Unleashed

FIVE

IT’S ONLY ABOUT A FORTY-FIVE-MINUTE DRIVE over the Golden Gate Bridge to Muir Woods. Next morning, as I pulled into the parking lot entrance, the sun reflected off the leaves of the high trees, throwing a dappled pattern on the forest floor. There were only a few cars parked there, which was a relief. Usually it’s crowded, even on a weekday, and if anything odd were to happen, a bunch of freaked-out civilians was not something I wanted to deal with.

Since the parking lot was deserted I was able to check the shotgun without worry. The slug first, then the buckshot, five rounds in all-the mantra of first in, last out. I could have squeezed an extra round in if I’d racked a shell into the breech and carried it loaded, but I preferred to keep the breech empty for safety’s sake. Not to mention that the ugly sound of a round being racked in is enough in itself to discourage all sorts of potential threats. There’s a gut reaction to that distinctive sound, one that makes the mouth go dry, and even the bravest tend to freeze in place.

Another minute was all it took to put a concealment spell on the shotgun. I was getting better at that sort of thing; it didn’t take much energy or thought anymore. It helped that I made it appear to be a fishing rod-same general shape and proportions, and in a way, similar in purpose as well. If I’d needed to make it look like a backpack or a picnic basket, it would have been a lot more difficult and less believable.

The gun was no problem, but Lou was. Dogs aren’t allowed in Muir Woods, even on a leash. I suppose I could have made him look like a raccoon, but a tame raccoon trailing along beside me would draw even more attention, which was the last thing I wanted.

I decided to rely on his ability to blend in and go unnoticed-not a strictly magical ability, just something he’s good at. If we ran into a park ranger, Lou could always slip away into the underbrush before he was noticed.

The woods were cool and quiet, hushed, with the huge, overarching trees providing an atmosphere of almost religious calm, like an ancient church. There’s even a favorite spot named Cathedral Grove, so it wasn’t just me who felt that way.

I would have loved to relax and enjoy a walk through some of the most beautiful woods in northern California, but I was there on business. The trail that leads up to the falls was surrounded by the logs of giant fallen trees, still covered in mossy green from the winter’s rains, and thick brush stretched out beyond them. I kept a wary eye out, constantly glancing from side to side, on alert for the slightest sound. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but according to Morgan’s vision it wasn’t anything pleasant. And although the fake Ifrit was safely on the other side of the bridge, you never know. I wasn’t confident it would stay there. Lou was trotting along nonchalantly, but every so often he would cock his head to one side and twitch an ear, so I knew he was on sharp lookout as well.

It was a beautiful day. Even with Morgan’s vision of danger sitting in the back of my mind, the woods were lovely and serene. I followed the main trail through twists and turns, gradually becoming more comfortable. Maybe there wasn’t anything here after all. Visions, like oracles, are notoriously unreliable.

The sound of the breeze swirling through the tops of trees was pleasant and hypnotic. I fell into a rhythm as I walked and, even though I knew I should stay alert, found my thoughts drifting.

It wasn’t until I’d gone a couple of miles that I noticed the wind had picked up. The soothing music of fluttering leaves and swaying branches had become harsh and grating. A high keening sound echoed through the treetops, setting my teeth on edge. The sun went behind some clouds, and the forest now felt less cheerful, more uncomfortable, and somewhat threatening.

The keening of the wind increased, and underneath it was a low groaning sound, almost subsonic. I was finding it hard to concentrate, and gripped my disguised shotgun more tightly.

A feeling of malaise and dread washed over me, for no reason I could fathom. But it was strong, strong enough to make me break out in a sweat and feel sick to my stomach. Lou stopped moving forward, doubled back past me, and headed back the way we had come. He flashed a glance over his shoulder to tell me it was time to get the hell out of there, and for once I agreed with him. I followed him, and as he broke into a sudden trot, I did the same. But it was too late.

As we hurried back down the path, the feeling of dread didn’t fade; it grew stronger. And as I passed around a bend in the trail, I saw why. On the left, on a branch high in the tallest tree, a figure sat casually dangling its legs in the air. It was too far away to see clearly, but I still did. It was a man, of sorts, dressed in greens and browns, almost like one of Robin Hood’s merry men. But he was not merry.

