It was a Tarot card, Strength. Ragged and torn, it depicted a woman holding closed the jaws of a lion. It was Tara’s card, from the deck she’d inherited from her mother, long ago. The deck had been destroyed, and this had been the only part of it that remained. Tara fingered the grimy, faded inks. It still smelled like earth, where Harry had found it, months before.
A smile touched her lips, and some of the tension drained out of her shoulders. She knew that Harry had not forgotten her.
She undressed quickly, averting her eyes from the mirror. A Jack Frost pattern of white scars crossed down her throat, over her abdomen, ending over her right hip. Stipples of scars puckered over her right arm, under her left breast, and onto one thigh. Gifts from the Gardener. Tara was self-conscious enough about them not to want her gaze to linger. She shrugged quickly into her black knit pajamas: wide-legged pants and a long-sleeved top that covered most of them. She didn’t need the reminders when trying to sleep … or work.
Tara reached for her cell phone and climbed into bed. She dialed the number for the farmhouse. She picked her cards out of her purse and laid them on her lap. As the phone rang, she shuffled the cards. She plucked one from the deck, turned it faceup: the Priestess. A woman in heavy robes and headdress in the shape of a crescent moon gazed serenely back at her. Tara made a face. This was the guardian of esoteric mysteries, the card of intuition. It was also the card she associated with the Pythia.
“Hello, Tara.” The Pythia answered. Tara didn’t know if she knew who was calling because she was squinting into her cigarette lighter, or whether she was using caller ID.
“Hello. Is Cassie awake?”
“Just a moment.” The phone was placed down, and Tara heard footsteps and the murmur of voices. Tara had no doubt that Delphi’s Daughters would be listening in to the conversation. She plucked another card from the deck, the Star. It depicted a young woman pouring water into a stream with a bright yellow star shining overhead. It was the card of hope, of the future. It was the card she associated most with Cassie.
“Hi, Tara.” Cassie’s voice sounded tinny over the connection.
“Cassie. How are you?”
“Good. How was your trip?”
“Tiring. Got some sleep on the plane, but it’s been nonstop running since I got here.”
“How’s Harry?”
“Good. I think.”
Tara could hear Cassie’s smile over the phone. “You don’t know?”
“Things are complicated.”
“They always are, with you two.”
Tara took a deep breath. “Hey, it looks like I might be here longer than I thought.”
“Oh.” There was a pause.
Tara pulled another card: the Four of Wands, reversed. It showed four garlanded wands and four maidens celebrating underneath, with a castle in the background. Reversed, it suggested insecurity. “Everything okay there?” Tara kept the tone of her voice light, but she worried about the girl. The cards were the only means she had of gauging the true situation back at the farmhouse, an oracle’s lie detector.
“Things are fine. The Pythia is going to start some new training with me tomorrow.”
Tara’s eyebrows crawled up. “More astrology?”
“She didn’t say. Just said that this was more ‘practical training.’”
“Hmmm.” That could be anything from cooking to martial arts.
“But I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. You’re going to call tomorrow, right?”
“Of course, sweetie. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Okay. Good night, Tara.”
“Snuggle up to Maggie and Oscar. Good night.”
The phone line clicked silent. Tara shuffled her cards back into the deck. She wasn’t happy about leaving Cassie alone with Delphi’s Daughters. But in light of this case, she couldn’t go rushing back. Her uneasiness—and Cassie’s—would have to wait.
Tara bent down to click on the lamp on the floor. She spread out Lena’s file before her. Like the others, it had been heavily redacted. But from what Tara had gathered, Lena had been Carl’s interpreter for Project Rogue Angel. She’d traveled with him throughout Europe, searching for forgotten equipment and trying to broker deals for scientists to stay. At that time, brain drain had been severely affecting the former Soviet republics. Many scientists had gone to the highest bidder. Or gone missing.
Tara shuffled her deck. “Tell me about Lena,” she breathed to it. A card skipped out of the orderly shuffle, and she pulled it.
