Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [115]
The Hunter looked at him. His eyes were black and hungry. “Did he take notes?”
“I think so. Why?”
“Might they still exist?”
He considered. “He lived with a woman before we left. I sent back word to her of what happened, when we got out of the rakhlands. Your guess is as good as mine what she did with his things, after that. Why?” he asked suddenly. “What are you thinking?”
“A possible plan,” he said softly. “But I need more data before I can assess its practicality. I think Mer Reese would have collected that data. I think that some of it may be in his notes.”
“You won’t tell me what it is?”
He shook his head. “Not now. It’s too great a long shot. Let me confirm what I suspect, and then ...” He drew in a deep breath. “I’ll tell you as soon as I know for certain. I promise.”
“Yeah. Thanks. I live for secondhand research.”
If the sarcasm in his tone bothered Tarrant, the Hunter gave no sign of it. “Come,” he said, rising. “Let’s see if his notes are still around.”
Out of habit, Damien glanced at the clock. “Isn’t it a little late to go visiting?”
The Hunter’s gaze was venomous. “I have twenty-nine days left,” he said icily. “In the face of that, do you think I care if I inconvenience someone?”
“No,” he muttered, embarrassed. “No reason you should. I’m sorry.”
“Do you remember where this woman lives?”
“Not exactly. But that’s what the fae’s for, isn’t it?” Then he hesitated. “Are you sure she’ll be willing to help us this late?”
“No.” The Hunter smiled coldly. “Not at all. But that’s what the fae’s for, isn’t it?”
The house was just as he remembered it: small and warm and utterly domestic. There were more quake-wards on the front porch now, as well as several new sigils etched into the window; he felt a pang of mourning at the irony of that. When Senzei Reese had lived here, his fiancée had been wary of such devices. Now that he was gone, and the house was free of his obsession, Worked items became acceptable again. It surprised him how bitter he felt about that.
“All right.” He sighed, and started toward the stairs. “Let’s do it.”
“One moment.” Tarrant’s eyes were focused on the ground before the house; Damien sensed him grow tense as he took hold of the currents with his will and began to mold them. As always, he found it eerie that a human being could Work without any sign or incantation to focus concentration.
When it seemed to him that Tarrant was done, he asked, “What are you doing?”
“Merely compensating for the late hour. I understand that anything more would be offensive to you. You see?” The pale eyes fixed on him, a spark of sardonic humor in their depths. “I do learn, Reverend Vryce.”
“About time,” he muttered, as they climbed up the porch stairs together.
It was Tarrant who rapped on the door, and Damien could sense his power woven into the sound, making it reverberate inside any human brain within hearing range. He waited a moment and then knocked again, and suddenly a light came on near the back of the house. She had been sleeping, no doubt. Damien wondered how effective Tarrant’s Working would be if she were barely awake.
After a minute they could see a figure padding through the house, a lamp in its hand. It came to the door and fumbled with the latch, then opened it. A short chain stretched taut as the door was pulled open a few inches.
“Yes?” It was a man. “What do you want?”
Damien couldn’t find his voice; it was Tarrant who filled in. “We’re looking for Allesha Huyding.”
“What’s it about?” he demanded. “And why can’t it wait until morning?”
Damien was about to risk an answer when a female voice sounded from the back of the house. “What is it, Rick?”
“Two men,” he answered curtly. “I don’t know either of them.”
There was movement in the room behind him now, as someone else approached. “Let me see,” she said softly. She peered over his arm and studied Tarrant, then turned to look at Damien. And gasped.
“Sorry to bother you—” the priest began.
“No bother,” she answered quickly. She nodded to the man. “Let them in.”
“But, Lesh—”
“It’s