Changeling Detective Agency - Shadows In The Starlight Part 15

Okay, that wasn't too disconcerting.

"Three, then," Gwen said, adding this new revelation to her growing list of Things to Deal With. "What I need to know is, can some of you guys-"

"Some of us," Ian interjected patiently.

"Would you stop with the interrupting?" she snapped. "Okay, can some of us change how we look?"

The supercilious little smile was back. "I a.s.sure you, Gwen, the apparent change in the shape of my ears is nothing more than selective observation on your part."

"Hate to be the one to break the news, buddy, but it's not all about you. I need to know if this is something one of us can do."

His smile broadened. "Ahhh, finally she says 'us.' We're making progress."

"Ahhh. Blow me." Gwen took a deep, steadying breath. "I used to go out with a guy who was into Arthurian stuff, and he nagged me until I read this book he was crazy about. Mists of Avalon. I wanted to b.i.t.c.h-slap most of the characters-"

"Your namesake in particular, no doubt."

"Didn't we talk about this interrupting? But yeah, you're right. The book made Gwenevere out to be a spineless simp. But the thing is, some of the magic in that book sort of... made sense to me."

"I can see where this is going. You're speaking of the glamour cast by the priestesses of Avalon."

"Well, yeah."

He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. "The writer wasn't far off. The ability to cast a glamour was one of the Old Gifts. There have been several attempts to revive it, but too often that gift conflicts with another Quality. And sometimes, it's the sole Quality the bearer possesses."

"If you have to be a one-trick pony, that's one h.e.l.l of a trick. There actually were people who could change what they looked like?"

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," Ian said, "and perception is a powerful thing."

Gwen bit back the impulse to comment on his sudden penchant for cliches. "So, they didn't actuallychange how they looked, but how people perceived them."

"That's correct."

"How?"

Ian lifted one eyebrow. "You're asking for a scientific explanation?"

"Give it your best shot."

"All right, then. The mind functions on a sort of electrochemical energy. When that chemistry is altered, the mind can be persuaded to change how it interprets the data collected by the senses. Excessive alcohol, psychotropic drugs, even pheromones can influence perceptions."

"Maybe pheromones can influence more than perception," Gwen mused. "Not long ago a friend of mine gave me this article about prayer and healing. There was this study done on people who believe in that sort of thing. Apparently they give off this pheromone when they pray. Other people pick up on it without consciously noticing it. If someone sick is in range, so to speak, prayer might actually speed up the healing process through a sort of chemical jump start."

"An interesting point," Ian said. "Humans draw lines between magic, religion, and the natural powers of the mind, but those boundaries keep s.h.i.+fting. According to this study you mentioned, it would follow that people who have exceptionally strong and varied pheromones could alter the perceptions-and, as you have observed, perhaps even the physical realities-of the people around them."

"And we have stronger and more varied pheromones."

"Surely you've noticed that your arousal is highly contagious. Men respond to your s.e.xuality because they perceive it physically. Chemistry, in your case, is quite literal."

"And here I thought it was my ladylike charm," Gwen said dryly. "So it could be done. Changing appearances, that is-making people see you differently."

"Theoretically, it's possible that this Quality might still exist," he specified, "but it's unlikely. In fact, we no longer breed for that gift."

For a long moment, Gwen simply stood and stared. "You did say 'breed,' didn't you?"

He nodded. "That will no doubt offend your human-instilled sensibilities, but consider the situation: each of us has three Qualities, all of which ebb and flow in certain predictable patterns. It's vital that these qualities be compatible."

There was probably some sense in what he said, but Gwen was too tired to care.

"Okay, I've officially gone into information overload. Why don't you let yourself out the same way you got in-whatever the h.e.l.lthatwas-and we'll talk about this in, oh, another month or so."

Ian held his ground. "Don't let it wait, Gwen. If you have any reason to believe this particular Quality is surfacing in you, you must let me know at once. Me," he emphasized, "and no other."

His tone was serious, almost ominous. Gwen shrugged and headed for the shower. "I suppose my life depends on it," she tossed back.

"For once," he said somberly, "you are most definitely right."

CHAPTER TWELVE

The disturbing conversation with Ian echoed through Gwen's thoughts as she drove to Sister Tamar's safe house. Sat.u.r.day night was their pizza-and-poker night, weather permitting and if no major crisis contravened. Missing a night's sleep simply didn't qualify as an excuse.