The Queen of Pentacles stood in a lush garden, holding a star. Her dark, braided hair hung over her richly embroidered robes. The Queen of Pentacles was an earthy, practical, and sensuous woman. She was a hard worker, a woman who accomplished what she set out to do. And she had no difficulty enjoying the rewards.
“Tell me about her colleague, Carl,” she asked the cards. She cut the deck three times and drew the King of Pentacles, holding a five-pointed star and the reins of a sorrel horse. These two were meant to be together. The King was the master of practical matters, of status, and negotiations.
“Tell me about their relationship.” To confirm her suspicion, she laid a third card between them. She drew the Six of Cups, showing two children drinking from the same chalice. This card suggested that these two were living too much in the past, attached to a love affair that had long ended.
Tara flipped back through Carl’s file. His photos showed a fit, gray-haired man. He’d been married at the time he’d been working in Russia. Tara flipped through photos of Suzanne and the kids. The wife was a perfectly beautiful woman, and the children took after her. But Carl’s true love had been Lena.
Tara suspended judgment. She was simply a voyeur, looking from the outside in. The less she judged, the more she might be able to understand.
She yawned. She might be able to understand more, but not tonight … at least, not while she was awake. She shuffled her cards and pulled a random one from the deck: the World. Tara tucked the card under the pillow and switched off the light. This was an old technique her mother had taught her. Leaving a card in mind, whether to meditate upon, or dream upon, sometimes gave up some interesting insights.
She pulled up the comforter around her chin. It smelled of Harry, like soap and aftershave that smelled faintly of sandalwood. A lump rose in her throat at being in Harry’s bed without him. As she fell asleep, she blinked back tears.
T
ARA DREAMED, BUT SHE DREAMED OF MORE THAN THE
W
ORLD
.
She smelled blood, and opened her eyes. At first, she thought she was reliving the nightmare of the Gardener. But the details were different. She wasn’t in a box, bleeding out in a shallow grave; she was standing upright and feeling sun on her face. She was wearing a blue dress, the bodice smeared in crimson. Her fingers fluttered to her throat. The neckline of the dress was torn, and she could feel seeping wounds on her collar. Her hands were covered in gloves, and the sticky redness stained the leather.
Something bumped her side. She looked down, and gasped.
A lion, tawny and massive, looked up at her with unblinking golden eyes. His tail smacked the back of her legs. The muscles in his back rippled languidly as he circled her, and Tara held her breath. The lion sat down and began to lick blood off his massive paws. Her blood.
“Holy shit,” she breathed. In this world, in the world of Tarot, she was the avatar of Strength. The avatar of Strength could close the jaws of the lion. Could she?
She knelt before the lion and reached out her hand, as if the lion was a dog in a park she was trying to make friends with. He sniffed disinterestedly at her. Tentatively, she reached out for the top of his head. His mane was coarse and thick, but warm. His skull was larger than her chest, and her fingers easily disappeared in the short fur behind his ears. He made no move to harm her, keeping his teeth firmly hidden behind his whiskers. Whatever altercation she’d had with the lion was lost on Tara, but she kept her guard up. As tame as he seemed, he was still a wild animal.
Tara looked over his ears at the landscape. Wind whipped desert sand through the red light of sunset, casting her shadow before her. The wind had carved grooves in the sand, like the tracks of a sidewinder.
But another shadow crossed over the ripples of dunes. She and the lion were not alone.
A woman walked across the sand some yards distant, the hem of her velvet dress dragging in the sand like the wing of a broken bird. Tara recognized the Queen of Pentacles, with a moonlike face, carved with high cheekbones. Dark eyes swept over the landscape.
“Lena?” Tara cupped her hands over her mouth to shout.
She turned toward Tara. The wind whistled through her heavy sleeves, tearing at her hair.
