eyebrows and glanced at me. “Faeries?”
I nodded. “Malks, almost certainly.”
“Malks?”
“Winterfae,” I said. “Felines. About the size of a bobcat.”
“Nothing steel can’t handle, then,” she said, rising briskly.
“Yeah,” I said. “You could probably handle half a dozen.”
She nodded once, brandished the ax, and turned to continue down the tunnel.
“Which is why they tend to run in packs of twenty,” I added, a couple of steps later.
Gard stopped and gave me a glare.
“That’s called sharing information,” I said. I gestured at the wall. “These are territorial markings for the local pack. Malks are stronger than natural animals, quick, almost invisible when they want to be, and their claws are sharper and harder than surgical steel. I once saw a malk shred an aluminum baseball bat to slivers. And if that wasn’t enough, they’re sentient. Smarter than some people I know.”
“Od’s bodkin,” Gard swore quietly. “Can you handle them?”
“They don’t like fire,” I said. “But in an enclosed space like this, I don’t like it much, either.”
Gard nodded once. “Can we treat with them?” she asked. “Buy passage?”
“They’ll keep their word, like any fae,” I said. “If you can get them to give it in the first place. But think of how cats enjoy hunting, even when they aren’t hungry. Think about how they toy with their prey sometimes. Then distill that joyful little killer instinct out of every cat in Chicago and pour it all into one malk. They’re to cats what Hannibal Lecter is to people.”
“Negotiation isn’t an option, then.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think we have anything to offer them that they’ll want more than our screams and meat, no.”
Gard nodded, frowning. “Best if they never notice us at all, then.”
“Nice thought,” I said. “But these things have a cat’s senses. I could probably hide us from their sight or hearing, but not both. And they could still smell us.”
Gard frowned. She reached into her coat pocket and drew out a slim box of aged, pale ivory. She opened it and began gingerly sorting through a number of small ivory squares.
“Scrabble tiles?” I asked. “I don’t want to play with malks. They’re really bad about using plurals and proper names.”
“They’re runes,” Gard said quietly. She found the one she was after, took a steadying breath, and then removed a single square from the ivory box with the same cautious reverence I’d seen soldiers use with military explosives. She closed the box and put it back in her pocket, holding the single ivory chit carefully in front of her on her palm.
I was familiar with Norse runes. The rune on the ivory square in her hand was totally unknown to me. “Um. What’s that?” I asked.
“A rune of Routine,” she said quietly. “You said you were skilled with illusion magic. If you can make us look like them, even for a few moments, it should allow us to pass through them unnoticed, as if we were a normal part of their day.”
Technically, I had told Gard I was familiar with illusion magic, not skilled. Truth be told, it was probably my weakest skill set. Nobody’s good at everything, right? I’m good with the kaboom magic. My actual use of illusion hadn’t passed much beyond the craft’s equivalent of painting a few portraits of fruit bowls.
But I’d just have to hope that what Gard didn’t know wouldn’t get us both killed. Elizabeth didn’t have much time, and I didn’t have many options. Besides, what did we have to lose? If the bid to sneak by failed, we could always fall back on negotiating or slugging it out.
Mouse gave me a sober look.
“Groovy,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
A GOOD ILLUSION is all about imagination. You create a picture in your mind, imagining every detail; imagining so hard that the image in your head becomes nearly tangible, almost real. You have to be able to see it, hear it, touch it, taste it, smell it, to engage all your senses in its (theoretical) reality. If you can do that, if you can really believe in your fake version of reality, then you can pour energy into it and create it in the minds and senses of everyone looking at it.
For the record, it’s also how all the best liars do business—by making their imagined version of things so coherent that they almost believe it themselves.
I’m not a terribly good liar, but I knew the basics of how to make an illusion work, and I had two secret weapons. The first was the tuft