Inked

toy.
    She glanced up the aisle, frowning slightly, as she took out the phone. Rule was headed for the lavatory. He’d undoubtedly go another time or two or three, and not because he had a bladder problem. All lupi experienced some degree of claustrophobia, but however much he preferred to pretend otherwise, Rule suffered from it more than most. Moving around in the plane helped, especially with a long flight.
    The stress of being closed up in a flying steel cage would probably be worse than usual. Grief made everything harder to bear. Then, too, they were in economy this time. Rule normally paid for the additional space of first class, but first class was full on this flight and he hadn’t wanted to wait for another one.
    Lily was just guessing about his feelings, though. When she’d asked Rule, he’d told her he’d be fine.
    He’d said that pleasantly enough. Ever since they woke up at an ungodly hour this morning to make their flight, he’d been unbearably, damnably pleasant. It made her want to shake him. If only he’d scowl or snap or weep…
    Grimly she turned her attention to something she could control and touched Nettie Two Horse’s name in her contact list.
    She had a permit for using the phone. The FAA clung to the idea that cell phone usage on a plane was potentially dangerous, but immediately after the Turning it had granted Unit agents a blanket exemption to the rule. That had been handy for the agents who’d crisscrossed the country dealing with various emergencies, but the FAA hadn’t done it to help them out. They’d wanted to stop the crashes.
    Magic gives computers indigestion.
    For about a week after the Turning, with magic still belching from nodes in unpredictable bursts, the tech in planes hadn’t worked consistently. Only one large passenger plane had crashed in the United States, but there had been several smaller crashes and dozens of close calls. Even after the Turning, problems occurred. The nodes were still leaking, after all, even if they’d stopped burping. And they leaked at a higher rate than they used to, creating higher levels of ambient magic.
    Ambient magic was free magic—magic that hadn’t been absorbed by earth or water. In the past, the leakage from nodes had been small enough that almost all of it had been soaked up quickly. But after the realms shifted, nodes leaked more magic than earth and water could soak up. The ambient magic level was higher than it had been in a couple centuries…and still rising. Rising faster in some places than others.
    Ruben Brooks, Lily’s boss, had had a hunch shortly after the Turning. Since he was an off-the-scale precog with the president’s ear, the FAA had listened. Brooks suspected that anyone with a Gift soaked up magic in a small way—not like dragons, of course, who were enormous magical sponges. But enough to make a difference to delicate equipment—especially if they were trained.
    Unit agents were almost all Gifted, almost all trained in one of the many magical disciplines. They now flew for free on every major airline…and were allowed to use their phones.
    That was a perk that might not last much longer. The airlines no longer flew over the noisiest nodes, so incidents of computer malfunction were down, and silk casings on computerized equipment did offer some shielding. But the FAA was quietly investigating whether the flights that did experience a brief malfunction were those without any Gifted on board.
    Quietly, because there was still a lot of distrust for the Gifted.
    Lily was an exception in one way. She was Gifted, but not trained; her Gift was essentially untrainable. As a sensitive, she felt magic tactilely, but couldn’t be affected by it. Or work it.
    She didn’t feel guilty about taking advantage of a privilege she might or might not be earning. She was using her phone to protect and serve, not to chat about personal matters…though there was an uncomfortable overlap between the professional and the personal in this case.
    When Nettie answered, Lily began with the words she’d used too often, professionally. “Nettie, I’m calling about Steve Hilliard. I’m sorry for your loss.”
    “So am I.” Nettie’s voice was gruffer than usual. “Are you going to handle the case yourself?”
    “I don’t know yet. Are you up to a consult?”
    Nettie Two-Horses—a ritually trained shaman as well as a Harvard-trained physician—was Nokolai, as Steve Hilliard had been. Nettie must have known