I shrugged again. "It's just the way things are. The specific effects this turbulence causes tend to change slowly over time. Three hundred years ago, it made cream turn sour, disturbed animals, and tended to encourage minor skin infections in wizards. Gave them blemishes and moles and pockmarks."
"Fun," Thomas said.
"Yeah, I'm not upset about missing out on that kind of fun," I said. "Then sometime between then and now, it segued into triggering odd flashes of hallucination in the people who hung around in close proximity to us. You know the whole ergot theory of history? People with talent, especially people who didn't even know they had it, probably had a lot to do with that. Now it mucks around with probability where machines are concerned."
Thomas eyed me. Then he carefully powered off his truck's stereo.
"Funny," I said. After a moment I added, "I don't mean to do it. I mean, I try not to do it, but . . ."
"I don't mind if you break my stuff," Thomas said. "I'll just make Lara buy me new stuff."
Lara, Thomas's half sister, was the power behind the throne of the White Court of vampires. Lara was gorgeous, brilliant, and sexier than a Swedish bikini team hiking up a mountain of money. As a potential enemy, she was a little scary. As an occasional ally, she was freaking terrifying.
I wasn't ever going to tell Thomas this, but when I'd been arranging my own murder, Lara had been the runner-up on my list of possible administrators of my demise. I mean, hey, if you're going to go, there are worse ways to do it than to be taken out by the freaking queen of the world's succubi.
"How's Lara doing?" I asked.
"She's Lara," Thomas said. "Always doing business, planning plans, scheming schemes."
"Like the Brighter Future Society?" I asked. The BFS was an alliance of unlikely bedfellows of the supernatural scene in Chicago, headquartered out of a small but genuine castle, guarded by hired guns from Valhalla.
Thomas bared his teeth in a smile. "That was Lara's idea, actually. Marcone imported that freaking castle and had it rebuilt over your old boardinghouse. Lara says it's impregnable."
"The Death Star was impregnable," I said. "So Lara got in bed with Marcone?"
"She tried," Thomas said, "but Marcone kept it purely business. That's two men who have turned her down in the same century. She was annoyed."
I grunted. I'd been the other guy. John Marcone was the crime lord of Chicago. He could buy and sell United States congressmen, and had the establishment in Chicago completely wired. He was also the first regular mortal to sign on to the Unseelie Accords, and according to them, he was the baron of Chicago.
"I was sort of hoping she'd kill him," I said.
"Iwas sort of hoping for the other way around," Thomas said. "But with the Fomor trying to muscle in on everyone's territory, they need each other-for now."
"The Fomor are that bad?" I asked. They were a crew of bad guys whose names were known primarily in old mythology books, the survivors of a number of dark mythoi across the world, the worst of the worst-or at least the most survival-minded of the worst.
"They're ruthless," Thomas said. "And they're everywhere. But between Marcone's hired goons, Lara's resources, and Murphy's people, they haven't gotten a solid foothold here. Other cities, it's bad. Los Angeles, Seattle, San Francisco, Miami, and Boston are the worst off. They're grabbing anyone with a lick of magical ability and carrying them away. Thousands of people."
"Hell's bells," I muttered. "What about the White Council?"
"They're busy," Thomas said. "Word is that they're operating around the coasts of Europe, especially in the Mediterranean, fighting the Fomor there. Lara's people have been sharing a little information with the Council, and vice versa, but there's nothing like an alliance."
"They aren't working in the U.S. at all?" I asked.
Thomas shrugged. "Your Warden buddies are trying," he said. "Ramirez got hurt pretty bad last year. I don't think he's back in action yet. But the Wardens in Baltimore and San Diego are holding out, and the kid in Texas is giving them hell."
"Good for Wild Bill," I said. "So how come other cities haven't gone down?"
"Lara," Thomas said simply. His voice altered subtly and I could recognize the precise, enunciated tones that marked his sister's voice. "We labored for centuries to cultivate this herd. I will not abide a horde of toady, has-been poachers."
"She's a sweetheart," I said.
"She's done a lot," he said. "But she wouldn't have been able to do it without the Paranet."
"Wow. Seriously?"
"Knowledge is power," Thomas said. "There are tens of thousands of people on the Paranet. Eyes and ears in every city, getting more experienced every day. Something happens, one of the Fomor moves, and the entire community knows about it in minutes."
I blinked. "They can do that?"
"Internet," Thomas said. "The Netters are all low-grade talents. They can use computers and cell phones without hexing them up. So something starts happening, they tweet about it, and Lara dispatches a ready team."
