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“And you would have been a pain in the ass about it. Fortunately for us both, you changed.” He knelt down by the nearest pile of crates, running a hand along the rough surfaces. “Can you Locate what we need, or do I have to do this alone?”

“If you tell me what I’m looking for.”

“Any notes he might have made regarding the use of earthquake surges. Or volcanic hotspots, for that matter. Any fae-current too intense for human skill to Work.”

“And you want notes on Working it.”

“Exactly.”

Apparently he didn’t see the contradiction in that statement, and Damien wasn’t in the mood to argue with him. Drawing in a deep breath, he focussed his own attention on the fae, and envisioned the mental patterns that would allow him to control it. When he had impressed it with his need, he went over to the nearest pile of crates and began to search through them, using the fae to stroke each page, each book, searching for a connection.

It took nearly an hour. They had to rearrange the room twice, to gain access to the crates that were buried in the rear. But at last Tarrant stiffened and breathed, “This is it.” And together they managed to unearth the crate in question and free its contents.

“Why don’t we just take it all?” Damien whispered. He felt like an intruder, acutely conscious of the innocent people sleeping just downstairs from them. “We can carry it.”

“I want to make sure we have what we’re looking for.” He was rummaging through a stack of clothbound books—ledgers, from the look of them—and at last he pulled out one that seemed to please him. It was a large volume, leatherbound, that had seen much handling in its life. An inkstain marked its spine and spread across one cover, from some accident long in the past. Tarrant put it down on the floor and set the lamp beside it. As Damien crouched nearby, he began to turn the pages.

God in heaven....

It was the scrapbook of a man obsessed, maintained for more than two decades. Newspaper articles were glued to the pages with meticulous care, chronicling every attempt that humankind had made to harness the wild power of the earth. Every sorcerer who had tried to Work the earthquake surge was in there, along with a description of each gruesome demise. Damien would have guessed that few men were stupid enough to attempt such a thing, but apparently there were hundreds. As Tarrant turned page after page, as the volume of human tragedy gained in weight and horror before them, Damien could only wonder at the lunacy of such men, who would give their lives to test themselves against a force that no human will had ever harnessed.

Senzei would have done it, he thought grimly. Given enough time, enough frustration, he would have tried the same thing. And he would have died the same way.

“This is it,” Tarrant said at last. “The rest can go back.”

Damien lifted up the nearest crate and hauled it back to where it belonged. “Is it time to tell me what all this is about?”

He could hear Tarrant hesitate. “Not yet. Let me go through this in detail. I need one piece of information, and I’m more likely to find it in here than in any other source. If it’s here, if it says what I think it does ... there’ll be time enough then to discuss things. If not, why waste the effort?”

“I don’t know what you have in mind,” Damien said sharply, “but remember: none of those people survived. None of them, Gerald.”

“None of them survived,” he agreed. “But that doesn’t mean that all of them failed, does it?”

“What does that mean?”

But the Hunter didn’t answer. And at last, realizing that nothing he could say was going to change that, Damien resigned himself to putting the room back in order.

It was nearly dawn. Domina’s light shone down through the window of the rented room, illuminating well-worn pages. There was weariness in Damien’s body, and in his soul.

Then the Hunter closed the book and said, “It’s here.”

Sleep, which had been closing in about Damien, was banished in an instant. He sat up in the chair and demanded,