Charlaine Harris - Deadlocked

“Please tel me Diantha isn’t dead,” I said. His niece Diantha was one of the most unusual creatures I’d ever met, and that was saying something, considering whom I could enter in my address book.

“We prevailed,” he said simply. “But it cost us, of course. I had to lie hidden in the woods for many days until I was able to travel again. Diantha recovered more quickly since her wounds were slighter, and she brought me food and began gathering information. We needed to understand before we could begin to dig ourselves out of trouble.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, wondering where this was going to lead. “You want to share that information with me? I’m pretty sure that this guy didn’t understand my gran’s letter.” I nodded my head at the body.

“He may not have understood the context, and he didn’t believe in fairies, but he did see the phrase ‘cluviel dor,’” Mr. Cataliades said.

“But how come he knew it was valuable? He definitely didn’t know what it can do, because he didn’t understand the reality of fairies.”

“I learned from my sponsor, Bertine, that Cal away Googled the term ‘cluviel dor.’ He found one reference in a fragment of text from an old Irish folk tale,” Mr. Cataliades said.

This Bertine must be Mr. Cataliades’s godmother, in effect, the same way Mr. Cataliades (my grandfather’s best friend) was mine. I wondered briefly what Bertine looked like, where she lived. But Mr. Cataliades was stil talking.

“Computers are another reason to deplore this age, when no one has to real y travel to learn important things from other cultures.” He shook his head, and a fragment of leaf floated to the floor and landed on the corpse. “And I’l tel you more about my sponsor when we have some leisure. You might like her.”

I suspected Mr. Cataliades also had flashes of foreseeing.

“Fortunately for us, Cal away came to Bertine’s attention when he persisted in his research. Of course, it was unfortunate for him.” Mr. Cataliades spared a downward glance at the inert Donald. “Cal away tracked down a supposed expert in fairy lore, someone who could tel him what little is known about this legendary fairy artifact; namely, the fact that none exist on this earth anymore. Unfortunately, this expert—who was Bertine, as you have no doubt surmised—did not understand the importance of keeping silent. Since dear Bertine didn’t believe that there were any cluviel dors left in either world, she felt free to talk about them. Therefore, she was ignorant of the wrong she committed when she told Cal away that a cluviel dor could be made in almost any form or shape. Cal away had never suspected the item he’d held was an actual fae artifact until he talked to Bertine.

He imagined scholars and folklorists would give a pretty penny to possess such a thing.”

“When he showed me the drawer, I didn’t get that he’d already opened it,” I said quietly. “How could that be?”

“Were you shielding?”

“I’m sure I was.” I did it without thinking, to protect myself. Of course, I couldn’t maintain such a level of blocking al day, every day. And of course, it protected your brain only like wearing earmuffs affected your hearing; a lot of stuff stil filtered in, especial y from a strong broadcaster. But apparently Donald had been preoccupied that day, and I had been so excited at the contents of the drawer I hadn’t realized he was seeing the Butterick pattern envelope and the velvet bag for the second time. He hadn’t believed he’d found anything valuable or notable: a confusing letter from an old woman about having children and getting a present, and a bag containing an old toiletry item, maybe a powder compact. It was when he’d thought the find over later and Googled the odd phrase that he’d begun to wonder if those items might be valuable.

“I need to give you lessons, child, as I should have done before. Isn’t it nice that we’re final y getting to know one another? I regret that it takes a huge crisis to impel me to make this offer.”

I nodded faintly. I was glad to learn something about my telepathy from my sponsor, but it was kind of daunting to think of Desmond Cataliades becoming part of my everyday life. Of course, he knew what I was thinking, so I said hurriedly, “Please tel me what happened next.”

“When Diantha thought of questioning Bertine, Bertine realized what she had done. Far from giving a human a useless bit of information about old fairy lore, she had revealed a secret. She came to me while I was recuperating, and I final y understood why I’d been pursued.”

“Because …” I tried to arrange my thoughts. “Because you’d kept secret the existence of a cluviel dor?”

“Yes. My friendship with Fintan, whose name your grandmother mentioned in the letter, was no secret. Stupid Cal away Googled Fintan, too, and though he didn’t find out anything about the real Fintan, the conjunction of the two searches sent out an alarm that eventual y reached … the wrong ears. The fact that Fintan was your grandfather is no secret, either, since Nial found you and chose to honor you with his love and protection. It would not take much to put these snippets together.”

“This is the only cluviel dor left in the world?” Awesome.

“Unless one lies lost and forgotten in the land of the fae. And believe me, there are plenty who search every day for such a thing.”

“Can I give it away?”

“You’l need it if you’re attacked. And you wil be attacked,” Mr. Cataliades said, matter-of-factly. “You can use it for yourself, you know; loving yourself is a legitimate trigger of its magic. Giving it to someone else would seal their death warrant. I don’t think you’d want that, though my knowledge of you is inadequate.”

Gee. A lot of swel news.

“I wish Adele had used it herself, to save her own life or the life of one of her children, to take the burden from you. I can only suppose that she didn’t believe in its power.”

“Probably not,” I agreed. And if she had, she almost certainly felt that using it would not be a Christian act. “So, who’s after the cluviel dor? I guess you know, by now?”

“I’m not sure that knowledge would be good for you,” he said.

“How come you can read my mind, but I can’t read yours?” I asked, tired of being transparent. Now I knew how other people must feel when I plucked a thought or two from their brains. Mr. Cataliades was a master at this, while I was very much a novice. He seemed to hear everything, and it didn’t seem to bother him. Before I’d learned to shield, the world had been a babble of talk inside my head. Now that I could block those thoughts for the most part, life was easier, but it was frustrating when I actual y wanted to hear: I seldom got a ful thought or understood its context. It was surprisingly deflating to realize that it wasn’t how much I heard that was amazing, it was how much I missed.

“Wel , I am mostly a demon,” he said apologetical y. “And you’re mostly only human.”

“Do you know Barry?” I asked, and even Mr. Cataliades looked a little surprised.

“Yes,” he said, after a perceptible hesitation. “The young man who can also read minds. I saw him in Rhodes, before and after the explosion.”

“If I came to be telepathic because of your—wel , essential y, your baby shower present—how come Barry is telepathic?”

Mr. Cataliades pul ed himself straight and looked anywhere but at me. “Barry is my great-great-grandson.”

“So, you’re much older than you look.”

This was taken as a compliment. “Yes, my young friend, I am. I don’t neglect the boy, you know. He doesn’t real y know me, and of course he doesn’t know his heritage, but I’ve kept him out of a lot of trouble. Not the same thing as having a fairy godmother as you had, but I’ve done my best.”