His hair was curly, tangled, and colorless, like dried grass. There were stains around his mouth, which was wider than it should have been. His eyes were black and his face narrow and vulpine, blank and expressionless. Except, when he saw me he smiled, and that smile was the most horrible sight you could imagine. All around him a faint aura glowed, shot through with shifting colors, just like the energy pool at the construction site under the bridge. I’d found what I was looking for, or maybe he had found me.

My heart was pounding and my mouth dry. I didn’t even think of using talent. Without hesitation I racked a shell into the breech of the shotgun, just in case. He jumped up nimbly, now standing on the branch, and beckoned to me.

“Come,” he whispered, and I heard him as clearly as if he had shouted at the top of his voice.

I automatically took one step forward before I could stop myself. Then I started backing away, never taking my eyes off of him. He beckoned again.

“Mason. Follow!” The word reverberated in my head, repeating on an endless loop. He sprang off the branch and onto the branch of an adjoining tree, like some giant mutant squirrel. I started walking toward him; I couldn’t help myself. My skin was itching all over and my feet felt like they were on fire. I wanted to stop and pull off my boots, but I couldn’t.

It wasn’t that I was in thrall. There was no feeling of control; it wasn’t like I was struggling against a will more powerful than my own. It wasn’t like I felt compelled to follow, not exactly; I just couldn’t seem to think of anything else to do. As I walked, I started feeling oddly light. My steps became higher and longer and it took more time to touch earth each time, like gravity was growing weaker and I was walking on the moon.

Lou was unaffected, unsurprisingly, and he was barking constantly, using that high-pitched yelp that cuts through anything, nipping at my heels, trying to distract me and break whatever hold that thing had on me. But it was useless. I was barely conscious of his presence, as if he were some distant and long-forgotten dream.

I still held the shotgun in a death grip. I would have let it fall uselessly to the ground, but I no longer had control of the muscles needed to open my hands. Lou was growing ever more frantic, and I felt a momentary twinge of sorrow for him.

Finally, in desperation, he threw himself under my feet so that one foot came down directly on him. He squealed in pain as I stumbled and went down, sprawling full length on the ground. I was still holding the shotgun, and my finger must have remained on the trigger, because it went off with a roar inches from my head, momentarily deafening me. At the same time, the butt kicked back and caught me on the jaw, stunning me.

There was a ringing in my ears, but it broke the spell. I had about fifteen seconds before my hearing would return, and with it, my relentless march toward God only knew what.

I gathered my wits and reached out to the quiet of the forest. Then I took my own temporary deafness and wove it into a feedback loop, cutting off all sound. The ringing faded, but in its place was blessed silence.

The man was becoming impatient and looked somewhat puzzled. I saw his mouth form words, but heard nothing, safe in my cocoon of silence. He shrugged and lowered himself to the next branch down. Agile as he was, it wouldn’t take him more than a moment to reach the forest floor. I thought about using talent, trying to come up with some sort of spell to deal with him, but I didn’t think about it for long. Whatever it was, this thing was quite possibly resistant to magical operations, much like Ifrits are.

Instead, I aimed and squeezed the trigger. The recoil slammed into my shoulder, but I didn’t stop. I racked in another round without taking the gun from my shoulder, then another. He was still standing on the branch, one leg dangling idly to the side. Every shot had missed. Or worse, maybe they hadn’t. I jacked in the last round, the slug, and aimed more carefully before firing. I thought I saw him flinch, but I could have imagined it. But he clearly was way out of my league.

Before he could make it out of the tree I had sprinted past and was hightailing it back toward the parking lot and my van. Lou was well out in front; I might have knocked the wind out of him, but he could still move faster than I could.

I made it to the van, and was roaring back down Highway 1 in no time. I drove in ghastly silence until I realized I’d neglected to take the hearing spell off. As soon as I was back over the bridge I turned the van toward Victor’s. Checking out something for Rolf was one thing, but this was serious and I needed help.

Victor was at his desk in the study, scribbling notes about something. Eli was also there, as usual, and he was annoyed.

“I’ve been calling you all day,” he said. “Were you going to tell me about the Columbarium and Sherwood, or just wait until I asked?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I figured Victor would fill you in.”

“Well, he did, of course. But I want to hear it from you.”