Another figure appeared behind the Queen, casting a long shadow in the setting sun. Tara shaded her eyes with her hand, straining to see an androgynous figure clothed in a sheet that rattled like the sails of a ship in the wind. Long blond hair streamed over the figure’s shoulder, but Tara couldn’t tell whether the figure was male or female. Laurel leaves were bound in the figure’s hair, ripped free by the wind. Blue eyes burned in hooded sockets.
The lion at her side growled. His claws flexed in the sand.
“The World,” Tara breathed.
“Lena, come here.” The World spoke to the Queen in a man’s voice, beckoned her with an open hand. Lena’s head turned to the voice. The World’s hand caught her sleeve, dragged her into a crushing embrace.
“No!” Tara ran toward Lena and the World, sand sucking at her feet.
But she was too late. The World enveloped Lena in his white sheet. For a moment, their limbs were twined together like the Lovers. But the violet brocade of Lena’s dress disappeared. When the World opened his hands, Lena was gone.
Only the howl of the wind rattled through his hands.
Tara met his gaze, but they were not the blue eyes of the World. Not anymore. They were Lena’s brown ones, staring back at her.
H
ARRY STARED AT THE CEILING, HANDS LACED BEHIND HIS
head. Streetlight striped the walls through the blinds, and the insomniac cat clock kept watch, ticking out the time with each switch of its tail.
His thoughts chased Tara. He wished he had some of her gift of insight, to know what she was thinking. The world always seemed so transparent to her, but she seemed opaque to him, now. Closed. He blamed himself for his absence, for leaving. He hadn’t wanted it that way. Time just stretched out, and he couldn’t find his way back.
He didn’t know what he expected from her. He had no right to expect anything, really. But he knew what he wanted: when he first saw her in the prison meeting room, he’d wanted to take her beautiful face in his hands and kiss her until she couldn’t breathe. He needed her that much.
But she … she probably didn’t need anything. Anyone, least of all him. She seemed so distant and self-contained … and he was afraid that too much time had passed between them, that they wouldn’t be able to pick up where they’d left off.
It made no sense, him and her. She lived in an entirely different world, in the shadowy world of Delphi’s Daughters. She lived in magick, finding signs and portents in everything she saw. Based on the few glimpses he’d had into her world, Harry suspected that mundane reality didn’t really exist for her at all, that it had fallen away bit by bit in the process of becoming an oracle. Harry wondered if she would always be able to keep a foot in the everyday world, or if she would eventually be absorbed by Delphi’s Daughters, no matter how much she resisted.
He turned over, hearing the couch leather squeak beneath him. He existed in a hidden world, too … the world of the Little Shop of Horrors. And that set him so far apart from daily life he wondered if he’d ever be able to go civilian again. He was armed every hour of every day, even when he went to the grocery store. He jumped when cars backfired on the street. He suspected child abuse every time a mother scolded her child at the store. He couldn’t eat out when he was seated with his back to the door. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been out in public just wearing a T-shirt and jeans … He always had to find a way to conceal the holster and his creds. Just once, he’d love to stretch out on some grass or sand and feel the sun on his bare chest. He had to content himself with the cold streetlight streaming in from the window when he slept. Alone.
Harry slid from the couch and padded across the floor. The cat clock gave him a sidelong glance as he walked noiselessly down the hall to the bedroom. His hand hesitated on the doorknob. He turned it softly, pulled it open.
Illuminated by the weak streetlight pouring in from the window, Tara lay on her side. The thick fringe of her eyelashes cast shadows across her cheeks, and her hair tangled over her shoulder, rising and falling steadily in sleep.
Harry noiselessly crossed to the bed. He reached out, wanting to caress that pale cheek, but his hand dropped away. His fingers twitched, sensing some chill that he wished he could erase.
Sadly, he walked away, closing the door behind him.
In her sleep, Tara exhaled. When she breathed out, her breath steamed like the cold fog of a breath on a winter’s day, taking the shape of the World consuming Lena.
