Thea Harrison - Oracle's Moon

A ghost walked through the downstairs. She hardly paid attention, other than to note that it was one of the old women from the kitchen. For the first month after the accident, she had gone through her days braced for the terrible possibility that Petra or Niko might appear, but neither did, and after a while she had stopped looking for them.

Her eyes were dry and felt full of grit. She closed them and willed herself to sleep. She was wretchedly tired. She was always wretchedly tired. According to the doctor, that too would pass, as she healed emotionally and physically.

The children were recovering from their own loss. Petra’s friend Katherine had kept Chloe and Max while Grace had been recovering in the hospital. Too young to understand why Mommy and Daddy were never coming home again, they had been subdued and clingy when Grace had been well enough to bring them home. Now, months later, they had recovered enough to laugh and play, but they were each still prone to crying jags, and sometimes Chloe retreated into herself and refused to talk. It broke Grace’s heart to see her that way.

Outside, something snapped. Grace bolted into a sitting position and yanked the curtains aside to stare into the night. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

—pulled a sword—

—Vampyres, walking up her driveway—

The killing. The golden monster that Rune had become had split the Vampyre’s body with claws as long as scimitars. For one moment bright red liquid sprayed everything around them. Then the blonde Vampyre’s body, along with her blood, had disintegrated to dust, and Grace had been left staring at the empty space where the woman had stood.

Just outside her window, a raccoon waddled out from the bushes underneath the nearby trees, followed by three half-grown kits. The breath shook out of her as she watched the animals wander across the lawn. She knew where the raccoons were headed. They were going to check out the trash bins beside the garage. Living on a five-acre property meant the wildlife was opinionated and abundant. Just as the rest of her family had done for years, Grace kept the trash bins latched, but the raccoons never gave up hope.

She let go of the curtain and put a hand to her forehead. Then she clenched that hand into a fist.

Get a fucking grip, already, she told herself.

Okay, but how?

Confront the problem head-on. Solve it.

She pushed off the futon, limped over to the desk and turned on the computer. Then she composed a draft of an e-mail outlining her problem. Who should she send it to—Isalynn LeFevre? As the elected Head of the witches’ demesne and a U.S. senator, LeFevre was one of the most powerful legislators in the States. Or should Grace send the e-mail to the Elder tribunal, care of Councillor Archer Harrow? Most of the Elder tribunal had been here when sanctuary was violated; they already knew what had happened.

Grace sat back in her chair, staring at the screen. The computer clock read 12:17 A.M. She had no business e-mailing anybody after midnight, let alone powerful and sophisticated lawmakers. Slowly she clicked to save the e-mail as a draft.

She needed to think this through. She knew her own faults. She was young, inexperienced, and she was well aware that she was a hothead and prone to impulse. If she was Catholic, she should probably take up permanent residence inside a confessional booth. She did not need to splatter all of that onto a page and then make it public.

In any case, what did she really want to gain? Those ancient, deadly creatures on the Elder tribunal lived lives that were far more violent than anything she had ever known. Their lives were written on large canvases, their dramas playing out on the world stage. Inter-demesne politics, treaties and alliances, old grudges and betrayals, keeping the peace and fighting wars. And, sometimes, murder.

So there was a violation of sanctuary. It was a single incident in more than a hundred and fifty years of her family living on this property. As a crime statistic, one incident was less than compelling. She imagined one of the tribunal Councillors reading her e-mail and patting a yawn.

Grace needed to be taken seriously when she spoke and not dismissed or marginalized—or at least not marginalized any more than the Oracle was already.

Besides, changing the law wouldn’t do a damn thing.

So if the law couldn’t offer any real solutions to her problem, she needed to find her own.

What she really wanted was to keep the children safe and to have protection when they needed it. If she only had money, she could hire a bodyguard or a security service, someone who was Powerful enough that his or her presence alone would be a strong deterrent to any potential lawbreakers.

She…could hire somebody…

She sighed, tilted her head back and closed her eyes.

She could eat humble pie, is what she could do.

“Hello, are you still there?” she asked.

Even though she spoke softly, the sound of her own voice shattered the deep, late-night silence. She couldn’t sense Khalil’s presence in the house or even on the property, like she had earlier. But now that she had turned her attention toward him, she could feel a tenuous thread of connection that streaked through the air like a vapor trail left from an airplane.

Still, she got no response when she called his name, not even a shift in the air. Terrific. He wasn’t paying attention.

She felt the impulse to pace but stifled it. Pacing had become more trouble than it was worth. Instead, she spun the office chair in circles. Of all the foolishness she had been guilty of in her life, feeling peeved that Khalil didn’t respond when she called him—especially after she had been so insistent that he go away—ranked high on the list.

Maybe he was on a date. Maybe he had a mate. Maybe he had several mates. Maybe he was watching TV. Hell, as far as she knew, maybe he didn’t even need a television set, he just sucked up the information on the airwaves.

She pinched her lower lip and spun in more circles, watching the shadowed room go round and round.

An affinity to things of the spirit meant sometimes going past the teachings from her childhood, to an understanding that resided deep in her gut. She patted along the edges of the connection, learning as she explored the thread. When she was confident she had a good sense of it, she wrapped her awareness around the thread and yanked .

Far in the distance, an immense cyclone whipped around to give her its full, startled attention. She stopped spinning and sat back in her chair as it streamed toward her, spitting with fury.

The cyclone exploded into the house. The window curtains spun into a knot, and all the loose papers on the desk blew around the room. Black smoke seethed in the office and coalesced into the figure of one outraged Djinn.

He wore a dark crimson tunic and trousers, his raven hair pulled ruthlessly back from that elegant, inhuman face. His ivory skin was luminous against the rich red, and his diamond eyes shone brighter than the backlit computer screen, casting the shadowed office into even deeper darkness.

Yeow. He seemed bigger when he was angry.

He snarled, “You dare?”

Well, that experiment went well. She raised her eyebrows and pinched her lower lip again. “Would you rather give me a cell phone number that I can call?”

He gave her an incredulous glare. “How did you know to do that?!”

“I’m good at what I do?” she offered. What exactly had she done? She patted the air, found the thread of connection and gave it another small, experimental tug. Sulfurous anger boiled the air. Okay. Whatever it is, it must be like pulling the tail on a cat.

He bared his teeth and hissed at her. “Stop doing that!”