“Okay, but there’s something else going on. Something important.”

“More important than Sherwood?”

“Well, no. More urgent, though.” He regarded me skeptically until I began my story. “You remember how Rolf said something else came out of that energy sink?”

“Rolf?”

“Bridge Guy. His name is Rolf.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“Well, I found what that was, or at least I think I did. And it’s bad.”

After I finished the tale, Victor sad, “So it never actually did anything to you, then? I mean, before you tried to kill it?”

“You weren’t there. You would have done the same.”

“Possibly. But I wouldn’t have missed.”

“I don’t think I did.”

Eli had walked over to the window and was staring out at the ocean as if Victor and I didn’t exist. I started to ask him a question, but Victor put his finger to his lips and shook his head. We sat there in silence for a good five minutes. The only other thing that happened was that Lou curled up and went to sleep.

“The world is a strange and wondrous place,” Eli finally said, turning back from the window. Not a statement that required comment, but I tossed one out anyway.

“Strange, yes. I’m not so sure about the wondrous part.” Eli smiled, but in an abstracted fashion. “So what do you think? Apart from it being wondrous and strange?”

“I think we’re in very deep waters indeed.” He turned to the window, staring out again, his back toward us when he continued. His voice took on that familiar professorial tone, as if lecturing in a classroom. “Now, you’ll remember a few months ago, when I posited that some of the creatures you were dealing with were archetypes-werewolves, trolls, and the like. Or rather, their uncontrolled talent had caused them to take on those aspects.” I nodded, but of course he couldn’t see me. “Well, I think we’re dealing with the same thing here, except on a far more powerful level. The energy that helped bring it into existence was enormous-not only from your friend under the bridge and his cohorts but from those rune stones. The fake Ifrit, that horrible creature, was bound by the invocation-limited in scope. Dangerous, but not any more so than any predator with near-human intelligence. But what came next was not a result of a focused spell-so it took on the aspect of legend, and I’m afraid it’s very powerful indeed.”

“But what is it?” I asked. “I can’t recall anything about tree-dwelling men with hypnotic powers.

“It wouldn’t have to be an exact replica of anything from mythology,” said Victor. “It could be an amalgam of legends-including more modern tales, works of fiction.”

“Like H. P. Lovecraft?” I scoffed. “You mean we’re lucky they didn’t call up Cthulhu, lord of the universe?”

“No,” Eli said. “But there are also ancient legends that got a modern makeover. Native American myths, for one.”

He turned back and pointed a finger at Victor. “A creature who lives in the forest. When it calls your name, you have to go with it, over the treetops. ‘Oh, my burning feet of fire!’ Do you recognize that?”

I hadn’t told Eli about my feet feeling like they were burning up. This was too close to the mark for my liking. I didn’t get Eli’s reference, but Victor did.

“Algernon Blackwood. The Wendigo,” he said.

“A Wendigo? Isn’t that a spirit that possesses people? Turns them into cannibals?”

“There are many diverse legends, from different tribes,” said Eli. “Blackwood took a little here, a little there. He also got ideas from his unconscious, I’m sure. And the unconscious certainly taps into that Jungian archetype pool. Haven’t you told me that sometimes when you’re playing at your best, the ideas aren’t so much yours as they are channeled from somewhere outside you? As if you’re tapping into something-much like accessing talent, by the way.”

“Well, sure, but that’s music. That’s a different thing.”

“Is it? Maybe, but whatever the mechanism, I think that’s what we’re seeing here.” He turned away again to continue his contemplation of the ocean, so his next words were muffled. “Who would have thought. A Wendigo.”

At least, that was what he’d obviously said, given the context. But he’d spoken softly, and the words were obscured. What I actually heard was “a wennigo.” Wennigo. When I go. Oh, my ever-loving God.

“When I go,” I said. “That’s what Sherwood said, out on the moor. It made no sense. ‘He must call me. When I go.’ She was talking about a Wendigo.”

“I don’t know,” said Victor. “That seems rather far-fetched, don’t you think?”

Eli walked back over to the big desk where Victor sat.

“No, I don’t think it is,” he said. “Not that much of a stretch at all. The Wendigo came out of the energy pool. Sherwood made her first appearance, after more than a year, at that same pool. And what did she say? ‘He must call me’? As Mason found out, when this creature calls, you have to go. Quite the coincidence, no?”

