Dearest Mother of Mine (Overworld Chronicles) (15 page)

"Then why did you put on your coat?" I asked.

He chuckled and placed his favorite wide-brimmed hat on his head. "I just realized that not every problem needs a complicated solution."

"Oh?"

He motioned me down the stairs toward the arch. "I got to thinking about how Jeremiah bugged us with simple nom tech that Bella and I didn't think to search for. Using a magical tracker is just the sort of thing the Conroys ward against."

"But if they use nom tech for spying, wouldn't they also think to have countermeasures to it?"

"Of course," he said, walking through the cellar and toward the staircase to the arch room. "So we go even simpler."

"We steal a variety of bird eggs and train the hatchlings from birth to follow the Conroys, leaving a trail of bird poo along the way?"

He stopped in his tracks to give me a look. "You and that mouth of yours." He resumed walking. "What I have in mind is stupid simple."

"Lead the way. I can't wait to see you do something stupid."

We traveled via the omniarch to a dingy alley on the west side of Atlanta, and closed the portal behind us. Shelton said a word, and a nearby brick wall vanished to reveal a non-descript blue sedan, quite a departure from his pickup truck. The inside of the car smelled like stale sandwiches and old coffee. Brown stains on the upholstery confirmed my suspicion that he'd used this car for stakeouts.

"Ever heard of a car wash?" I asked, wrinkling my nose since my supernatural olfactory senses launched background smells into nauseating hyper-drive. I noticed an old fast-food wrapper in the floorboard, and realized with disgust mold had overgrown it. Using my fingers like pincers, I tossed the long-dead remains into a trash heap in the alley, figuring nobody would notice the addition.

"Don't want it too clean," he said. "Sparkling clean cars draw attention even if the model is common."

"I'm talking about cleaning the interior," I said, noticing even more discarded food wrappers in the back. "It's like a rat's nest in here, man."

He waved away my complaints. "Ah, you'll get used to it." He drove us to Phipps Plaza in Buckhead, a ritzy place in North Atlanta. We entered the parking garage through the back entrance, and drove straight through a concrete wall—rather, the insubstantial illusion of one. A winding ramp led deep underground to the Grotto way station where an Obsidian Arch allowed Overworld citizens to travel across the extensive network. Before we reached the way station, Shelton stopped near the base of the ramp. He put on his hazard lights, threw the car into park, and got out. He walked across the driveway holding what looked like the kind of colorful handlebar streamers one might see on a kid's bike. Removing some duct tape from his duster, he attached the streamers to the wall.

I stared at him as he slid back into the car and drove inside the cavern housing the Obsidian Arch. A large parking lot spanned nearly half of the massive space.

"Not only stupid simple," I said, "but also plain stupid. What the heck are handlebar streamers gonna do?"

Shelton sighed. "Think about it. What's the difference between an illusion and the real thing?"

I thought about it a moment before his meaning clicked. "Illusions are immaterial. They go through physical objects. They also don't make a breeze when they go past."

"Exactly."

"But what about solid illusions?" I asked, thinking about the barrier illusions we'd used in the past to block off places we didn't want people wandering. They were solid.

He shrugged. "Spells don't come free. They cost aether. An illusion spell is already pretty expensive to cast, even if you have arcane generators helping. Illusion plus solidity doubles the cost. Now imagine casting that spell times a dozen illusions. We're talking astronomical aether usage." He nodded toward the streamers. "So the Conroys hop into their car as usual. It duplicates into illusions, and they drive out of here in a line, right?"

I thought back to the last time I'd seen their car split into illusions to confuse any would-be stalkers. "Yeah."

He nodded. "So when the duplicate illusions of the Conroys' car drive past the streamers, they won't make a breeze. We just sit back and make note of the car that does."

"I guess it's not quite as stupid as it sounds," I said. "Are we just gonna sit here and wait until we see them?"

Shelton drove up and down the rows of parked cars, eyes roving. "Nah. I'm checking to see if their limo is even here."

My eyes caught on a leopard-print Hummer with dark-tinted windows and chrome spinner wheels. I saw no sign of a black limousine. "Is there any guarantee they're still using the same car?"

