"A ley line.”
"It seems like a feeder line to a grid nexus, not a big source, but they seem to have dragged it from the position I'd expect.”
He nodded, narrowing his eyes in thought. "Dangerous enough on its own and remarkable that they've moved the ley line—such things are not easily diverted.”
He seemed less bothered by that than I was. I refocused the conversation on the events around Mark's death. "Do you know who controlled it or how? Is there any way to tell from what you can. . see?
"No. It is a single mind, though, and not the caprice of the collective personality that usually animates the entity. A powerful mind, unfettered by artificial limits.”
"They're all a little 'unfettered'—they've been encouraged to believe in what most people around here think is impossible.”
"This one is less restrained than any of them—it must be, to embrace the form of this thing. More like one of my kind than yours.”
"Psychopathic?”
Carlos rumbled amused gales of ice. "A matter of perspective.”
I frowned. "Then whichever one of them sent Celia here killed Mark and they meant to do it.”
"The details are unclear, but isn't it still murder to you if the killer has used this harmful thing knowingly even if they may not have meant to kill?”
"Yes.”
"Then, yes, one of them murdered this man.”
"How could he or she know they could do this?”
"There would have been a previous event in which the murderer realized the power—even if they did not understand it." He seemed to linger over the word "murderer," turning my spine cold.
"Would it have to be by the same person against the same person?" I asked.
"Not necessarily, but it would be most likely.”
"Then I have one more thing for you to see.”
Carlos growled. "This begins to tire me…”
I was surprised. "You're tired?”
"Bored.”
I pretended a cavalier attitude I didn't feel—Carlos didn't respect quailing. "Indulge me a little longer. It's not far from here.”
I could feel his annoyance as Carlos followed me out of the building and toward Old Possums. He displayed a slight limp that evening which had become marked over the hours and added to his grim presence. I tried to distract him a little as we walked.
"I have a more general question.”
He didn't ask.
"Are glass or mirrors special in some way? Magically, I mean.”
He sent me a sideways glance of interest tinged with irritation. "Mirrors have an unusual quality of resonance and reflection. The glass slows the reflection of magical things. If it reaches the silvered surface, the energy that made the reflection is captured as a charge in the metal until it dissipates or is discharged at the edge of the glass.”
"Like a battery?”
"The charge is not indefinite. It dissipates with time, bleeding slowly away through the glass. The scientific uses of glass also serve magic—when pure it reacts to nothing and collects nothing. But it is much denser than meets the eye and its common resonance is not that of magic. Energies much greater or less than that resonance have difficulty passing through it and will seek other paths or become slowed in their passage.”
I mulled that over as we turned in at the bookshop door.
I didn't recognize the wild-haired man behind the cash desk, happily bopping to his iPod. Carlos ignored him and followed me into the coffee alcove at the back. He glanced around, casting a dark eye on the room.
"And what is this place to your problem?”
"I think the first incident happened here. Mark—the man who was killed—was standing…" I looked around and went to a spot near the shelf marked "Biography," checking the mirror to see if the cash desk was visible as it should have been. "He must have been standing here, having an argument with someone when that gargoyle flew at him," I added, pointing to the listing figurine.
Carlos turned his head slowly, scanning the mantel until he came to the black cat-faced creature. He picked it up and peered at it, drawing a long breath.
"This." In the light of the shop, his face had become drawn and the network of scars was more obvious, looking like sharp ridges in a wind-scoured landscape.
"Yes. The autopsy showed a bruise on his shoulder from something and one on his chest from the book, and though I was told the gargoyle was only thrown at him, that was third-hand information. Supposedly no one touched the figure or threw it, but I think it did hit him and that a book also hit him. I think the person he was arguing with must have been the same one who sent the. . entity after him later. Can you tell if I'm right?”
Carlos glowered at me with impatience. "Very little remains—as I expected. No one—no murderer—has touched this, so there is no trace of death to it. Only the finest thread of the entity. It has the scent, but no more.”
"You don't think this may have been the precipitating incident?”
"It is possible," he snapped. "Probable. But there is no more to find here. This is even older than the death site, useless for anything but rough confirmation. Mere trivia.”
There was a hot spark to his glare and the annoyance rolled off him in waves with a strange, feral scent that made me dizzy. He put the object down and moved close to me, making my stomach heave. I turned my gaze away.
"It grows late and I grow hungry and tired of this. An interesting puzzle does not feed me. If you want more from me tonight, I will require payment—though you'd be a fool for it. There is nothing more I can see here.”
I felt frozen in place, fighting to keep my eyes turned from his. A rumble vibrated the air and my body.
"I'm done," I answered from a dry mouth.
I felt him withdraw, but didn't try to watch him go. I only waited until I was sure he was gone.
I sat down in one of the armchairs and took several deep, slow breaths. I'd been concentrating too hard on the problem of Celia—and the revelation of my connection to it—and not paying enough attention to the native threat of vampires. Carlos had always been the most controlled of them. He'd never threatened to make a meal of me before. I considered the limp and the scars, the incompleteness of his presence in the Grey. It had not occurred to me until now that even a creature who heals with preternatural speed would take a while to recover from being burned to a crisp—and it might be worse for a necromancer, whose relationship with death was not like that of other vampires.
I picked myself up and went to the front of the shop.
I waved and smiled at the bopping man until he pulled the tiny plastic buds from his ears.
"What can I do for you, pretty lady?" he cooed in a broad Jamaican accent that was laid on with a trowel.
"You must be Germaine.”
"That I am. How'd you know?”
"I know your cousin Phoebe.”
He rolled his head and his eyes. "Oh, man. You're not spyin' for the woman, are you?”
"No," I replied, laughing. "I need to talk to Amanda—she works here.”
He blew out a full-cheeked sigh of relief. "Well, thank God. But she's not in. Not in all week. Poor thing. She stayed at home since her man died. You try her home?”
"No. I was hoping you had the address.”
"Me? Man, no way Phoebe'd let me get at the records. As it is, Hugh make me bring the money and the keys to him every night. I'm just take in the money and send the books out. You could try tomorrow morning when the regular employees be in.”
Given Germaine's ditzy performance, I could understand Hugh's belief that Phoebe would get over her grief just to get him out of her store. I was ready to do a lot just to get him to drop the accent, but instead, Germaine was saved by my cell phone blatting.
I backed away from the desk to answer it, letting Germaine go back to his music.