The safe house was a sprawling old Victorian located a few blocks from Providence College. The proximity to the school allowed the dozen or so young female residents to come and go without much comment, and the old-fas.h.i.+oned iron fence around the property was easily dismissed as the remnant of the original owner's pretensions.

Few people noticed the state-of-the-art security system, the bulletproof windows, the guard dog. The latter, an English sheepdog, was certainly visible from the street, but he looked more like an affable pet than a trained a.s.sa.s.sin. Gwen noticed it was hard for people to take any long-haired dog seriously.

Dobermans, pit bulls, German shepherds, rottweilers-those clean-cut guys got all the press.

The nun's dogs tended to be as unconventional as their mistress. All dogs were pack animals, and any creature with functioning brain cells recognized Sister Tamar as the resident alpha b.i.t.c.h. If her life was all about serving and protecting, who were they to do otherwise?

The sheepdog's MO was to gamble over, his tongue lolling in a goofy canine grin and his killer eyes s.h.i.+elded by long, s.h.a.ggy fur. He looked like an oversize stuffed toy, but he could take several chunks out of an intruder before the guy realized that Fluffy liked to play rough.

Gwen parked on the street and walked over to the intercom. Because she knew where to look for it, she glanced toward the camera in the old beech tree just inside the fence long enough to let it get a good shot of her face. The gate buzzed, and she walked through, making sure it clicked shut behind her.

The sheepdog greeted Gwen with a little woof, then followed her through the small yard and around to the back door like a s.h.a.ggy, four-legged shadow.

Sister Tamar had a small apartment on the first floor, three rooms that she kept fiercely tidy and spa.r.s.ely furnished. Her only luxury was a collection of high-quality ionic filters, all of which were kept running constantly.

The reason for this. .h.i.t Gwen as walked in. Tamar was sitting at her small table, feet propped up on a second chair. As usual, she was smoking like a bad chimney.

Gwen grimaced and swatted at a plume of menthol-scented smoke. "I thought you were going to give up the habit."

The nun glanced pointedly down at her skinny, jean-clad legs and bare, bunion-lumpy feet. " 'Give up the habit?' Since when did you start talking in bad puns?"

"Seriously. Those things will kill you."

Tamar sucked at her cigarette and blew out a leisurely cloud. "Never happen. Not in this business."

"What? Brides of Christ have a special dispensation against cancer?"

"No, but I figure I'll be shot by someone's irate husband, knifed by someone's pimp, or run over bysomeone's stalker first. Something with a little drama and pizzazz."

She had a point. Gwen had never been optimistic about her own life expectancy, either.

Until recently, that is.

The nun's gaze sharpened. "Why so glum?"

"Maybe I don't like the idea of outliving you," Gwen said. And because that was too close to the truth, she added, "Besides, who would take care of your girls?"

Tamar glared, then ground out her cigarette in a deeply stained ashtray someone had bought in Niagra Falls circa 1964.

"Not bad," she said grudgingly. "When results count, go straight for the guilt b.u.t.ton. Where'd you learn that trick?"

"Well, my best friend grew up Irish Catholic..."

One corner of Tamar's lips twitched. "Shut up and deal the cards."

They played a few hands of Texas Hold 'Em, but neither of them had much luck concentrating. The pizza was more successful; between the two of them, they demolished a deep-dish pizza piled with extra cheese, Canadian bacon, green peppers, onions, and pineapple.

"You're playing worse than usual tonight," Tamar pointed out as she snagged the last slice. "Something on your mind?"

"A lot of things," Gwen admitted. "But there's one thing in particular I did want to discuss with you. I haven't made any progress finding Irena's friends. If you think she's up to it, I'd like to talk to her."

Tamar looked dubious, and Gwen could see why. It had only been a week or so since the teenage girl had escaped from enforced prost.i.tution and made her way into the nun's care.

"She doesn't speak much English, and you don't speak Russian or Polish. Unless you plan to get out the hand puppets, I'm not sure what you think talking to Irena is going to accomplish."

"It's hard to explain," Gwen said. That, she added silently, just might be the largest understatement in the history of Rhode Island. How could she tell Sister Tamar there was a chance that she might pick up a mental image from Irena, something that might help her find the pimp who'd imprisoned Irena and two other girls?

Even if pragmatic Tamar bought into the whole psychic thing, recent events had added a whole new layer of weird. Gwen's psychic flashes, which had always been capricious, had recently become even more problematic. A few days ago, she'd had several vivid, hologram-type visions that anyone could see. It hadn't happened since her showdown with Meredith Cody's kidnappers, but the risk was there.

Still, when you considered the two girls still in the pimp's hands, the biggest risk was doing nothing at all.