"The illusion spells are charmed into the limo," he said. "It's not a spell someone casts every time they get in." He stopped to inspect a black car. Grunted, and eased off the brake. "They either bought it or leased it from Overworld Security, a company that provides protection to celebrities and politicians. Even if they got another one, it'll look the same."

We finished a circuit of the parking lot without spotting the limo.

"Don't they have a driver?" I asked. "I doubt it would be parked out here."

"It'd usually be waiting in the motor pool," he said, pointing to a line of other cars, stagecoaches, and even elephants waiting to pick up VIPs as they emerged from the Grotto. "But it never hurts to be thorough." He parked the sedan, got out.

We walked to the stables and found Oliver shoveling a massive pile of steaming poo into a dung wagon.

"G'day, guvnahs!" he said brightly.

"Hey, Oliver," Shelton said, patting the boy fondly on the head. "You seen the Conroys around here lately?"

"No, Harry. I saw Miss Ivy and Mrs. Conroy just two days ago, but not since." He heaved a shovelful of poop into the wagon.

"Don't worry about the tracker," Shelton said. "I don't think it'll work on their limo."

"Did they take their car when they were here last time?" I asked Oliver.

The boy nodded. "They came from the arch and went straight to the limousine. I think they were coming from Queens Gate."

That would've been a day or so after school let out for the holiday break, I realized. "They might not come back until school starts again in January," I said.

"Any Darkwater people lurking around here?" Shelton asked.

"Yes, there were several looking for people who match your descriptions," he said, tilting his head slightly. A few brown clods dropped from his shovel as he contemplated something. "Did you do something horrible again, Harry?"

Shelton looked offended. "Why would you ask that, kid?"

"Oh, please tell me about it," Oliver said. "I would so love to hear another of your stories."

Shelton sighed. "Stay away from those bruisers." He waggled his thumb to indicate the two of us. "They want our hides."

"You don't need to tell me that," the boy said brightly. "The one named Kassus sounded very upset."

My stomach clenched. "Did it sound like they had any idea where we were?" I asked.

He shook his head. "I saw several of the brotherhood taking the arch to different locations. I would say they're casting a wide net."

"How did you know they're with the brotherhood?" Shelton asked.

"I hear a lot," Oliver said with a grin. "Most people ignore the stable boy."

Shelton passed him a wad of tinsel, Overworld currency. "Stay out of trouble, kid. And let me know if you see or hear anything else."

"You got it, Harry!"

We walked back to the car, Shelton muttering to himself along the way. "I don't know if we should stake this place out, or leave," he said. "Man, I could really use a donut right now."

I didn't like the idea of sitting for hours in a smelly car with Shelton, but going back home would only make me feel powerless again. On the bright side, it didn't sound like Darkwater had any reason to suspect where we lived if Oliver's assumptions were true.

"Darkwater is headquartered inside the Grotto?" I asked as we climbed in the car.

He nodded. "Don't even think about going near the place. Their security probably flagged our images."

"It doesn't sound like they have pictures of us," I said.

"Nah, but they probably have drawings which will be close enough to tag us."

"I don't want to go home," I told him. "We've got to figure out something."

Shelton pursed his lips. Started the car and backed out of the parking lot. "I've got some ideas. They may not pan out, but it won't hurt to try."

I didn't argue with him.

He drove up the ramp and down Peachtree Street to a two-story building with stretched Hummers, limos, and even an elongated Lamborghini on display in a glassed-in showroom. A sign proclaimed the place as Luxury Transportation. Shelton drove to the back, parked the car, and led me toward an outbuilding without any signage to indicate what lay inside. I saw a simple service bay and gas pump to the rear of the complex.

Shelton went inside the small building and up to a counter. He dinged the bell. A short man with glasses came to the front. His eyes narrowed when he saw us.

"Harry Shelton," he said in a neutral tone after a moment's pause. "I haven't seen you in a while."

"Yeah, took a break from the bounty-hunting biz." Shelton shrugged. "This is my friend, Justin. Justin, this is Walter Lerner."

"Justin Slade," the man said.

