Doomsday Can Wait (26 page)

"Descendant of the demon Barbas." I glanced at Saw-yer, who handed me my latte.

"Makes sense."

He took a sip of his, looked as if he might spit the iced coffee on the ground, then swallowed thickly and set his cup down with a disgusted click and a very dirty glance in my direction. I guess he'd never had one before. And wouldn't be having one again.

A breed is the son or daughter of a demon," he fin-ished.

"Half demon," I said.

"The Nephilim might be part human but they don't act like it," Sawyer said, echoing Luther's earlier comment. "When the legends refer to a demon, they're talking about the Nephilim."

"So what kind of demon is a Barbas?"

Sawyer shrugged and motioned at the computer. I typed some more.

”A great lion that, at a conjurer's request, changes into a human. From the Latin
barba,
a type of plant used to invoke demons." I sat back. "So a Barbas is a lion that turns into a person, but a Marbas—"

"Would appear to be a person," Sawyer said, "who turns into a lion."

"Okay," I agreed. "His parents were killed by lions."

Sawyer's gaze sharpened. "How interesting."

"Why?"

"One of his parents was a lion and from the description you read, I'd say the other was a conjurer whose magic allowed his or her spouse to remain human."

"Why would lions—Barbas or Marbas—kill their own kind?"

"In nature, there's only one alpha male per pride. Battles are fought, and when a male is vanquished, his cubs are killed, too."

My gaze went to the Impala. Luther slept on, the descending sun shining on his hair, picking up the gold in the brown and making it sparkle. "That's horrible."

"Law of the jungle," Sawyer said.

"The jungle sucks." My voice was too loud and several people glanced my way, then went back to their books, their kids, their laptops. I lowered the volume. "This isn't the jungle."

"It is to them."

My gaze was once again drawn through the front window and back to the tangled, golden-hued hair of the man-child in my backseat.

"Then why did they leave this cub alive?"

CHAPTER 25

"Who knows?" Sawyer reached for his iced coffee, seemed to remember that he'd hated it, and let his hand fall back to his knee.

"Maybe the kid does." I tossed my cup, packed up the computer, and headed outside. People inside glanced furtively at Sawyer as we passed.

The second set of tourist clothes weren't any better at disgusting Sawyer's otherness than the first had been. His biceps bulged, the white tank only made his skin appear sultrier, and his tattoos, the ones that were visi-ble, seemed to shimmer and dance beneath the electric lights. His hair billowed around his shoulders like an ebony river.

As we climbed into the Impala, Luther sat up, rub-bing his eyes like a child. "Where are we?"

"Not a clue." I turned, extending a bag of muffins and several cartons of milk over the seat.

Luther's face lit up. His teeth were white but crooked. My tongue skimmed over my own not quite right teeth—typical in foster care. The government wasn't going to pay for a million and one sets of braces.

As he reached for the food and the drinks, I asked, "What do you know about your parents?" then brushed his hand with my own.

Lions. A lot of them. Stalking through the suburban house. Blood everywhere.

Mommy, her eyes like mine, yellow-green and angry. She screams for Daddy to let her change, but Daddy is with me. Daddy touches me and then
—

"I wasn't there," Luther said.

He was telling the truth, or what he thought was the truth. His dad had touched him, and Luther had no longer been there. Because his father—the conjurer—had sent him somewhere else.

Sawyer was looking at me. I shook my head. I didn't think Luther knew anything useful, and I didn't think the lions—be they Marbas or Barbas—knew he existed. Or if they did, they had no idea where he'd gone. If they had, they would have followed, and Luther had been in no position then to stop them from killing him.

Luther downed the muffins and milk like the hungry lion he could easily become, then fell asleep again. He was such an odd, yet endearing, mixture of little boy and almost man. I found myself drawn to him. I wanted to protect him, even though he could no doubt protect himself much better than I ever could.

Once I was certain the kid was out cold. I murmured to Sawyer, "I saw something strange."

That I could use the word
strange
in a conversation about lion-shifters and conjurers was in itself strange.

