“Oh no! That’s not what I mean. I mean . . . um. . . . OK, so . . . the kind of strange you have is just what you have, like being a girl or having curly hair. What you do with it is what you choose. You could do bad things or you could do good things, but it’s up to you.” I hoped that made more sense to Soraia than it did to me, because I was sure I was babbling like a moron.
She puzzled it over for a while. “Like Max.”
“Max?”
“From the book. From The Wild Things.”
“Oh, Where the Wild Things Are. Yes, like Max.”
Soraia nodded, serious again but no longer crying, the bright sparks dampening in her aura. “So . . . even if I have a bad strange, I won’t be . . . like them?”
“Not unless you decide to be. But I think you’re going to grow up to be a beautiful, nice person who does beautiful things. Because you know what the alternative is like.”
“What’s ‘alternative’?”
“It means ‘the other choice,’” I said.
“Oh.” She hesitated. “Are you a wizard?”
“Nope. I just see ghosts and magic, things like that. The lady we’re going to meet today is a witch,” I offered.
Soraia shrank away.
Quickly I continued. “Oh no, sweetheart. Not a bad witch. She’s a good witch—she’s all green and gold and has beautiful red hair. I just mean that there are a lot of ways to be strange like us without being the same as someone else.”
Soraia nodded and kept nodding, thinking, as she left the room.
I breathed a sigh and got out of bed as soon as the door was closed. I made sure it was properly locked this time—though I thought I’d locked it earlier. Then I checked on Quinton, relieved to find him sleeping heavily, but like a normal human. His skin was still a little pale and there were violet smudges around his eyes, but his breathing was normal and his pulse was strong. I kissed his cheek and left him to sleep while I got dressed and went downstairs for breakfast with Sam and the kids.
Both Soraia and the baby were well behaved, and Sam had discovered supplies in the fridge and cupboards to make a quick, cold meal of buttered bread with ham that was more like prosciutto than the moist, pink American kind. It was an odd breakfast to me, but there were no complaints.
Sam took one look at me and pointed to the stove. “There’s espresso on. It’s very hot, so use the cloth when you pick it up.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Do I have a sign over my head that says ‘coffee junkie’?”
“You don’t need one—you’re a classic case. And you look like you hardly slept.”
“I had some difficulty. . . .”
“How’s Jay?”
“Doing much better, but he’s still out. He’ll have to stay here and rest while I drive. But that’ll work out all right, since there’s some research that needs to be done and Jay’s extraordinary at digging up information.”
“I know. He used to get in trouble for that when we were kids—he was a hacker before it was a dirty word. So.” She studied me in silence for a while as I made my best efforts at sipping the coffee without scalding myself. “I don’t suppose anyone is going to tell me what happened last night. Jay didn’t and Soraia’s version is a bit garbled.”
“Probably not as garbled as you think. Short version: Carlos—the big scary guy who owns this house—recognized the workmanship on the ‘gifts’ your father left for Soraia. He was able to ID the woman who made them and we found out where she was—we think she’s the woman you saw with your father and her name is Maggie Griffin. We went to confront her and found Soraia there. Griffin and Carlos had a discussion, she lost her temper, put up a fight, and he slapped her down. We got Soraia and brought her back here. Pretty much all the news that’s fit to print.”
“What about the injury to her arm and this ‘old man’ she keeps talking about? And what happened to this Maggie Griffin? Was she arrested?”
“No. As you pointed out, that would only give your father more information about what we know. Your father wasn’t there, so he won’t know what happened for a while, even though the ‘old man’ escaped. We think he’s the man who was with Griffin and your father. As to what happened to Soraia’s arm, it looks like this is a sort of fanatical cult and they had some idea of using her bones for something very unsavory, the details of which you don’t want to know. Right now, we have some lead time and a rough idea of their plans, but we have to move before your father knows what we’re doing about it.”
“What are you doing? All I cared about was getting Soraia back, but there’s obviously more to this.”
“Well, your father’s up to something nasty and it looks like he was, basically, giving your daughter to some unpleasant people as a payment for other services.”
Sam’s mouth dropped open. “He wouldn’t. . . .”
“He did. We just got there before the next step could be taken.”
“Dear God . . .”
“You’re surprised he’s that much of a monster? Because I’m not. What he did in Seattle was horrific and it was just an overture to whatever he has in mind here. We still have a lot to do if we’re going to stop that plan, but before we can move ahead, you and the kids have to be taken to safety. I suppose Jay told you about the Danzigers?”
“A little. He was too sick to make a lot of sense.”
“Ben and Mara Danziger. They’re old friends of ours from Seattle—university professors. He’s a linguistics and languages scholar and works in comparative religions, folklore, mythology, and that sort of thing. She teaches geology. They have a son named Brian and he’s about Soraia’s age. He’s a lot like a miniature version of Jay.”
“Lord have mercy on us,” Sam replied.
I laughed. “I think you’ll all get along very well, but the thing that you’re going to have a hard time with is that Mara’s a witch.”
Sam narrowed her eyes, but she didn’t say anything.
“Anyhow, the reason we thought of them is not only are they reliable people who are also parents, but they understand the complications of this sort of situation. Mara’s the best protection you could have from anything paranormal that your father and his friends could throw at you.” I put up my hand to stop the objection forming on her lips. “I know you don’t swallow the creepy, woo-woo angle of this case, but it is a factor. If it makes you feel better, you can think of them as some kind of fanatical terrorists. Their ideas sound crazy to you, but they’re willing to act on those ideas, which makes them dangerous, and having an expert in their brand of crazy on your side will make you a lot safer.”
“I’ll accept that. I’m not sure about the witch thing. . . .”
“She’ll either convince you herself, or she won’t, but that’s up to you.”
“How is it that you happen to have friends here, so conveniently?”
“I rather suspect your brother had a hand in that. Unless you believe in fate, which I assume you don’t.”
Sam shook her head and I managed to gulp down enough of my coffee to feel less like I was operating by remote control.
“Anyhow, they’re on sabbatical and Ben was doing some research into European folklore for a book. Ben was offered a publishing contract, so the research got extended and they’ve been traveling around for about two years now. So, my guess is that Jay got in touch with them to get some other information, but he also got their itinerary and probably asked them if they could manage to be in the general vicinity, in case he needed backup before I got here. They’re the best people in the world. Ben’s one of those guys who’ll jump in without a second thought if he thinks he’s going to see or learn something rare in his field or if a friend needs his help. He’s full of enthusiasm. Mara’s the levelheaded one.”
“The witch.” Sam was biting her lip—a nervous habit her brother also had on rare occasion and one her daughter had picked up already, too.