cloak, methodically turning each pocket inside out. But all were empty. Had Briac lied to him? Shinobu was about to stuff the cloak back into the box, when a trailing edge of the garment hit the floor with a muted thump.
A small, hard object had been sewn inside a fold of wool at the edge of the cloak. Shinobu could feel it by sticking a finger through the stitching. He tore the seam open, and the object fell out into his hand. It was a finely shaped stone medallion. It fit easily into his palm. In fact it seemed meant to do so.
Shinobu held it up to look at it carefully. Even in the low light he recognized the carving on its face immediately—three interlocking ovals, a simple representation of an atom. It was the same design on the pommel of the athame tucked into his waistband. It was the symbol of the Dreads. The back of the medallion, at first glance, was flat and smooth, but as he tilted it, he saw dozens of faint scars in the stone.
According to Briac, he’d stolen this medallion from the Middle during the fight on Traveler. It was an object all Watchers would recognize as belonging to their master. And since their master was dead, the possessor of this medallion could become their master. That had been Briac’s plan, though he was far too crazy now to see it through.
Shinobu slipped the stone disk into a pocket and carefully buttoned the pocket shut.
The rat had awakened. It was turning itself in circles inside Shinobu’s coat, looking for the exit. I don’t want Quin to see it, he thought. She wouldn’t understand. She would already be upset by him leaving in the night. He didn’t want to upset her further with rats. He pulled the animal out by its tail and held it in front of his face, watching it twist and turn as it tried to bite him. Suddenly the idea of having a rat in his possession seemed odd. He threw the creature onto the floor and let it scurry off.
“That was strange,” he whispered aloud.
Shinobu drew out his athame and set the dials. He was going back to Quin to apologize and to make new plans. Now that he understood what the Middle had intended, he and Quin could take control.
19 Years Earlier
The courtyard adjacent to the large house was narrow and dimly lit by lanterns that cast a flickering glow like the dance of real flames. A tangle of flowering vines climbed one of the brick walls, providing plenty of places for someone to hide.
The motorbike was parked on the cobblestones in a shadowed corner of the yard, the rider’s helmet sitting proprietarily between the handlebars, waiting for its owner to return.
Catherine stood with her back against the brick wall, concealed in the shadows of the overgrown vines. She looked across the courtyard at the house, which rose four stories, tall and expensive and old. There was the window where she and Archie had stood together drinking tea. God, he’d annoyed her.
It was hard to say exactly why she was here now, and yet here she was. She’d dressed herself differently this time, in a leather jacket over close-fitting dark clothing, like a Seeker who had joined a motorcycle gang.
After a long while, Archie came out of the house. He looked irritated in the way Catherine guessed she must also look irritated after spending time with her parents. Archie had only his father, but Catherine guessed that Gavin Hart was as difficult as two or three parents.
The night was cold, but he was in shirtsleeves as he jogged down the steps from the side door. Only when he approached his bike did he pull on his jacket. It bothered Catherine immensely that she noticed a host of physical details about him without trying: the way his hair flopped down loosely after he ran his hands through it, the flex of his shoulders and arms as he slipped into his jacket.
For God’s sake, Catherine, she thought, pull yourself together.
Archie turned back to the house as he zipped up his jacket, and she used that moment to step from the shadows. She silently walked over and was leaning against the seat of his motorcycle when he turned around.
Archie jumped when he saw her, but he recovered quickly. His expression became unreadable as he studied her.
“You look different,” he said cautiously.
“My mother dressed me last time,” she told him.
“And who dressed you