“Yes.”
“I went over the numbers. We have the people to combat this threat. We have the power at our disposal.” He paused, now looking out the window. “But we don’t have the magic. Gargoyles have a natural ability to withstand a certain amount of spell work, and the potions you guys created should help our shifters do the same thing. But a more advanced mage, a mage high on the power scale, will still be able to break through it. And they can just try and try again. Sebastian hasn’t been able to come up with any answers.”
He’d obviously spoken to Sebastian as well. I’d never seen the weird mage so worried.
I took a deep breath. “We’ve encountered dismal odds before. Sebastian and I have been training.
There may only be two of us, but we’re strong, and we’ll concentrate our efforts on the highest-caliber mages. We’ll have the home team advantage. Hell, we’ll have fliers! Fliers are incredibly advantageous in a battle like this. We’ve seen the proof.”
“Those mages will be spread out all over the territory, and it’s a big territory. Kingsley has a lot of land.” His voice was hard enough to cut granite. “Momar hasn’t spent this much time sussing out my brother’s territory and defenses with his mini, harmless attacks just to shoot himself in the foot by putting their most valuable players within easy reach. No, each powerful mage will be protected by a team of lesser mages, just you watch.”
“Okay, fine, but we also know mages are cowards. Gargoyles, Cyra, and Hollace can fly into those groups, and some of them will flee. That’ll cut down their numbers enough to give us a chance.”
He ran his thumb back and forth along my thigh. “I hope so. Otherwise, we’ll need a miracle.”
Austin didn’t say much after that. We arrived at the airport in silence, and even then he only spoke to direct our people. I took over where I could, especially when it was my crew that was causing the holdup. And, surprise, surprise, my crew caused plenty of problems in the security line.
“What is going on?” I asked through my teeth. Niamh had insisted on bringing her cooler. She’d been stopped by the TSA, to no one’s shock, and was now arguing with the agent.
“This gobshite won’t let me through,” she said, her hands braced on her hips.
“You cannot carry this onto the airplane,” the agent said semi-patiently.
“Can’t I, me arse.” She gestured at the battered blue cooler. “Those are all travel-sized bottles, aren’t they? No more than 3.5 ounces each. The cooler is me luggage. It’s all above board.”
“Take her to prison,” Mr. Tom said as he took a carry-on from the conveyer. “It’ll be the best place for her.”
“Ma’am…” the agent said, ignoring Mr. Tom. He took out a small, clear plastic bottle designed for storing shampoo or conditioner when traveling. Brown liquid sloshed around inside. “This is the right size, yes—”
“See?” Niamh said.
“But you are limited to one quart-size container housing the liquids, gels, and aerosols. This is”—
he looked first inside, and then at the outside of the cooler—“significantly more than that.”
“Is that whole thing full?” I asked incredulously.
“Not full,” Niamh said.
“Mostly full,” the man responded.
I sighed in exasperation. “Reduce it to the amount that is allowed and let’s go, Niamh.”
“Why would I need a cooler if I’m only allowed what I can carry in my pocket?” she demanded.
“Get it done,” I told her, my tone brooking no argument.
She glowered at the TSA agent before reaching for the cooler.
“Ma’am, is this your bag?” I heard someone else ask.
Cyra raised her hand with a smile. “That’s mine!”
“Oh no,” I said softly, waiting for her to take her place next to Niamh in the security area.
Grim-faced, the man looked at her over the suitcase. “Do you have any weapons in this suitcase, ma’am?”
“Yes,” she answered jovially.
Hollace, waiting for his bag, glanced over with a grin.
The agent gave her a long, dangerous sort of look that went right over her head before he unzipped the pack and gingerly reached inside.
“Oops. Be careful there.” Cyra put out a hand to steady him. “It is very sharp.”
“What’d you bring?” I asked, peering in as Niamh started throwing bottles in the trash, grumbling under her breath.
“Just a large, serrated knife,” she said, peering into the bag. She affected a strange sort of accent.
“That’s not a knife… This is a knife.”
Hollace started laughing. I continued to stare.
“Ulric was watching Crocodile Dundee the other day,” Hollace explained, stopping behind us.
“She thought that was a good joke.”
“Yes. I wanted to do that to one of the shifters in this new territory. Sort of like breaking the ice, you know?”
“No—Cyra…” I opened my mouth. Closed it. Collected myself. “No. Take— Get it out. You can’t bring weapons on an airplane, Cyra! Are you nuts?”
“You can’t?” She poked her finger through the lens-less frame of her glasses to rub her eye. The deep scowl in the agent’s face bent a little toward confusion. “Why not?”
“I explained that, remember?” Hollace said. “Just get rid of it. The shifters wouldn’t have thought that joke was very funny anyway. Most of them probably haven’t even seen the movie or wouldn’t remember it. It’s old.”
“Fine,” she said, as put out as Niamh.
She reached for the suitcase only to have the agent stop her. “No. I will handle the weapon.”
“Can’t I at least stash it in the airport and get it when I come back?” she asked.
The agent gave her a hard stare. “No.”
It was a miracle he didn’t arrest her.
The next issue happened when we were trying to get everyone onto the plane. My boarding zone had already been called, but I stayed back to make sure everyone else got on. Good thing.
“I beg your pardon, madam?” Mr. Tom said indignantly to the ticket agent. He pulled his ticket back, not allowing her to grab it and scan him through.
She paused in a moment of confusion.
“No, this is not a costume party,” he said, “and no, we are not cost-playing, whatever that is, a legion of Batmans. An ordinary man with enhanced technology running around the night dressed as a bat with fake muscles is, quite frankly, ludicrous. Little Dicks need to put their faith in something better than mentally unstable vigilantes.”
The woman gasped.
Niamh let out a loud guffaw. “Now who’s going to prison, ya cheeky bastard,” she drawled.
“That kind of language is highly inappropriate, sir,” the woman said, her body bristling.
It took me a moment to realize she was reacting to the phrase “little Dicks,” which for us meant non-magical kids.
“Right, okay.” I rushed forward, bumping into Niamh so that I could get to Mr. Tom.