“And that raises an interesting point,” Victor said.

“Which is?”

“Your name,” Eli said. “How did it know your name, Mason?”

“Well, I certainly didn’t tell it. But what does my name have to do with anything? Do you think that’s what gave it power over me? That whole nonsense of knowledge of names giving another power over you is ancient superstition.” I paused. “Isn’t it?”

“I used to think so, but if you’ll think back on the events of the last year or so, I think you’ll find a lot of our former beliefs have been tested. And as to how it knew your name, and whether that knowledge bestows power-I have no idea, but I think it significant. Maybe it knows all names, just by virtue of what it is.”

“That’s a comforting thought.”

“Okay,” said Victor. “Assuming, hypothetically, that you’re right, where does that leave us? If it could really call Sherwood, bring her back from wherever, how does that help us? We can hardly go up and say, ‘Excuse me, Mr. Wendigo. I have a favor to ask.’ ”

“I don’t know. Maybe we could strike a bargain,” I said. Victor snorted.

“You don’t strike bargains with elemental archetypes.”

“Quite the contrary,” Eli said. “That’s exactly what one does. Think of the literature.”

“But we have nothing to trade.”

“Coercion, then,” I said. “Compel him in some way.

Could we trap him?”

“Doubtful,” Eli said. “It would take far more power to control something like that than any of us possess, singly or in concert. Now, if we had a magical enhancer, something like those rune stones, the ones that gave us so much trouble, that might be a different matter.”

Those stones, the petrified bones of long-dead creatures, were of immense magical potency. They’d come from another time and place, or dimension, or something-I’m not very good with the cosmology of such things. A black practitioner had discovered them and brought them back, and they’d caused all kinds of trouble. The stones acted as enhancers-with them, even an ordinary practitioner could achieve extraordinary things, and they’d been used in unpleasant ways. When it was all over, I confiscated the lot of them. They were too dangerous to be left lying around.

I should have destroyed them, or given them to Eli for study, but I couldn’t bring myself to give them up. At least I knew better than to use them myself, but I did it anyway. I’d given a few to Rolf, who thought he could employ them to create his own Ifrit. That hadn’t worked out so well. But maybe the stones could be used to help fix the very problem they’d caused. Eli and Victor might be able to keep that magic under control.

“How many of those stones do you think we’d need?” I asked, trying to be casual about it.

“A lot. In effect, we’d have to use them to build a metaphorical cage to contain it.” As soon as I asked about how many would be needed, Victor’s head swiveled toward me. He stared, thoughtfully at first, then with growing suspicion.

“Why do you ask?” he said.

“Just curious.”

He was on it like a bird dog on a quail. Damn him for being so sharp.

“Curious? I’ll bet. You kept some of them when you found them, didn’t you?” He shook his head in exasperation. “There were more of them than you let on, weren’t there? I should have known.”

My first instinct was to deny it, but what was the point? Technically I hadn’t done anything wrong.

“Yes, I still have a few,” I said. I expected Eli would be angry at this, but all his face showed was disappointment.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this, Mason?” he said. I shrugged.

“I don’t know, really. I was going to toss them, but when it came right down to it I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of them. And I knew how you’d feel about that, so…”

“They do get a hold on people. That’s one of the reasons why they’re dangerous. You use things like that too much, and before you know it, they control you instead of the other way around.” His face hardened. “You haven’t… been using them for anything, have you?”

I shook my head.

“No. Honestly, I was afraid to, and Lou would have taken my hand off if I’d tried. He really doesn’t like them.”

“That’s because he, at least, has some sense.” Eli came all the way across the room and peered into my face from a foot away. “Are you sure you haven’t been using them?”

“I’m sure. I think I would have remembered something like that.”

After a long moment, he clapped me on the shoulder, almost knocking me off my feet.

“Well, that’s all right, then.”

Victor pushed his chair away from the desk and rocked back on its two legs, teetering precariously. He often did that, and I always hoped he would overbalance one day and flip backward ass over teakettle. But he never did. He pointed a finger at me. There was a lot of finger-pointing going on.

“Okay,” he said. “Again, let’s assume we can use the stones, and we can build a trap. How are we going to find this Wendigo thing. Lou?”