"You know my last name?" I asked.

He nodded. "The security business has been good with everyone scared to death of you and your gang."

"My gang?" I asked. "What kind of things have you been hearing about me?"

Walter shrugged. "The vampires have their PR people going all-out to portray you as a dangerous lunatic. There are some on the Arcane Council trying to blame you for the Grand Melee incident."

"They're lying," I said in protest. "We saved their lives."

"You don't have to convince me," Walter said, propping his elbows on the counter. "That's just politics. Right now, it's good business."

I looked around the room at the blank walls, the lack of furniture. "What exactly do you do here?" I glanced at Shelton. "Isn't this a nom business?"

"I cater to noms as well as supers," Walter said. "Wouldn't be enough money in this business otherwise."

"Walter here provides secure transportation to the high muckety-mucks in the Overworld and for the noms," Shelton explained. "He sends his vehicles to places like Overworld Security and has them add other enchantments."

"Even for noms?" I asked.

"Oh, sure," Walter said. "But only things they'll never notice." His eyes met Shelton. "Why are you here? I know it isn't to socialize."

"Fair enough," Shelton said. "I need some information on the concealment illusions like they use on the high-end limos."

"Like what?" Walter asked suspiciously.

"How long do the illusions last? What kind of scripted behavior do they have?"

Walter dug behind the counter and tossed Shelton a folded brochure. "It's all in there."

"Is it accurate?" Shelton said.

"Yeah, by the Overworld truth in advertising standards."

"I need it to be accurate," Shelton said, not moving to pick it up.

Walter sighed. "It is. Anything else?"

Shelton took the brochure and looked it over for a minute. He nodded. "Yeah, does Bruce still work at the OTA?"

"I wouldn't advise talking to him," Walter said. "Not after the little stunt you pulled. He almost lost his job over that."

"It wasn't me," Shelton said. "Someone there must have overheard him talking to me and blabbed."

Walter held up his hands. "Don't tell it to me," he said. "We done here?"

Shelton stared at the man. "What the hell is going on with you? Last time we did business you seemed plenty happy, especially when I steered clients your way. Now you're treating me like I'm diseased."

The other man chewed on his inner cheek. "It's Cyphanis Rax," he said after a moment of consideration. "He's still upset about you trying to hunt him down, and now that your old man isn't around to protect you, he's put out the word that it's bad for business to do business with Harry Shelton."

"He's threatening you," Shelton said.

"Of course he is," Walter replied. "He knows who helped you track him, and he's made sure to let each and every one of us know that."

"How in the hell could he possibly know who helped me?"

Walter shrugged. "All I know is if he catches wind that you were here, it could spell trouble for me."

"Maybe we should go," I told Shelton.

He growled. "The man is dirty, Walter. I should have finished the job I started."

"You never had enough proof to lock him away," Walter said. "With your father gone, he'll probably be the next Arcanus Primus."

"Is that bad?" I asked.

Walter snorted. "Rax makes Sager look like the poster boy for ethical behavior," Walter said.

"Hey now, that's my father you're talking about," Shelton said.

The other man looked surprised. "Since when did you develop a love for your old man?"

Shelton clamped his mouth shut.

"Kind of a sensitive subject," I said.

"Thanks for the info," Shelton said, and headed for the door.

"Keep my involvement to yourself," Walter called after us.

We left and ventured a few miles to a section of town with rolling terrain and residential houses. Nestled in an industrial stretch of road sat a squat windowless building with what looked like totem poles arrayed in a circle outside. The sign proclaimed it as Antique Emporium. A smaller sign on the door indicated it was closed. Shelton rapped on the door.

Seconds trickled by as we waited. I took a closer look at the poles and recognized Cyrinthian symbols etched into the dark wood. I hoped they didn't represent a deadly trap for trespassers, and edged closer to the building, as if it might offer more protection. Shelton pounded on the door, his patience clearly running low.

"Open up, Bruce. I know you're in there!" Shelton shouted.

The door jerked open. A balding man with a sizeable paunch stood there, face contorted with anger. I looked down and saw the metallic gleam of a large pistol in his hand.