"And she just happens to get to find out more about the magical talents in other cities. The ones who can't really defend themselves. In case she gets hungry later."
"Fun," Thomas said.
"Yeah, I'm not upset about missing out on that kind of fun," I said. "Then sometime between then and now, it segued into triggering odd flashes of hallucination in the people who hung around in close proximity to us. You know the whole ergot theory of history? People with talent, especially people who didn't even know they had it, probably had a lot to do with that. Now it mucks around with probability where machines are concerned."
Thomas eyed me. Then he carefully powered off his truck's stereo.
"Funny," I said. After a moment I added, "I don't mean to do it. I mean, I try not to do it, but . . ."
"I don't mind if you break my stuff," Thomas said. "I'll just make Lara buy me new stuff."
Lara, Thomas's half sister, was the power behind the throne of the White Court of vampires. Lara was gorgeous, brilliant, and sexier than a Swedish bikini team hiking up a mountain of money. As a potential enemy, she was a little scary. As an occasional ally, she was freaking terrifying.
I wasn't ever going to tell Thomas this, but when I'd been arranging my own murder, Lara had been the runner-up on my list of possible administrators of my demise. I mean, hey, if you're going to go, there are worse ways to do it than to be taken out by the freaking queen of the world's succubi.
"How's Lara doing?" I asked.
"She's Lara," Thomas said. "Always doing business, planning plans, scheming schemes."
"Like the Brighter Future Society?" I asked. The BFS was an alliance of unlikely bedfellows of the supernatural scene in Chicago, headquartered out of a small but genuine castle, guarded by hired guns from Valhalla.
Thomas bared his teeth in a smile. "That was Lara's idea, actually. Marcone imported that freaking castle and had it rebuilt over your old boardinghouse. Lara says it's impregnable."
"The Death Star was impregnable," I said. "So Lara got in bed with Marcone?"
"She tried," Thomas said, "but Marcone kept it purely business. That's two men who have turned her down in the same century. She was annoyed."
I grunted. I'd been the other guy. John Marcone was the crime lord of Chicago. He could buy and sell United States congressmen, and had the establishment in Chicago completely wired. He was also the first regular mortal to sign on to the Unseelie Accords, and according to them, he was the baron of Chicago.
"I was sort of hoping she'd kill him," I said.
"Iwas sort of hoping for the other way around," Thomas said. "But with the Fomor trying to muscle in on everyone's territory, they need each other-for now."
"The Fomor are that bad?" I asked. They were a crew of bad guys whose names were known primarily in old mythology books, the survivors of a number of dark mythoi across the world, the worst of the worst-or at least the most survival-minded of the worst.
"They're ruthless," Thomas said. "And they're everywhere. But between Marcone's hired goons, Lara's resources, and Murphy's people, they haven't gotten a solid foothold here. Other cities, it's bad. Los Angeles, Seattle, San Francisco, Miami, and Boston are the worst off. They're grabbing anyone with a lick of magical ability and carrying them away. Thousands of people."
"Hell's bells," I muttered. "What about the White Council?"
"They're busy," Thomas said. "Word is that they're operating around the coasts of Europe, especially in the Mediterranean, fighting the Fomor there. Lara's people have been sharing a little information with the Council, and vice versa, but there's nothing like an alliance."
"They aren't working in the U.S. at all?" I asked.
Thomas shrugged. "Your Warden buddies are trying," he said. "Ramirez got hurt pretty bad last year. I don't think he's back in action yet. But the Wardens in Baltimore and San Diego are holding out, and the kid in Texas is giving them hell."
"Good for Wild Bill," I said. "So how come other cities haven't gone down?"
"Lara," Thomas said simply. His voice altered subtly and I could recognize the precise, enunciated tones that marked his sister's voice. "We labored for centuries to cultivate this herd. I will not abide a horde of toady, has-been poachers."
"She's a sweetheart," I said.
"She's done a lot," he said. "But she wouldn't have been able to do it without the Paranet."
"Wow. Seriously?"
"Knowledge is power," Thomas said. "There are tens of thousands of people on the Paranet. Eyes and ears in every city, getting more experienced every day. Something happens, one of the Fomor moves, and the entire community knows about it in minutes."
I blinked. "They can do that?"
"Internet," Thomas said. "The Netters are all low-grade talents. They can use computers and cell phones without hexing them up. So something starts happening, they tweet about it, and Lara dispatches a ready team."
"And she just happens to get to find out more about the magical talents in other cities. The ones who can't really defend themselves. In case she gets hungry later."
