A Taint in the Blood (34 page)

More than half of the attendees were apparently the Villegas clan, but a substantial number of Monica’s tennis and library-volunteer friends were there too, and their spouses and children. Fiona Duggan was attending, with a Chinese man a little younger than she. Most families seemed to have brought a dish, including enough cakes and trifles and empanadas to make her feel guilty just looking. The sheltered walled garden was comfortable if you had a jacket, but there was a constant traffic of laden plates into the house and empty ones coming out. Children ranged from teenagers—the male ones giving her wistful looks—to a small fair-haired baby being dandled and admired.

She was too young to cry much, though she looked around dubiously.

The big brick barbecue pit smoked over the oakwood coals at the edge of a flagstone patio, with Jose presiding—or attempting to, as his father and uncles crowded around offering advice with bottles of beer in their hands. A long spike over one end held a yard of
carne al pastor
, thin-sliced pork loin dripping with little sputters and spurts of flame. Smells pungent and meaty and spicy drifted on the air.

Jose flourished a knife as long as his forearm and sliced off an edge from top to bottom onto a plate of tortillas. More of the flat wheat-breads warmed on a
comal
, a flatiron, supervised by Jose’s rather stout mother and a doe-eyed, strikingly pretty girl who was probably his sister from the way they teased each other. Chicken thighs and breasts and drumsticks sizzled, and some hamburgers and bratwurst, and steaks that smelled as if they’d been marinated in lime and garlic and pepper . . .

“The brats I brought, they’re one of Minnesota’s national dishes,” Peter said. “These things always turn into an amoeba party when Jose’s putting it on.”

“Amoeba party?”

“Multiplication by division. He has a lot of relatives,” Peter said. “Beer or wine? The Rhône de Robles is good, but . . .”

“Beer, thanks. More cooling!”

He fetched her one, a light pale ale from the Rancho Sangre brewery.

“Maria’s—Jose’s mother’s—adobo chicken mole is just great,” he went on. “And Frank Milson, he’s the husband of one of Monica’s tennis buddies, makes this amazing cowboy beans and bacon thing.”

She loaded her plate with everything he’d recommended, and a red chili tamale with shredded pork and an ear of roast corn, and circulated. That was prolonged by Monica dragging her off for a complete rundown on her hours at Jean-Charles’ establishment to an admiring and envious group. Evidently an outfit from him was a rare and coveted reward in female renfield circles, much less a complete wardrobe.

Then she returned to sit beside Peter and the doctor at the end of one of the outdoor tables, a folding model that was a little unstable on the clipped grass.

“Hello, Dr.—”

“I’ve been in America a generation now, Ellen. Fiona will do,” she said.

Then she grinned. “I’ve not brought any haggis, honest. Though it would have to be certified
organic
haggis here. You’ll find few towns this size with healthier populations.”

“I’ve noticed,” Ellen said. “Why . . . oh, of course . . . Fiona.” She nodded, with an odd smile.

It’s a show ranch
, she thought.
But a
people
show ranch. We’re the palomino horses and certified Angus cattle. Or . . . well, considering all those jokes they tell about sheep and shepherds, maybe we’re the cute bouncy waggle-tailed big-eyed fleecy flock of pedigree ewes and rams.

She concentrated on eating for a while; everything
was
good, and she’d gotten used to spicy in Santa Fe, where even the chocolates could have red chili.

From here a big pepper tree shut out most of the stars . . . and the lights of the
casa grande
over the wall and on its hill. There was a pleasant burble of voices, mostly talking in English but liberally flavored with Spanish words, sentences, inflections and occasional conversations. Ellen ate and let the ambience flow into her. It was more relaxed than she would have expected, and for a long moment she closed her eyes and imagined she was anywhere else.

What Peter was saying brought her back to reality: “. . . and I think I’ve got a handle on a really rigorous mathematical description of why the Power can’t affect some materials—”

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Fiona said softly.

Peter blinked at her. “Why not? That’s what I’m
supposed
to do.”

“Indeed you are,” Adrienne said, and reached around Ellen for a forkful of the potato salad on her plate.

Ellen fought not to spill her food for an instant. The talk didn’t die at the
Doña’
s presence, though it did drop several octaves. Ellen noticed a number of older people glance nervously at their teenage or young-adult children. Some of those were giving Adrienne the sort of glances usually reserved for the
extremely cool
; others looked a little apprehensive themselves. The Shadowspawn was wearing a loose caftan-like robe; it looked comfortable but not the sort of wear for stealth.

“No Wreaking needed. I just move very quietly when I want to, and you humans have the most terrible hearing,” Adrienne said to her.

“That’s for me to know and you to worry about,
chérie
.”

“No, you won’t. Ah, that was a very nice shiver up the spine you had just then; it gave me this almost irresistible impulse to pounce on you. You’re such a
flirt
, Ellen!”