“I don’t think so. He couldn’t track the fake Ifrit, and I don’t think he’d have any better luck with this.”

“Too bad. But how did you find it in the first place, then?”

“Well, that’s an interesting thing,” I said. “Basically, a woman I met told me where to look.”

“Oh? Who? And how would she know that?”

“She’s a psychic, or something like that. I met her accidentally.”

“How do you meet someone accidentally?”

“It happens. But that’s irrelevant. She had no idea what she was telling me.”

“Could she tell you where to find it again?”

I considered that. It hadn’t entered my mind, but it was possible she could.

“I don’t know. But it’s worth a try, I guess.”

“First things first,” said Eli. “I want those green rune stones.”

“I’ll bring them by tomorrow, I promise.”

“Why not right now?”

“I’ve got things to do. I want to talk to my psychic friend, for one.” I also wanted some time to get used to the idea of giving the rune stones up, but I didn’t say that.

“All right,” Eli said. He looked at me hard. “Just make sure you bring them. All of them.” I wasn’t fooling him. I got up to leave, but Victor held up a hand.

“Hold on a minute,” he said. He reached into the desk drawer and pulled out a standard 12-gauge cleaning kit-cleaning rod, patches, and Hoppe’s No. 9 solvent. “By the way, you fired the shotgun, so make sure you clean it thoroughly. A dirty gun is a lazy man’s weapon, and a lazy man is a liability.”

I took the kit, but I didn’t need the advice. My grandfather had drilled that into me long ago. As I drove home, I actually felt a sense of relief. I hadn’t touched those stones since I’d picked up that fateful bag, but they had been weighing on my mind for a while. Nothing ominous, just a low-level combination of curiosity and unease. I hadn’t been entirely forthright with Eli, which he was well aware of, but he had decided to let it pass. I think he understood those things could take hold of the imagination.

At home, I took a quick shower to wipe off the grime and nervous sweat that had piled up. Then I spent a while figuring out what I was going to say to Morgan. I could ask her out for coffee, but she would likely say no. She’d asked me to call her, but it was because she was worried, not because she was looking to hook up. My call might be misinterpreted. Not that she would have been altogether wrong.

Telling her over the phone that I wanted her to help me track down the mythical Wendigo wasn’t going to go over well, either. That approach could well lead to a restraining order. So I needed a use a different slant.

The first time I called, her machine picked up. I didn’t leave a message; this had to be finessed, and that takes talking in person. When I tried again a few hours later she answered on the first ring.

“Morgan? This is Mason. The jazz guy, remember?”

“Of course,” she said. “How are you?” Her tone was noncommittal, and I couldn’t tell if she was happy to hear from me or regretting giving me her number.

“Getting by. Just wanted to check in and tell you the news. I did end up in Muir Woods, despite your warnings.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry; I’m fine.”

“How could you?”

“I had to. You were absolutely right, though. I’m lucky I got back okay.”

“What happened?” she asked. “You sure you’re all right?”

“Positive. But it’s a bit complicated. I’m not really sure what I found there, and I’d love to talk to you about it. Maybe you could help clear it up for me. Could we meet for coffee somewhere?”

There was a long pause as she thought it over. What she had seen in her vision had shaken her, as well it might have, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to get involved any further. But she was curious-who wouldn’t be? And it never hurts to just talk. That’s one of the great lies people tell themselves.

“Uh, yeah, we could do that.”

“I’ve got my van, so you pick the place,” I said.

Another moment, then, “How about Martha’s? There’s one on the corner of California and Divisadero. It’s not too far from where I live.” It would take me about twenty minutes to get across town.

“Great,” I said. “Half an hour okay?”

“Fine,” she said. “See you then.”

The area around California and Divisadero lies between the tony Upper Fillmore and the posh Pacific Heights. It has no real identity, instead sort of bleeding off into each one without having the cachet of either. And unlike its wealthy neighbors it’s middle class, at least as much middle class as you can find in San Francisco. Some places in the city, like North Beach, could only be in San Francisco. Others could be transplanted into any good-sized city in the country without seeming out of place, and this area is one of them.

