Keeper of the Moon - By Harley Jane Kozak Page 0,9

Declan breathed in the canyon air, watched the lights of distant houses go on one by one. Like fireflies, he thought, and then tried to remember when he’d last seen a firefly. They weren’t native to California any more than he was.

It had been instructive, meeting Sailor as a stranger, unencumbered by the undercurrent of hostility that characterized their encounters. More than instructive. With no chip on her shoulder, he found her exceedingly attractive. He wondered if Alessande had been right, that he was a cold bastard. Maybe. The truth was, he found actors to be self-absorbed and vain, with few exceptions. It was hardly their fault. The business was so harsh that survival required a high opinion of one’s own talent and specialness. Sailor was showing more substance than he’d expected, but she was hardly ready to assume the position of Canyon Keeper. His plan was to get her to Krabill and let the doctor oversee her recovery while her colleagues—himself, for starters—took charge of the crisis. Good luck for the investigation to be able to observe the disease. Sailor Gryffald was more valuable in a hospital bed than on her feet.

And more vulnerable.

He shook off Alessande’s last words. Portents aren’t facts, he reminded himself. They’re like dreams, open to interpretation, symbolic. We’ve had enough dead. I have no intention of letting Sailor Gryffald join their ranks.

Declan slowed his heart by an effort of will, and then lowered his eyelids on a long exhale, sent a command to the region deep in his solar plexus, watched the molecules rearrange themselves.

He turned himself into a hawk and flew home.

* * *

Sailor knew she was moving as fast as she was because of the strangely named brew that Alessande had given her. A long-forgotten memory suddenly emerged from the depths of her mind: she’d been a child, sick with bronchitis, and her mother had given her the same brew, bade her drink it despite the bitterness. It had been like a miracle then, and it was the same now. She could feel it continue to sharpen her senses and heat her blood, and wondered if there would be a backlash when it wore off, some kind of potion hangover. Her theory, backed up by personal research in her college days, was that the better the high, the worse the morning after. She couldn’t remember the aftereffects when she’d been seven, only that one moment she’d been ill and the next playing tag with her cousins.

However much the potion helped the symptoms, it was unlikely, Sailor guessed, to actually cure this poison or virus—no, what had they called it? A pathogen. The pathogen must be resistant to the usual Elven healing powers. Otherwise Charlotte and Gina and the others would have healed themselves. Might the pathogen have some magical component? She assumed that the medical community, the one comprised of Others, was searching for the cure. She would worry about that later. The first thing to do was get home.

Should she teleport? No, because Jonquil would be left to find his own way alone. Besides which, teleporting took a physical toll on her. She had a surge of energy now, but who knew how long it would last? Better to conserve it.

She had been teleporting since the age of two and a half, according to her mother, which so unnerved the poor woman that she’d called her husband home from work to make Sailor stop disappearing from her bedroom and reappearing in the playroom when she was supposed to be napping. Because Sailor wasn’t truly Elven, her powers would never be as strong as theirs, and she needed constant practice to move herself more than a mile at a time. Still, she was very good at it, for a Keeper. Not that she’d always used it responsibly. Keepers, too, had to survive the teenage years, and Sailor’s had been rocky.

She continued jogging, her focus on Jonquil’s tail ahead of her, the full moon above, her grip on the dagger Alessande had given her. If the thing, the Other, whatever it was, returned, it would not catch her unaware. She didn’t run with an iPod, because it interfered with situational awareness, and now, especially, she needed access to all six senses. She would recognize the warning signs this time: the whoosh of wind, the drop in temperature, the quieting of the cicadas. This time she would be ready. She had always been good with a knife.

Don’t be stupid, girl. That man’s words reverberated