Eight

The night passed in restless sleep, disturbed by Dafydd's anxious request. She woke early, unrested, to watch the sunrise, and answered an early-morning call with the feeling that she'd expected it; that she'd gotten up early so she might be awake when it came.

But it wasn't Dafydd ap Caerwyn who called, but rather a friend from one of the meetings, apologetic and hopeful all at once: "Hi, Lara, it's Ruth. I'm supposed to lead the meeting at Our Lady of Victories this morning, but both my kids woke up covered with chicken pox and their dad's never had it so he's been quarantined, and I know it's Sunday, but I was wondering—"

"I'm not a recovering addict, Ruth," Lara reminded her gently. "I shouldn't be leading meetings."

"I know, I know, but they like you, and most of it's about listening anyway, and Becky can't do it because she's got family in town over the weekend, and, well, please? They won't mind, not just this once."

"You called because you knew I'd say yes," Lara said with teasing rancor. "The meeting's at … nine?"

"You are an angel of goodness. It's at nine thirty, and the pastor usually unlocks the parish center doors for me at nine so I can get things set up. Is that okay?"

"It's fine. I'll be there. I hope the kids feel better soon." Lara hung up thinking the meeting was more blessing than bother. It would give her something besides Dafydd to think about for a few hours, and listening to other people work through their problems often gave her insight into her own. She suspected that was part of the reason people became psychologists, though Dafydd had detailed the reasons for her own degree accurately. Practicing psychology had never been her plan. She'd only wanted a better foundation for understanding those who were fundamentally unlike her.

Which, she admitted wryly, was very nearly everyone. Glad for the distraction, she got dressed and caught a bus to the church. It wasn't one of the usual locations she visited; after the first few months she had realized her regular presence stifled meeting participants. The occasional prod toward greater truthfulness was easier to handle than a constant edgy fear that basic honesty wasn't enough. A little of Lara went a long way; it was something she'd learned early and still worried about. Kelly and a few others had adapted to, or didn't care about, her pedantry, but in a delicate social situation like the meetings, it was better for Lara to be a periodic visitor rather than a regular. There were innumerable groups around Boston, and she'd made casual acquaintance with many of them. Ruth's group was one of her less-regular stops, but she knew enough of them to be comfortable stepping in at Ruth's request.

A blocky man with just enough grown-out fuzz to suggest he shaved his head to avoid obvious male pattern baldness got to his feet as she approached the church. "Miss Jansen?"

"Please, it's Lara. And you're Pete, right?" Lara shook his hand, smiling. "I remember you from the last time I was here. How's it going?"

"Sixteen weeks, three days. That meeting you were at was my first. It's not easy, Miss … Lara. My parole officer comes to these things to make sure I'm staying the course. No flippin' pressure. And he's an asshole."

Lara laughed. "All the more reason to prove him wrong by sticking with it. Ruth didn't tell me she'd have someone meet me. Thanks. It's nice to see a friendly face."

"It's no problem, I live around the corner. Hey, Pastor." Pete left Lara behind as a slight older man came up the road, a ring of keys in hand. "This is Lara Jansen, she's running the meeting for Ruth today. Ruth's kids have chicken pox."

"Ah, the poor woman. Nice to meet you, Miss Jansen. The door will lock behind you when you leave, so just tidy up a bit and you'll be set when you're done." He let them into a chilly open space littered with community projects, then departed still clucking over Ruth's misfortune. Pete turned the heat on as Lara pulled chairs into a circle and blew warm air over her fingers.

"I should have brought coffee for everyone. Maybe next time."

"It warms up fast," Pete promised. "I know you're not the regular leader, Miss … Lara, but I wonder if you'd take a minute to talk to my parole officer? He never believes me, he likes someone else to tell him I'm staying dry. I don't know how they'd know if I lied, but that's just how he is."

"Sixteen weeks, three days," Lara said comfortably. "I don't mind at all. I'm sorry he doesn't believe you. That must be a little undermining."

Pete shrugged. "The guys believe me, that's what counts."

"It's mostly what counts, anyway, hm?" Lara said to the faint discordant note in his voice, and he threw her a wry look that turned into another shrug.

"Mostly. Like I said, he's an asshole and, I mean, he's my parole officer, shouldn't really matter what he thinks, but it kind of does. I got in over my head when I was nineteen, a bunch of stupid shit and I deserved to go to jail, but I straightened up. The meetings are a condition of my parole, but I want to be here, you know?" He went on, comfortable honesty in his litany that didn't end as others arrived. He greeted them, introduced Lara, and left her smiling at his ease. Ruth had probably noticed already, but Pete would—did, in fact—make a good group leader, taking over most of the duties that Lara was in theory there to provide.

The only pall came near the end, when a chiseled blond man stepped into the meeting room. Pete's good nature faltered briefly and the others glanced toward the door, then subtly straightened and lost the edge of humor that had sustained them. Lara glanced from one suddenly tense face to another, then touched Pete's shoulder as she got up to talk to the newcomer. He put his hand out, and without bothering to keep his voice down as she approached, said, "Officer Rich Cooper. You're not the usual leader."