A few outside tables were clustered outside this Mar tha’s, right by the door. I left Lou to hold a table and went inside for a latte. Morgan wasn’t there yet. I hoped she hadn’t changed her mind. Ten minutes later, I saw her crossing the street toward us. She was wearing those same loose jeans again, but with a shapeless sweatshirt on top. I got the feeling she’d changed into it before coming over, trying for aggressively neutral. She gave me a quick nod and passed by the table, going inside inside to get her own cup of coffee. While I waited, I called Lou over.

“We need her help,” I said. “So put on the charm-don’t lay it on too thick, though. Let her think you’re just an ordinary dog. For now.”

Hopefully she was a dog person. Lou could charm almost anyone, but there are people who simply don’t like dogs, period. Go figure.

She came out, carrying a tiny cup of espresso, and slid into the opposite seat. Lou glanced up at me and I gave a slight nod. He stretched, sidled up to her, and sat up in his cute begging position. She smiled over at me, a good start.

“Yours, I assume?”

“Remember your vision where I was with something like a dog, but not quite? Well, you were right. This is Lou. Lou, this is Morgan. Say hello.”

Lou sat down and offered a paw in the standard doggy-shake fashion. She reached down to take it, and at the last moment he whipped it away and gave a short bark.

“Psych!” I said.

“Well, that’s just rude,” she said, laughing. “I suppose you taught him that.”

“Not at all. He has his own sense of humor, and the canine variety can be rather juvenile.” Lou walked back to her and offered a paw again.

“This is like Charlie Brown and the football, isn’t it?” she said.

“No, he’s apologizing.”

She reached down again and this time he gravely accepted her hand. Then he jumped up in my lap, curled up, and pretended to go to sleep. All of this had a purpose, of course. Not only did it humanize me and ease the tension, but the byplay would get her mind off any suspicions she might be having. Small, friendly dogs are so reassuring.

We looked at each other over the table for just long enough for it to start feeling uncomfortable. She took a sip of her coffee and made a face.

“For what they charge for espresso at these places, you’d think they might do better.” She emptied a packet of sugar into the coffee and tried again. “Worse,” she said. “So what happened to you? And why did you go up there the very next day? Did you want to see if I perhaps was a fraud? That’s a long ways to go just to out me as a fake psychic.”

“Not at all. I didn’t doubt you for a moment. But I’ve been looking for something, something odd. I didn’t know where it was, but your warning at least pointed me in the right direction.”

“Well, that’s ironic.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?” She took another delicate sip of espresso and her hand trembled slightly. “What I saw made me nervous. I wouldn’t have gone up there myself. I did warn you, you know.”

“I’m afraid I had to. It was something that needed checking out.”

She leaned forward, putting her cup down with a clink. “And that’s the whole point, isn’t it? What exactly was it, and who are you, anyway? And what do you want from me?”

This was the tricky part. Usually I don’t tell nonpractitioners anything about the world of practitioners, or about my talents. I prefer they think of me as nothing more than a guitar player, which is what I am, really. There’s no rule about telling civilians, and sometimes it works out fine-look at Victor and Timothy.

But there’s a certain reluctance, as if the whole thing is just a bit unseemly. Mostly people don’t believe you anyway. Even a slight demonstration isn’t enough to convince hard-core skeptics-they’d rather deny the evidence of their own eyes than change their comfortable view of the universe.

Morgan might be different, though. She obviously had psychic ability-she’d not only known about Lou ahead of meeting him; she had guided me to the exact place where the Wendigo had taken up residence, and had felt its disturbing presence. Accepting that there might be others with unusual powers shouldn’t be that much of a leap for her.

“Well, first of all, you know I’m a jazz musician,” I said, treading carefully. “But there’s another side to me. You’re a psychic-and thanks for the warning, by the way. I’m a-well, let’s just say that I possess certain powers of my own.” She looked skeptical.

“Such as?”

“It might be easier to show you,” I said. “Lou?” His ears pricked up. “Up on the table.”

He uncurled himself from my lap and stepped delicately onto the tabletop, being careful not to spill any coffee. He sat there stoically. He doesn’t much care for being put on display.

I glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention. Doing magic in public is frowned upon, at least by Victor. It obviously could lead to complications. But if anyone noticed my little demonstration, they’d just think they were seeing things and needed to get their eyes checked.