"Luther loved his parents; they loved him and each other."

"Why is that strange?"

"They're demons, or at least the mother was."

"You think love is only for humans?"

"What about your—" I paused, but he knew who I meant.

"Just as there are humans who are much less than human, there are Nephilim who are much less than half human."

"So she was an exception?"

"Unfortunately she was more of the rule and what you saw in the boy's past an exception. It may be that the conjurer was not only able to control the shifting of the Barbas but also her evil tendencies."

It was something to think about—all the way to Brownport.

The town was small—mostly college—but it didn't have the usual college-town feel. Or perhaps it didn't have the usual Wisconsin college-town feel.

For instance, there wasn't a bar on every other corner. There wasn't a bar anywhere at all. Brownport just might be dry, which was understandable considering the college was Bible.

Instead, the businesses all reflected service to the people who lived and worked there and to the entity they served. There was one church, and it was huge.

Brownport Bible College spread out at the south end of town. Backed by a ripe and swaying cornfield, it consisted of ten buildings with two dorms—one male, one female.

Both the school and the town seemed empty. According to the Web site, which I'd also accessed at Starbucks, most of the students went on mission trips at this time of year. But I'd been assured by Carla that Dr. Whitelaw was in residence—he lived here—and that I could find him in his office in the late afternoon, right before his evening summer school course.

Finding him wasn't difficult. Instead of having their offices in the buildings where they taught, each professorhad one on the third floor of the administration building.

The structure was ancient—no elevator that I could see. The tile had yellowed. The walls showed water damage. On the third floor, only one door was open and through it spilled light.

Inside a man sat at a desk all alone. Books were piled on every surface not covered by papers. The bookcases overflowed; bound term papers had been stacked along two walls. On top of the highest stack sat a hat that made something tickle in my head. I recognized that hat, but I didn't know why.

The guy didn't hear us. No big surprise considering I was with a shape-shifting Indian and a lion in human form. They tended to move quietly, and I was no slouch in that department myself. However, the man's ears were plugged with white ear buds and cords trailed down each side of his neck, making a V that disappeared into the pocket of his light blue, short-sleeved button-down shirt,

He wore a tie and khaki trousers, loafers with socks, all of which had to be hell in this heat. The administration building either wasn't air-conditioned, or the powers that be didn't see the point of turning it on in the summer. The place was probably cold as hell in the winter, too.

A book lay open in front of him, and a yellow legal pad covered with illegible scribbles lay next to that. He tapped a pen on the desk to a beat I could easily distinguish since I had superior hearing, and he was blasting it. Of course Guns N' Roses sounded best at top volume.

Sawyer stepped forward, and I lifted my hand. I wanted to get a good look at the guy first, get a feel for him. Xander Whitelaw could be our salvation. Or, if what he knew turned out to be bogus, the seal of our doom.

His blond hair curled over the edge of his collar too long for an interview, but probably acceptable for the summer semester. I'd figured his skin would be sallow, even sickly—did prophecy professors get out much?— but instead his arms sported a golden tan. His shoulders were narrow, but sculpted. From what I could tell, he looked like a long-distance runner.

Suddenly the man shifted to the right, bringing his pen up to his mouth like a microphone as he sang the last line of "Paradise City" at top volume.

Axl really had nothing to worry about.

His jazzy side move must have brought us into his peripheral vision, because the man froze and turned his head. He was younger than I'd expected, around my age. Perhaps this wasn't Xander Whitelaw at all but a grad student.

His face was long, chin square with a tiny scar just beneath his lip; his blond hair sifted over dark brown eyes, framed by rimless glasses. He was cute if you were into book people—teachers, writers, librarians.

I expected him to be flustered that we'd heard his solo, perhaps blush. Instead he grinned, the expression making him appear even younger if possible and quite a bit more interesting than he'd been without it. If it had been another time, another place, make that another world, and I'd been another person, I might have smiled back, given him my number, or taken him home.

As it was, I didn't return the expression, just stepped closer and motioned for him to remove his ear buds.