"Lara Jansen. Ruth's kids have the chicken pox, so I'm standing in today. Do you mind if we step just outside the door so we don't disturb everyone?" Lara shook his hand but walked outside, happy for once to do away with the pretense of polite behavior and insist, through action, that the officer oblige her. "Pete said you'd be dropping by. He's doing very well. He'll be a group leader if he wants to be, I think."

Cooper scowled over his shoulder as they left the community center, then scowled at her, though the expression smoothed over as if he was reminding himself that he was one of the good guys.

Or at least, Lara thought sourly, that he was putting on a performance as one of the good guys. She'd met any number of parole officers while working with the various twelve-step groups, and only rarely had they been as this man came across: eager to be a peace officer not for the sake of the community, but for his own perceived power. Pete, whose intention to stay straight was geninue, deserved a parole officer more willing to believe in him. Lara hoped he had the wherewithal to prove Cooper wrong.

"How can you tell, if you're not the regular leader? I think the guy is trouble."

Lara put on a smile she didn't feel, uncomfortable with the deception but certain anything else would be taken as aggressive. "I suppose he must have been once upon a time, in order to warrant a parole officer. I studied psychology. I know it's not the same as being an officer on the street, but I hope it gives me some insight into how people can and might behave."

Cooper hesitated, then looked pleased, taking her phrasing as a compliment. "I studied criminal justice, myself. Psych always seemed pretty soft to me."

"And you're clearly not soft." Lara bit back a laugh as the officer looked even more pleased, then put her hand on his arm and deliberately steered him a few steps away from the community center's front door. "Pete's at sixteen weeks and counting with the program. I'm confident your presence is a continued inspiration to him." She was absolutely confident, though not at all in the way she expected Cooper to interpret her meaning. "Thank you for checking in, Officer."

"My pleasure, Miss Ja …" Cooper trailed off, frowning, then walked away looking uncertain of how he'd lost control. Lara, pleased with herself, waved a good-bye and went back inside. Mindful of the pastor's warning, she pulled the door closed behind her, its locking click! loud enough to make people look around. Surprise washed over Pete's face and Lara shrugged as she rejoined the group, nodding encouragement to continue at the woman who'd been speaking.

Sometimes, she thought with satisfaction. Sometimes the truth, applied judiciously, could make someone's life easier, at least for a little while. Maybe it was all she could do, but some days it was enough.

That was it, then, the decision made. If it was what she could do, then it was enough. At the meeting's end, she closed up the hall, steadied her nerves, and called Dafydd ap Caerwyn.

Fashion dictated that modern men rarely came hat in hand to anything, but Dafydd, standing on Lara's threshold, looked very much as though he would like to have a hat to wring. Everything about him suited the old phrase: nervous worry in his expression, caution in his slightly hunched stance, as though he expected a blow. His entire aura was one of abject hope. Lara had seen similar demeanor before, usually on puppies who knew they'd done wrong and were pleading for clemency. Unexpectedly entertained by his attitude, she stepped out of the door and gestured him in. "Am I that frightening?"

He murmured, "You have no idea," then gave her a frown so curious it was clearly a question.

"No," she agreed, "I don't. You're telling the truth. Not even exaggerating, since I really don't have any sense of how or why I've become frightening."

"Your decisions stand between me and eternal exile," Dafydd said a little drily. "It awards you an astonishing amount of power and therefore no little ability to terrify."

"I suppose it would. May I take your coat?"

"Thank you." He slipped it off and she hung it in a closet as he surveyed her living room. Tidy, she thought: he would find it tidy and perhaps boring, with everything in its place and the colors well coordinated. But it suited her, all the pieces fitting together so when she glanced around nothing tore at her eyes or made jagged music play in her mind. To her surprise, Dafydd turned back with a smile. "I expected more neutral colors, I think, but it's how I imagined you would live. Beautiful form and function as one."

Disconcerted, pleased, she offered him a seat and took one across from him, drawing her arms in tight. "Thank you. Would you … would you mind taking the glamour away? My vision swims when I look at you."

Startlement washed over his features. "You can see through it?" Even as he asked, though, he began the same ritual he'd done before, removing all the metal from his person.

Lara grimaced and looked away, double vision made worse by his small rapid motions. "I almost didn't notice when you were outside the door, just standing there. But as soon as you moved … yes. I can see through it. It's like two people are trying to stand in the same place."

"Is this better?" His voice was once again lighter. Lara glanced back, and for a few seconds was arrested by impossible things.

Impossible that he should look so much more right, when everything about him was so clearly wrong. So inhuman, with his delicate bone structure, his alien eyes, his slim elfin form. But there was truth to him now, impossible or not, and he sat more easily in her gaze. "Much. Thank you. Although your clothes don't fit as well now."

