her head to me and then turned to Eric. “My husband is downstairs. You know the way. I will bring tea.”
Eric nodded to her and led the way for me through the bungalow. It was decorated with small Arabic-style hangings, all looking hand-woven.
“They’re all Nageena’s work,” Eric told me when he saw me eyeing them. “Remember that she is over seventy—she’s had a lot of time to make them, and a lot of time to get good at it.”
It was easy, dealing with inhumans, to forget how old we all were. I didn’t look any older than when I’d manifested at twenty-one, and I didn’t expect to noticeably age for another forty or so years—and I was half-human.
Nageena and her husband were well past “retirement age” for mortals but still looked like young parents—too young, in fact, to have the adult children I knew they had. To look as old as Eric did meant the gnome was probably well into his third century at least.
My ruminations on Eric’s age were interrupted by our entry into Aheed Ibrahim’s underground computer lab. There was no way to describe it. Five separate computer towers were hooked into a bewildering array of monitors and cables and speakers. Despite the best efforts of what looked like industrial cooling units standing by what I realized was a commercial-grade server rack, it was even warmer down there than upstairs.
“Master Eric, Mr. Kilkenny,” the dark-haired man sitting on a chair in the middle of all that technology greeted us. He turned to face us and rose to his feet, offering me his hand. “I am Detective Lieutenant Aheed Ibrahim,” he introduced himself with a clipped, vaguely British accent.
“Good to meet you, Detective.” I shook his hand and then took the seat he gestured me to. For all of the computers in the room, the two chairs other than Aheed’s own looked like recent additions. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”
“I owe Eric a multiplicity of favors earned in several manners over some years,” the djinni told me. “An opportunity to repay him is not something I will pass up lightly, and my position with the CPS provides me with access to information you would not otherwise be able to review. These computers”—he gestured around him—“are linked through secure connections to the CPS and Interpol servers.”
“So, what information does Eric’s favor get me?” I asked. “I am looking for—”
“Information on a group of vampires you believe entered the city some months ago,” he interrupted me. “Eric advised me of the situation and I have done some research.”