Lupi 09 - Mortal Ties

anything?”
    “No, but someone dragged me away before I could finish.”
    “Okay. We’ll come back to that. Tell me about this prototype the rat bastard stole.”
    “Have you listened to me at any point in the last month?”
    “You’ve been working on a thingee that shields tech from ambient magic. You thought
     you had it figured out, but the device didn’t work.”
    “Oh, it works, aside from a little problem with sporadic discharge. Unfortunately,
     the side effects preclude using it.”
    “Did you tell me about side effects? Because I don’t remember that. I remember you
     found out it had a problem when you did a demo for some bigwigs from a tech company.”
    “The demo didn’t go well.” He brooded on that a moment. “T-Corp knew it wasn’t ready
     for production—I told them about the unpredictable discharge—but they wanted a demo
     anyway. I agreed. We’d tested it plenty here at Clanhome. How was I to know it would
     affect nulls that way?’
    He definitely hadn’t told her this part. She’d have remembered. “What does it do to
     nulls?”
    But she’d lost him. His head came up, alert and listening. Without a word, he spun
     and sprinted back down the slope, nimble as a deer or a cat—more like the cat, she
     thought sourly, since he could see in the dark. “Am I about to be blown up?” she asked
     the empty air.
    “Merowitch gave the all clear,” David said from behind her—right behind her, though
     she hadn’t heard him approach. “I imagine that’s why Seabourne took off.”
    Cullen might have taken two seconds to mention that. “I need to get down there before
     he tramples over any evidence the thief left.”

EIGHT

    L ILY had never been to Cullen’s workshop. He discouraged visitors of any sort, but especially
     her. That wasn’t personal. The minute trace of magic her touch siphoned off made no
     difference normally, but there were some spells and charms that were fragile enough
     during some stages that even the slightest alteration might affect the outcome.
    On the outside, it wasn’t much to look at—a plain cinderblock rectangle with a shingled
     roof. There was no electricity, and water was supplied by a cistern that had been
     filled through a combination of magic and muscle. Eventually the building would be
     connected to Nokolai’s water supply, but that was delayed for now. Too much other
     construction going on.
    On the inside, it was a cluttered visual cacophony. Aside from the intricate circle
     inscribed in the center of the cement floor, it looked like a junk room with a few
     odd outbreaks of order. And it smelled like…everything. The scents were too many and
     jumbled for her to sort—herbs, ashes, leather, ozone, coffee, all mixed in with stinks
     both organic and chemical.
    No wonder it had taken Merowitch awhile to check the place.
    Lily had wrested an agreement from Cullen: she’d stay in the doorway if he would refrain
     from touching things. The door where she stood was set precisely in the center of
     the north wall. She could see well enough; a pair of mage lights bobbed around on
     the ceiling. There were three windows placed with equal precision in the middle of
     each of the other walls. Two of the windows held window boxes where a few brave herbs
     struggled for survival. In addition to being a sorcerer—which meant he could see magic—Cullen
     was Fire Gifted. Not a good match for growing anything but flames. Cluttered shelves
     sprouted along the two longest walls, almost as miscellaneous as their contents—three
     of them wood, two metal, one plastic, and one an incongruously elegant glass étagère.
    The corners of the room held a ratty old recliner, a woodstove, a sink, and a cage.
     On one side of the circle laid into the floor was a long table—counter height, not
     dining. On the side nearest Lily was a perfectly ordinary looking pair of filing cabinets
     and a desk. The top of the desk held a lizard—alive—three Nerf balls, an ornate spoon,
     a surprisingly healthy aloe plant, a litter of papers, two pencils, a paperback book
     by Douglas Adams, a broken clock, a bottle of ink, and a small cauldron. And Cullen’s
     grimoire.
    It was large, covered in black leather, with a runic symbol of some kind on the front.
     Anyone looking at that would guess what it was. “Why didn’t he take your grimoire?”
     she asked.
    Cullen was squatting in front of one set of shelves, frowning at its contents. Apparently
     that