I spotted a woman walking across the street with a cocker spaniel. Every time it stopped and tried to sniff at something she would impatiently pull on its leash. This would be easy-not spectacular, but simple. I reached out, took the spaniel essence, and let it flow into Lou.

This kind of spell is easy. A static spell, one where you change something’s appearance and it stays that way for an extended period, does take some energy. But a fluid spell, one where you basically act as a conduit so the spell lasts only as long as you pay attention and keep the flow going, takes very little effort.

Lou’s coat changed from his normal black and tan into a mottled brown and white, thick and furry. His ears grew long and floppy, his muzzle squared off, and he put on a few pounds as well. In five seconds he’d been transformed into a friendly, smiling cocker spaniel.

Morgan stared at him in disbelief and put out a tentative hand to see if he was real. Then she pulled it back. She wasn’t sure she wanted to touch him. If she had, she would have felt a short coat and a sharp muzzle; I hadn’t gone to the trouble of making a tactile illusion as well-those are tricky and there wasn’t any point.

“Holy crap,” she said. “How did you do that?”

“Just an illusion.” I stopped the energy flow and Lou reverted back to his original form. “That’s just a parlor trick. But there are other, more serious things I can do.”

“Like what?”

“That vision of me you had? I was hunting down something that shouldn’t be in this world at all. I found it, but that didn’t go well. This time we’re prepared and I need your help to find it again.”

“We?”

“I have friends.”

“Friends like you?”

“Sort of.”

She digested this awhile. So far, things were going well. She hadn’t broken out in a cold sweat and quickly departed. Lots of people would have. The next step was more difficult. Would she accept me or fixate on the apparent supernatural? Ordinary citizens can go one of three ways. Morgan wasn’t quite in that category, but she was close.

One, remain skeptical, and insist it’s all some kind of trick. Another is to believe, and get the hell out of there as fast as possible. A third is to become so enamored with the whole concept of magic being real that they can think of nothing else.

If you build up a relationship with a nonpractitioner before you spring it on them, it usually works out okay. They know you, so they’re not as freaked out or blinded by what they see. But if you have just met someone, who you are gets lost in what you can do.

“So, what is it exactly you want me to do?” she finally asked. Her voice was steady, but she wasn’t nearly as calm as she was pretending to be. Nobody could be, not after something so flat-out weird had been sprung on them.

“Do another reading for me,” I said. “Maybe you’ll see me again, somewhere different. I think the nature of what I’m looking for will make it easier for you to see when we intersect.”

“That might be difficult right now. I need to be centered in order to get anything, and right now my psyche feels like it’s been scattered into little pieces.”

“Have another espresso,” I said. “That always calms my nerves.”

She smiled, but it was strained. I gave Lou another slight nod and he walked over and put one paw on her knee. She automatically put a hand down to ruffle his head, and when she did he rubbed against her calf like a cat. She smiled again, and this time the smile was real. Lou and I make a great team at running cons, even if they’re for a good purpose.

“Want to at least give it a try?” I said, holding out my hands.

Morgan took both of them in hers, just like before. She closed her eyes and breathed in, then half out, just like before. This time, though, there was no dramatic conclusion. She simply sat there, breathing evenly for a couple of minutes, before opening her eyes and releasing my hands. She shook her head with a quick back-and-forth motion.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t get anything this time.”

“Nothing?” I had been counting on at least something.

“Just some images. The only thing I could recognize was the Golden Gate Bridge, for what that might be worth.”

“Could you tell which side?”

“This side, I think. It was close to the tower, and I could see sunlight just hitting the top of the tower, so it must have been late afternoon.”

“And could you feel the presence of… well, whatever it is?” She shook her head again, slowly this time.

“No, just the bridge and you. There might have been other people with you.” That wasn’t much help.

“Well, it’s better than nothing,” I said. “I appreciate the effort.”

“Anytime.” She got up from the table and pushed the chair back in.

“I’ll give you a call if anything else comes up,” I said. “Or call me if there’s anything I can do for you.” I wrote my number on a napkin and handed it to her. “Or for any reason.”

Lou hopped into my lap and looked up appealingly at her. He makes a great wingman. Or wingdog.

“Sure,” she said, smiling more at him than at me. “Why not?”