"Oh." He did, then hit a button, cutting Axl off mid-wail. "Sorry."

"I'm looking for Dr. Whitelaw."

"You found him."

His voice had a soft Southern lilt that made you want to lean forward in expectation of his next words.

"You must be one of the youngest Ph.D.s in recorded history," I muttered.

Whitelaw laughed. "Not really. You'd be surprised at the rate of genius in the hallowed halls of education, Miss ..."

"Phoenix." I led with my hand. "Elizabeth."

Our fingers touched. I didn't get much. He was excited about his new book, enjoyed his summer class, thought I was exotically attractive—I nearly yawned at
that
observation. How many men had told me the same in my lifetime?

"And you are?" He glanced past me, gaze avid.

If I hadn't gotten that flash of interest in me, I'd think he was gone on Sawyer. As his hand slipped from mine I understood why. Sawyer was Navajo. Whitelaw couldn't wait to get him alone and interview him about his life, his family, his past. That would make for an amusing conversation. Too bad it would never happen.

Sawyer and Luther introduced themselves politely enough, though they both refused to shake hands by folding their arms across their chests, then staring White-law down. I half expected them to start snarling.

Whitelaw didn't seem insulted. The Navajo weren't very touchy-feely, so he'd probably had his handshakes ignored before.

He turned to me. "How can I help you?"

"We—uh—" I stopped. How was I going to explain what we wanted and why we thought he had it?

Silence fell over the room. Sawyer and Luther were no help at all. They seemed to have taken an instant dislike to the professor, and I wasn't sure why.

As I floundered, trying to figure out how to bring up the subject, my gaze fell on the book Whitelaw had been studying, which had flipped closed when he stood.

The Benandanti.

That was too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence.

"You're interested in ancient Italian legends?" I nodded toward the desk.

"Among others. I've studied the benandanti before, but lately—" He spread his hands, smudged with ink. I got the impression that when he studied, he did so with the same blissful abandon that a child would finger-paint in kindergarten.

"Lately?" I prompted.

"I've felt oddly compelled to learn more about them."

Oddly compelled. Hmm.

One person's odd compulsion was another's supernatural push. Was the good doctor just a bit psychic? Had he felt Carla watching him? Had he sensed what she was?

"What have you found out?"

"Fascinating stuff. You've heard of them?"

"I know the basics."

"Excellent." His slow Southern drawl was at odds with the precisely clipped commentary. Colin Firth channeling Atticus Finch. "The power was passed from mother to daughter. Only daughters did a benandanti bear, and if she were killed in the underworld before she gave birth, her magic would be lost forever."

A familiar story. Ruthie had passed her power on to me before I was ready for the very same reason. Better to fry my brain circuits and send me into a short but freaky coma than to allow all that power to disappear.

"A benandanti was haglike," Whitelaw continued. "Which made it a bit difficult to procreate, unless—"

"Enough," Sawyer interrupted, his deep voice cutting the professor off mid-explanation.

Confused, I glanced behind me, prepared to tell Sawyer to zip his lip, let the man finish.

Sawyer stood deceptively still, his face reflecting nothing but the fluorescent lights, but I sensed his urgency and understood it.

Certainly I was interested in what Whitelaw knew about the legend of the benandanti, but I didn't
need
to know that information. We'd come here for other, much more important clues and we didn't have time to chat.

Who knew when the woman of smoke might show up. Knowing her, she'd arrive just as Whitelaw began to tell us what we needed to know and she'd rip his tongue out of his head before he finished.

"Excuse me," Whitelaw apologized. "I get carried away sometimes. You're Navajo, Mr. Sawyer, is that correct?"

Sawyer inclined his head. His gaze flicked to me then back to the doctor. His muscles flexed, the cords in his forearms tightening. If he got any more territorial, the two of them might begin a pissing contest.

However, Whitelaw seemed oblivious to the undercurrents. "I did my dissertation on the Navajo."

"So I hear," Sawyer murmured, and I sensed the rumble of his beasts just below the surface.