Chapter Five
T
ARA HAD
been able to shake the dream when she’d awoken, but not the chill.
“You’re not getting sick or something, are you?” Harry asked over coffee.
Tara shook her head, though she’d wrapped her hands around the coffee mug and was holding it close to her chest. She’d drained the hot water out of the apartment water heater, and was still cold. She couldn’t explain it, but it was a chill that had seeped deep into her bones. Like winter. “No. I’m okay.”
Harry reached across the tiny kitchen table and pressed his hand to her forehead. “You’re cold.” His touch lingered for a beat longer than necessary, and Tara covered the flush in her cheeks by taking a sip of her coffee.
Unlike the dream, this morning felt like a very odd domesticity. Very normal. Tara had never known much about
normal,
and it felt really nice to be reading the paper at a kitchen table without oracles running underfoot, flinging rose petals or falling into trances.
“It’s summer. It won’t last,” she said. She hoped. She’d never experienced a dream as vivid as the one last night, even when she’d meditated on cards before. They’d seemed less real, more like academic exercises. Tara wished that her mother was still alive, that she could ask her what this strange change in her powers meant.
Harry frowned, took his cup to the sink to rinse it. “I warn you, lady, I’ll be watching you,” he said, in mock seriousness.
“I think we’ve got more serious things to worry about.” Tara stood to collect her purse and attaché case.
“Yeah. Like keeping Veriss busy.”
“He’s under your skin that much already?”
Harry made a face and stared at his cell phone. “Yeah. He’s sent two text messages this morning about a briefing first thing. I’ve got the feeling that’s gonna be two hours of my life I’m not gonna get back.”
“Maybe it won’t be that bad,” Tara said, following Harry out the door.
“I bet he has fucking slides to show us.”
“If he has slides to show us, I’ll buy you dinner.”
Harry grinned. “You’re on.”
T
ARA LOST THE BET
. T
HERE WERE SLIDES
. L
OTS AND LOTS OF
slides.
“This is worse than when Pops goes on vacation,” Harry whispered to Tara when Veriss had his back turned.
Tara rolled her eyes and shifted in her chair. Her butt was already numb, and she looked at her watch. They’d been listening to Veriss natter on about his research methods for over an hour, and there were no signs of abating. Aquila had already ducked out to respond to a phone call, and hadn’t returned.
“… as I mentioned, I’m combining elements of chaos theory and game theory to create predictive models for human behavior. Chaos theory assumes systems that react to small errors in initial conditions, yielding larger effects.” Veriss drifted before the projector in the dim conference room. Differential equations were displayed behind him. Christ, he even had a laser pointer.
“Yeah,” Harry said. “We got that, already. The Butterfly Effect. A butterfly flaps its wings and causes a hurricane halfway across the world.”
“Well, that’s an overly simplified way of putting it. And I’m applying it to social systems, not physical ones. And instead of the topological mixing assumed in physics, I’m assuming social contagion from the social sciences, using network theory.”
“What about periodic orbits?” Tara asked. Veriss had spent the last hour talking down to them, and she was beginning to get irritated. “In classical chaos theory, materials move in dense periodical orbits. Do you have a parallel assumption for human systems?”
“Actually, Ms. Sheridan—”
“That’s Dr. Sheridan, Dr. Verris.” Veriss had insisted that everyone address him by title. Tara felt it was fair to request the same consideration.
“Dr. Sheridan.” Veriss chewed on the inside of his lip. “I account for that by mapping social interactions using an evolution function. Would you like for me to show you?” He tugged a whiteboard closer to him and brandished a dry-erase marker.
Harry kicked Tara under the table. His expression said:
Don’t egg him on.
“Not necessary. Just trying to keep you honest, Dr. Veriss,” Tara said primly.
Veriss cleared his throat. “As I was saying, I also use elements of game theory. I treat the commission of crime as a strategic situation in which the choice to commit a crime is dependent on the behavior of others. For example, a criminal may choose to offend against a victim who, by his own choice, places himself in the offender’s sights.”
