I SAT IN ONE OF THE VISITOR'S CHAIRS DEEP IN THE bowels of the knight-protector's office. This time Ted was not talking on the phone. Instead he regarded me from behind his desk like a medieval knight watching the besieging Saracens from the ramparts of his stronghold.
Moments stretched into minutes.
Finally he said, "I pulled your file from the Academy."
Oh, shit.
"You had an erating," he said.
E for electrum. Not that big of a deal, really.
"Do you know how many squires with eratings came to the Academy in its thirty eight years?" he asked.
I knew. Greg told me so many times that the number made holes in my ear membranes, but provoking the protector would do me no good, so I kept my peace.
"Eight," he said, letting the words sink in. "Including you."
I tried to look solemn.
Ted moved his pen two inches to the left, gave it a careful look, and leveled his gaze back at me. "Why did you leave?"
"I had a problem with authority."
"A bad case of honor student ego?"
"It went beyond that. I realized that the Order was the wrong place for me and I withdrew before I had a chance to do something really stupid."
In my mind Greg's voice said with a touch of reproach, And so you became a mercenary, a sword for hire, without a purpose or cause.
Ted said, "You're working for the Order now."
"Yes."
"How does it feel?"
"Well, Doctor, it feels rather sore and tingly."
He waved my quip aside. "I'm not fucking around. How does it feel?"
"Having a base in the city is nice. The MA sticker opens doors. There's a lot of responsibility."
"It bothers you?"
"Yes. When I'm on my own, I screw up and my paycheck goes down the drain, so I eat what I grow until the next thing comes along. Now I screw up and a lot of people might die."
He nodded. "Feel choked by authority?"
"No. You gave me a long leash. But I know it's there."
"Just as long as you remember."
"That's not something I would forget."
"I've got a complaint from Nataraja," he said.
I relaxed. The tide was changing. "Oh?"
"He claims that you're avoiding discussing the case with them. He had a lot to say."
"He frequently has a lot to say." I shrugged.
"You know why he's making noise?"
"Yes. Both the People and the Pack are suspects. He wants to put on a show of cooperation."
Ted nodded, approving of my assessment.
"I had no cause to go to the Casino," I said.
"You've got one now."
"Yes."
"Good. Then after we're done, go and shut him up."
I nodded.
"Tell me what you've got so far."
I unloaded. I told him about the dead vampire and the hidden brand; I told him about the meeting with the Beast Lord who wanted to be called Curran, and I told him about the yellow lines on the m-scan and Anna's dream.
He sat through it all, nodding with no expression on his stone face. When I was done, he said, "Good."
I realized that the audience was over and left the office. This time the Saracens escaped without burning oil scalding their backs.
I proceeded into Greg's office. Something had been bothering me since last night, tugging at my mind, and this morning, my wits sharpened by fury over the icy shower, I finally figured out what it was: the names of the women in Greg's file. I had forgotten about the four names, just let them slip from my memory, which was both irresponsible and stupid. I should have known better than that.
Finding the file and extracting the page listing the names took about five seconds. Sandra Molot, Angelina Gomez, Jennifer Ying, Alisa Konova. I checked Greg's files looking for the names, but none of the women had individual folders. Besides coming from different ethnic groups, they had nothing in common. I rummaged around for a phone book, found it in the lowest drawer, and looked through it. Gomez and Ying were common surnames, and Molot was not infrequent, so I looked for Konova. I found two men with the surname Konov, Anatoli and Denis. Russians denoted female gender by adding a vowel to the end of their surname, so a female form of Konov would be Konova. Given that, I thought the names were worth a try.
I dialed the first one and was informed by an indifferent female voice that the number had been disconnected. I tried the second number. The phone rang and an older female voice said with a slight accent, "Yes?"
"Hello, can I speak with Alisa, please?"
There was a long pause.
"Ma'am?"
"Alisa's missing," the woman said quietly. "We don't know where she is."
She hung up the phone before I had a chance to ask anything else. Since Molot was my second best bet, I looked for it and found six Molots. I hit pay dirt on the fourth one—a young male told me that Sandra was his sister and reluctantly informed me that she was also missing since the fourteenth of last month but refused to say anything else, adding "the cops are still looking for her." I thanked him and hung up.
I called nineteen people with the last name Ying and twenty-seven with the surname Gomez. I could not find Jennifer Ying, but there were two Angelinas among the Gomezes. The first one was two years old. The second was twenty and missing.
It was a safe bet that Jennifer Ying had suffered the same fate as the other three women. I considered a visit to the precinct, but the rational part of my brain informed me that not only would they throw me out without any information, I'd also call enough attention to myself to make my job even more difficult. Cops had respect for full-fledged knights, but they did not cooperate with them unless the circumstances left them no choice. I was not even a knight.
It was possible that all four ladies grew claws and fur and called Curran "Lord," in which case it would be logical to suppose that they were missing, because they were among the seven dead shapechangers. I called Jim to verify, but either he was not home or he decided not to take my calls. I didn't leave a message.
With nothing left to do, I put away the file. It was nearly lunchtime and I had a plastic surgeon to meet.