He didn’t know what she was talking about. Why would he? He hadn’t grown up in a House and tried all the off-limits stuff with magic. “It’s a thing kids do. Huffing Shadow. No? Well, you go down near the wards of a House. The foundation, where Shadow is at its thickest.” She’d actually been at the Walkers’ with Liv when she’d attempted it. “And then you try to take in as much Shadow as you can, cross over—which, yes, I know is impossible—and thereby attempt to spot a fae.”
He looked horrified. “Too much Shadow can kill you.”
“Yes, it can. What’s the old saying? Too much Shadow and the flesh weeps.”
“And this is common?”
She nodded. “I’m pretty sure every kid tries it, sooner or later. I’ve never seen my father so angry. But I was so sick, bleeding, that I was actually relieved to be punished.”
Before her eyes, Mason’s rough edges frayed just a little more. He had a son in a mage House, and she’d just given him one more cause to worry.
“I’ve never actually heard of a fatality though.”
His jaw flexed.
She wanted to say something that would ease his mind, but couldn’t think what. Talking to him was like walking through a mine field. She backed up instead, collected herself.
“About last night. Like I said, I was pretty worn out. But I’ve slept now”—a whole five hours—“and it won’t happen again.”
He looked at her a long moment, then said, “Pity,” and lifted a comic rakish brow to smolder her way for a second.
Cari smiled, suddenly feeling warm. “The magic with my bottles—it was charming.” Human or not, Mason was constantly surprised.
He shrugged. “A simple trick.”
For his help last night—no, for the way he’d helped her last night, she made an uncomfortable admission. “I don’t think there’s anything simple about you.”
Mason had worked through the early hours of the morning. He’d called Segue and left a message with Adam for Khan. Adam invited them to stop by and catch Shadowman personally, and Mason had to concede that in-person was the best way to speak to Khan, who did not favor technology.
He’d also spent an hour in the Dolan library. Access was an unexpected treasure. Cari had a true mage library, with the oldest tomes properly cared for in their own cases, and cotton gloves nearby for handling. He was tempted to pore over those first, but he’d gone instead for the contemporary limited edition Shadow Press titles, published about twenty years ago. The indexes of each mentioned progenitor fae, so the books were a good place to get a base knowledge. Plus, they were portable.
Years ago, when he was with Livia, he’d sought out all the resources available to a stray to piece together what he could about magekind. He’d traded favors for information so that he wouldn’t be ignorant next to Liv. And when she was in the mood, she’d occasionally throw out a tidbit—a prize to him, nothing to her. In those moments, he felt the difference between them. He, begging for scraps. She, uncomfortable giving them. She’d never liked the difference between them either. But she hadn’t been keen on correcting it.
Cari, in comparison, had been generous in the extreme. And here he was, repaying the favor by stealing information from her company.
He hit the program shortcut to the directory he’d set up for DolanCo’s files. Last night, it had filled up nicely with all the files from Cari’s laptop. Some had been encrypted but his program had taken care of that already. He’d filtered the directory based on the “membrane” term and had a list of twelve files, all contained in a folder called “Umbra.”
He glanced down at his laptop screen to the Discovery Report he was writing for Webb.
People would line up for a vial of pure magic, humans and mages alike, and how fitting that she’d named it Umbra—referring to the particular aptitude of her House. But the membrane they were using was only a partial, and unpredictable, success. So no breakthrough as Webb had hoped, just lots of possibility.
Mason tore a page from the middle of his yellow notepad—where coffee drips had not yet reached. He began to fold, origami-style, a small cup like a scalloped pinecone, open at the top. While he fashioned the shape, he threaded each crease with Shadow, which was left smoking inside the little paper vial when he finished. It was diluted magic, not near the potency of what Dolan was after, but the vial held.
That is, until he set it down, balancing it against the side of his coffee cup, and let go of the paper. Then the Shadow smoked in all directions, unimpeded, through the paper into the air.
Hmmm . . . He wanted his tools. Different materials.
Mason lifted the paper vial again, and Shadow once again swirled into its cup. He was waiting to see how much he could gather, how dark it could get, when his phone rocked a superhero theme.
He knocked over the books in his grab to answer, then forced himself to say calmly, “Hey, my man.”
It’d been five days, but it had felt like forever.
“Hi, Dad.” Fletcher sounded good. Excited. Didn’t miss his dad yet, though Mason was bruised inside. There’d been times when they’d had to be separated for weeks, so a few days’ absence shouldn’t have hurt, but it did. Badly. Fletcher seemed a world away, starting a new life.
“How’s . . . Bran?” Not the question Mason wanted to ask.
Call waiting beeped in, but he ignored it.
He wanted to know how Fletcher had slept, what he’d eaten, if the big house scared him, if Riordan Webb was good to him.
“Bran’s good. Tutor says I’m behind for my age, though. Wants me to do catch-up work.”
Behind? The kid was brilliant. Fletcher was easily beyond grade level. Mason had made damn sure every year. What had they missed?
“So I asked him if I could have fries with that.”
The ache in Mason’s chest exploded in a surprised laugh. His eyes watered. The kid was brutal.
“Get it?” Fletcher sounded proud of himself. “CATCH-UP and FRIES.”
“Yeah, got it. Smartass.” Mason rocked forward, braced elbows on his knees to contain the warmth and hurt that was Fletcher. “You’re okay, then.” He was okay.
“Yeah. I’m okay. I just don’t know like . . . a hundred languages.”
So that’s what it was. “Two’s a good start.” English and, thanks to the part-time nanny, Spanish. “Work hard on the other ninety-eight.”
Call waiting again. Not now.
A snort. Fletcher sounded so good. “Did you get the bad guys yet?”
“Doing my best. It’s a tricky one.”
“You need a secret lair. An epic lair.”
Still with the “epic” it seemed. Bran’s influence.
“I thought we were getting our own plane.” It was a long-standing debate. The kid and him, looking up at the stars, discussing the merits of this or that hero paraphernalia.
“Eh. Changed my mind. Lair.”
Another beep beep beep. Call waiting could just. Damn. Wait.
Mason figured the switch to lair was a hold-over from the fun of the fort. “I’ll build it in my spare time.” Best lair ever. It’d be ready when Fletcher was all grown up.
“With a built-in secret escape.”
“Of course. Who’d make a lair without a secret escape?”
“Because you always need a way out.”
Mason’s attention caught. Hovered. His heart trembled, mid-beat. “Do you need a way out?”
“Nah. Just saying.”
“Fletcher.”
“Shit,” his son said. “Tutor’s back.”
“Don’t swear.” Mason could feel himself aging. What had Fletcher meant, a way out? Had something happened after all?
“Shoot, I mean. Sorry.”