“Yeah,” Harry said. “The better bait hypothesis.”
Veriss capped his marker and cocked his head. “I’m not sure I’ve heard of that one.”
“Criminals take the easiest mark. It’s a no-brainer.”
“It’s much more complex than that, in the aggregate.” Veriss switched slides. “It’s really a simultaneous game in which decisions are made by both parties along a time continuum …”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Professor,”—Harry refused to call Veriss “Doctor”—“this is all very interesting, but do you have a working model for the crimes we’re dealing with?”
Veriss clicked to another slide. “This is what I have so far for a working model … subject to revision, of course. These data points show disappearances of all intelligence personnel in the U.S. for the last fifty years. The assumption is that these patterns would hold true for our current cases. Ranked in order of prevalence, the disappearances were accounted for by line-of-duty deaths, defection, personal mental breakdown, unrelated random crime events, accidents, and unknown causes.
“I’ve added some other factors to the model, such as economic opportunity and absolute value of the intelligence held by the operative.”
“You’re assuming that some intelligence is more marketable than the rest.” Tara crossed her arms over her chest. She glanced beside her and noticed that Harry was drawing pictures of devils on his notepad.
“Yes. And I determine this by the addition of several factors in world upheaval. With the ending of the Cold War, for example, there’s just not that much market for mind control techniques anymore. There wasn’t much market for nuclear secrets until the current situations with Iran and North Korea. That’s caused the value of that intelligence to skyrocket.”
“So, you’re suggesting defection?” Harry asked, continuing to color in the goatee of his cartoon devil. “That they’re all, I don’t know, having a beach party in Tehran?” Harry grinned and kicked Tara under the table.
“That comes out at the top of my model. And there are no beaches in Tehran.”
The door to the conference room cracked open, admitting a blinding wash of light. Tara and Harry’s heads swung toward the door like starved sunflowers kept in a darkroom.
“Agent Li? Forensics would like you to take a look at some of their results.” The office manager’s voice was like a salvation from a benign god.
Harry was already on his feet. “We’ll continue this later, Professor.”
Tara snatched up her notebook and followed Harry out the door before Veriss could protest.
“Jesus Christ,” Harry muttered. “Where do they find those guys?”
“Does he know about the marauding librarians?”
“Not yet. But I hope one of them steals that fucking projector.”
Tara smirked. She was certain Veriss meant well, but she knew from experience that Harry had little respect for esoteric methods until they produced results. She suspected that applied to differential equations as much as it applied to Tarot cards.
The forensics department was a partitioned-off corner of the former archive. Steel curtains and fume hoods kept the chemicals away from the rest of the unit, but the concrete floors were still the same. When Tara had been an agent, they’d had to send most of their evidence out to the DOJ labs. She was impressed that Special Projects now had their own gas spectrometer and electron telescopes, perched on stainless steel counters. In the back, she heard the muffled report of guns, suggesting that they’d acquired their own ballistics tank, too. Swanky.
“Agent Li, Dr. Sheridan.” Anderson, the tech Tara recognized from Lena’s house, greeted them. “I’ve got bad news.”
Harry passed his hands over his eyes. “Please tell me that no one fucked up the evidence.”
“I can’t say that, sir. As you know, the evidence was compromised by the time we got there …”
“Just show me what you’ve got.”
Anderson flipped over pages in her clipboard. “The stain that Dr. Sheridan found was indeed blood. Blood pattern analysis indicates that it’s a drip stain. Based on the positioning, our best guess is that it dripped from the victim’s mouth. Problem is, we can’t identify it.”
“It’s not Lena Ivanova’s blood?”
“It is. And it isn’t,” Anderson said. “We did find her DNA in the blood. But we also found three other sets of DNA. One unknown. One matched Carl Starkweather. And the other matched Carrie Kirkman.”