Since Tamar was obviously waiting for an explanation, Gwen shrugged and said, "It's a long shot, but I'd like to try."

The nun rose and brushed crumbs off her gray sweats.h.i.+rt. "I'll ask Irena if she'll talk to you. She's come a long way this week, so I think she might be ready. She has a hard time formulating her thoughts in English, but she should be able to understand you if you speak slowly. If you like, I can stay andtranslate."

"No, I think we'll be fine." If things went wrong, Gwen thought grimly, the fewer witnesses, the better.

Several minutes later Tamar was back with a blond girl who looked to be about sixteen. Irena was too pale and thin to be pretty, and her narrow face was nearly overwhelmed by a large nose. She glanced at Gwen and said sometime to Tamar in either Polish or Russian, something that made the nun snort with laughter.

"Do I want to know?" Gwen asked.

"Probably not. I've explained to her that you find people, and that if she answers your questions, you might be able to help Marina and Anya."

Gwen smiled rea.s.suringly at the teenager. "Tell her I think she's very brave."

Tamar's translation brought a faint smile to the girl's face. Even so, her gaze followed the nun as she left the room and closed the door behind her. She turned back to Gwen, her eyes wary.

"I need you to picture the man who kept you, Marina, and Anya in that house."

The girl frowned and pantomimed drawing. "Make picture?"

"No. Make picture here," Gwen replied, tapping her head.

Irena nodded and closed her eyes. Her desire to help her friends must have been strong, because the picture that flooded Gwen's mind was vivid and immediate.

A piercing shriek shattered Gwen's concentration. She opened her eyes- And saw her vision reproduced in translucent colors and startling precision. The ghostly form of a burly Latino was right there in the room with them.

Irena scrambled away from the apparition, screaming something in Russian.

The door flew open hard, slamming into the wall hard enough to send a thin crack snaking up the old plaster. Tamar rushed in, wrath in her eyes and a small bottle in one hand. Without a moment's hesitation, she pummeled the vision with holy water and colorful curses. The situation might have been darkly amusing if it wasn't for Irena's terror.

Gwen doubted the holy water had much effect, but her own guilt appeared to be a real vision-quencher.

The apparition faded quickly. While Tamar soothed the sobbing child, Gwen called the last doctor in New England who made house calls-most likely because he'd been one of Tamar's pupils back in the day, and still had a lively fear of her.

It took more than an hour to restore order. Finally Irena went off to bed, taking with her Tamar's favorite dog, a gaunt greyhound the nun had rescued from his "retirement." The girls seemed to find comfort in the ugly guard dog. The beast might not be able to race anymore, but he sure as h.e.l.l remembered how to bite.

When Tamar and Gwen were finally alone, the nun took a bottle of brandy from the kitchen cupboard and poured generous three-finger portions into two gla.s.ses. Gwen tossed hers back and waited for the nun to catch up.

Tamar took a sip and sank into her chair, holding her gla.s.s in both hands."Ugly son of a b.i.t.c.h, wasn't he?" she murmured. "I'd always had my doubts about the whole 'fallen angel of light' c.r.a.p, but the devil looks like some guy who pumps gas in Cranston."

"I don't think that was a demonic visitation," Gwen said hesitantly. "In fact, I'm sure it wasn't. Tamar, I've got a confession."

"Do I look like a f.u.c.king priest?" the nun snapped. "Besides, no sensible person expects devils to look like Clark Gable. Evil works best when it's mundane and ba.n.a.l and normal. That way, it can sneak up and bite you in the a.s.s. Every one of the men who tormented Irena is a devil, and how many of them do you think are s.e.xy, Hollywood vampire types?"

"Not too many of them were transparent, either."

The nun dismissed this with an impatient gesture that sent the contents of her gla.s.s slos.h.i.+ng onto the table.

"That... thing we saw. Is that the man who has Irena's friends?"

"Yeah."

Tamar nodded-a single, decisive inclination of her head, then she tossed off the rest of her drink and reached for the bottle. "Well, go find him."

Gwen stared at her. "Just like that. You don't want to know what happened in here?"

Tamar poured herself another drink and regarded the smoky gold contents for a long time. Her thin shoulders rose and fell. "I used to demand explanations. Mostly about the sort of things you'd expect a young religious to contemplate: the paradox of an all-powerful G.o.d and a profoundly imperfect world, the nature of good and evil. In my business, answers are in short supply, so I stopped asking certain questions a long, long time ago."

"Yet you never left the order."