He smiled. "You would notice that. They're made to fit the mirage, or I'd look like I'd been poured into skinny suits, and I haven't the height to carry that off."

"Skinny suits create the illusion of height. It's a very affected look, though, more rock star than weatherman. You could do it, but—" Lara broke off and shook herself. "I'm sorry. It's easier to think about your clothes than …"

"Than everything else? I am sorry, Lara. I wish I had an option other than utterly overwhelming you."

"But you don't," she said quietly. "Not if you're going to make it home again. Dafydd, you need to explain more. A lot more." She sat forward, clasping her hands together. "Begin with the power. You said humans don't have much magic," which sounded absurd, spoken aloud. Of course humans didn't have magic. A day earlier she'd have never dreamed it was a point worth arguing, despite her own strange skill. "But your people, you have magic, just not … truthseekers?"

"We do, yes, but I'm not sure why there are no more truthseekers." A faint wrongness rippled through his words and Lara tilted her head, trying to comprehend it. He saw her and breathed a sigh, almost a laugh. "How strange, to talk with someone who hears the subtleties of doubt in my voice. I have a theory. Truthseekers were never common, and their gifts were not particularly …"

"Welcome?" Lara offered, unsurprised.

Dafydd nodded. "I wonder if perhaps the ability was bred away, perhaps not quite deliberately, but not without purpose, either. Or perhaps it's just that there are too few of us, and the power too rare."

Lara pressed her eyes shut. "So you're left with me."

She heard him move, felt the warmth of his hands cover the knot hers had become, and only then opened her eyes. He crouched before her, gaze turned up, both earnest and apologetic. "I'm left with you, because in this world of six billion souls you're the one I've found with the gifts I need, but more important, because you've the courage to have called me back. I cannot imagine how unbelievable I must seem to you."

"You can't imagine how unbelievable you would be to other people," Lara corrected softly. "And neither can I, Dafydd, because I don't have the luxury, or the crutch, of easy disbelief like most people do. Tell me what the poem means, the one you quoted to me. Mending the past and breaking the world?"

"I don't know," he admitted. The ferocity of his confession tightened his hands over hers, and she freed one hand to touch the tense line of his jaw, unthinking of the intimacy until it was too late. There were profound lines around his mouth, aging him, but they eased under her fingertips as her touch lingered. Humans teased men who couldn't grow beards as being boyish, but there was nothing boyish about the slender man before her.

"I don't know what the prophecy means. Mending the past—the truth will set us free," he said, half-mocking. It sent a spasm of discordant notes down Lara's spine, sarcasm a close brother to untruth. "I can only guess that it means you'll be able to help us lay my brother to rest and bring his murderer to justice. As for the rest—" He broke off, shaking his head in frustration.

Lara tipped his chin up, studying the lines of helpless anger in his face. If she were Kelly, she thought, she'd let herself stop thinking and simply act on the impulse to bend and brush her lips against his, taste the glow of his skin and give in to the urge that had said I could make a life with this man.

You never take risks. That's why you never meet anybody. Kelly's words rushed her, and heat built in her face now, when it hadn't earlier. Maybe Kelly was right; maybe she was too cautious, her truth-sensing ability holding her back when she might have been daring. Lara acted before wisdom could overwhelm her, and ducked her head to touch her lips to Dafydd's. "It's all right. You don't have to have all the answers." His breath caught, an unexpectedly rough sound, and she inched back to offer a fragile smile. "I'll come with you. I'll try to help."

The relief and shocked joy in his eyes was worth the price of her own internal agitation. A smile leapt across his features, so bright Lara laughed and touched his lips with her fingers again, then dropped her hand in uncertain apology.

He caught it before it had fallen more than a few inches and brought it back to his mouth, kissing her knuckles. "I owe you a debt I can never repay, simply for the act of trying. Thank you, Lara. Will you—The sooner we go, the better. Will you come now?"

"Now?" Alarm leapt in her chest and turned her fingers cold. "Don't I need to pack? Or something? How long will we be gone?"

"Time flows differently from my world to yours. The worldwalking magic will have ensured that very little has passed there, to so many years here. But in bringing you home with me, it will reverse. The time you spend there will be as moments here." He smiled again, bright and hopeful. "I should have you home in time for dinner tonight."

"Oh." Lara pressed her free hand over her stomach, trying to settle nerves. "I suppose I don't need to pack, then. We can—yes. We could … just go now." Her pulse was wild in her throat, unadulterated fear mixed with pure excitement that wanted to turn into uneasy laughter. "All right. Well. All right."

"Thank you. Thank you, Lara Jansen." Dafydd drew her to her feet, then turned half away from her to sketch a rectangle in the air. Lara arched an eyebrow and he winked at her, so blatantly trying to ease her anxiety that it worked, a tiny smile breaking through her worries.

With a showman's flair, Dafydd hooked his fingers in the top of the shape he'd traced, gold light bleeding around his hand. He bowed theatrically, and with the action, ripped open a door to another world.