“How the hell is that possible?” Harry’s brow wrinkled. “Did a group of ex-spooks show up to kidnap Lena?”
“Without cross-contamination, it’s not really possible. I’m sorry—”
“Wait a minute.” Tara shook her head. Her mind rifled through the possibilities. Had Carl shown up and convinced Lena to come away with him after a night of passion? It didn’t quite ring true to her, but she couldn’t say why. “The blood cells in the sample. Can you tell how fresh they are? Have they degraded?”
Anderson nodded. “We did perform an HPLC analysis on the blood. It’s all the same age. We don’t think it’s a case of a stain of one type of blood drying on another stain.” She blew out her breath in frustration. “It’s bizarre. An extraction from one part of the slide shows one set of DNA, and another set in another part of the slide. That just doesn’t occur in nature, except in chimeras.”
Tara thought of the Pythia’s warning:
Beware the Chimera
.
Harry blinked. “What do mythological beasts have to do with this?”
“In mythology, the chimera was a combination of a lion, a goat, and a snake,” Tara said. “But, in genetics, a chimera has two or more sets of DNA.”
“But that’s exceptionally rare,” said Anderson. “In humans, a chimera occurs when one fraternal twin fuses with another in utero. In that case, the subject may have, say, a liver with one set of DNA, and skin with another.”
“We know that Lena, Carl, and Carrie weren’t chimeras,” Harry said. “Their CIA physicals would have shown that, right?”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Anderson’s mouth twisted in thought. “Most chimeras have no idea. And it’s extremely statistically improbable. But we could find out. Carl had children, and we might be able to trace DNA abnormalities through them. Lena also left traces of her DNA around … hairbrushes, old blood tests for CIA. We might not be able to say with one hundred percent authority, but we could get close to finding out if one of them was genetically abnormal.”
“Or, perhaps it’s our assailant who’s abnormal,” Tara said.
“We’ll get a geneticist in here and tear those samples apart, molecule from molecule,” Anderson promised. “If there’s a scientific reason why, we’ll find it.”
Tara nodded, but she wasn’t quite ready to place her full faith in science.
“A
N ORACLE MUST NOT ONLY BE PREPARED TO SEE THE
future. She must also know how to fight it.”
Cassie stared skeptically at the Pythia. The Pythia stood out in the field behind the farmhouse, a shotgun planted on her hip. The weapon looked vaguely ridiculous next to the petite woman wearing a red peasant dress. Two of the other Daughters of Delphi ranged around, holding guns, hearing protectors, and boxes of ammunition. They were in jeans and T-shirts; slightly less incongruous, but this still wasn’t a hobby Cassie had imagined for them. Soap-making, maybe growing a little pot, but not weaponry.
“I thought the Daughters of Delphi were women of peace,” Cassie said.
“We are. And we prefer to work behind the scenes to positively influence the destiny of humankind. But we must also know how to defend ourselves and protect what is ours.”
Four scarecrows made of straw and baling wire were assembled across from them, ten yards distant. They looked pretty limp and defenseless to Cassie.
“Your gift is astrology,” said the Pythia. “While it’s a useful talent, it won’t help you to defend yourself. At least, not at this time. All our gifts evolve over time, and we will see where yours unfold.”
“I thought the point in being able to see the future was being able to head danger off at the pass.” Cassie stared down at her feet in the tall grasses, hoping she wasn’t going to be eaten alive by ticks.
The Pythia smiled. “Sometimes, the future unfolds too quickly for you to stop it.”
She turned and blew a kiss at one of the scarecrows. When she brought her hand to her mouth, a spark fell from her lips, and was exhaled across her fingertips. Cassie felt the heat of it against her face. She involuntarily stepped back. The fire rushed across the distance to the scarecrows, flashed over the first one in a plume of orange. Straw crackled and smoked. The scarecrow went up like a dry Christmas tree. The other two Daughters of Delphi dragged a garden hose to the scarecrow and began to put it out.