“Not intentional,” Ellen said tightly.

“As if that mattered, you teasing minx!” Adrienne snapped teeth at her playfully, then went on to Peter:

“Though the good doctor has a point too. It’s occurred to me from time to time that my enthusiasm for things modern may be misleading me. That understanding the Power could have disadvantages. After all, we don’t really need to understand it to
use
it, and if other people understood it better than we did . . . that could be unfortunate.”

“Ummm . . .” Peter frowned. “Well,
you
could use it better if you could understand it.”

“Yes, but . . . you’re thinking about your work right now, aren’t you?”

“Of course.”

“And it might as well be in Swahili. I can read your thoughts but they’re meaningless to me, even the bits of what’s apparently English interspersed, and . . . is that some sort of graphic notation? Worse, because I could learn Swahili in a couple of weeks without particular effort. I couldn’t follow the mathematics and theory in your head without
years
of very hard work. It’s odd. I can decipher computer code easily enough.”

“I think that’s a different order of representation,” Peter said judiciously. “It’s not just knowing a language, it’s knowing a lot of facts
in
the language and understanding their relationships. Knowing English doesn’t make you an expert on Shakespeare. You
could
do physics, with enough time and work, I think. You pick up concepts well.”

“But the number of Shadowspawn who could is quite limited, while we can all
use
the Power. It’s the difference between being able to walk and being able to learn ballet.”

“Why . . . oh, yes, limited talent pool,” Peter said. “Bell curves.”

“You get the most fascinating spike of intellectual pleasure when you realize something, Peter. It’s part of what makes you interesting. Like one of those minimalist-cuisine dishes, with a little dab of ahi and a single artfully arranged French bean and a thin calligraphic drizzle of some sharp-tasting sauce. Ascetic, but a pleasure nonetheless.”

Ellen looked between them, puzzled.
She’s not the only one listening to a strange language.

Adrienne turned to her for a second: “It doesn’t matter if only one human in ten thousand has a natural talent for physics. That’s still millions in total. For
us
one in ten thousand means one or two individuals in the entire race.”

“Oh,” Ellen said. She smiled. “Guess that shows why I’m
cuisine bourgeois
and not minimalist.”

“You’re very good of your kind, my sweet. Just as Monica and Jose are two varieties of honest American comfort food, like this potato salad or the
carne al pastor
.”

Peter nodded enthusiastically, sticking to the original thread: “And science requires a
community
of trained minds. Which is why I’ve been so slow here.”

Ellen winced; even on short acquaintance she’d noticed how he would follow a line of argument anywhere, once he had his teeth in it. And looking at Adrienne’s smile . . .

The Shadowspawn nodded. “The last time we did anything like that was back in the nineteenth century, when Brézé adepts researched how to bring back Mhabrogast from the fragments we had.”

“How?” Duggan said, obviously taking mental notes.

“Using reconstructive philology boosted by the Power . . . If you cut the possible answers down to a reasonable number, then the Power can tell which is most likely right, which gives you more information for the next deduction. That was scholarship, not real science, though.”

“Do you want me to stop the work?” Peter said anxiously.

“No,” Adrienne said slowly. “Not for now. It’s all in your head, after all.”

Then she smiled. “We can talk later, but I had some other topics in mind. Ellen has given me some
interesting
ideas on how we could pass the time agreeably. Drop by the
casa
in an hour or so and don’t plan anything but rest tomorrow. Dr. Duggan, a word with you. There’s a bit of an extra load for your clinic coming up, I’m afraid.”

The two moved off into a corner of the yard; Adrienne ate a tortilla wrapped around some of the pork loin as they spoke with their heads close together.

“Interesting ideas?” Peter said, looking at Ellen with his eyebrows raised.

“Ah . . . Peter, it’s not my fault—it’s
really
not my fault. I’m sorry!”

“
What
isn’t your fault, Ellen?”

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and then opened them again despite the heat she felt in her cheeks.

“Ah . . . OK, there’s no way to say this without being embarrassed, at least not for me. I’m . . . well, I sort of like some kink stuff, some of the time. Fairly often. Nothing extreme! Not edgeplay.”

“Like?” he said curiously, and took a swig of his beer. “Really, it’s all right, Ellen. I’m not easily shocked either.”

“Ah . . . I’m a bottom. Ropes and chains. I like being tied up. Tied up and beaten with whips.
Symbolic
whips! Well, partly symbolic, they sting, but . . . It’s a
game
, Peter. All consensual, safe-words, that sort of thing. When Adrienne found my . . . my gear in my apartment, she thought it was hilarious. She ordered a duplicate set in San Francisco. God, we went in this shop and . . .
I
got all mine on the Internet before. I thought she was just going to use it on
me
, Peter. As a joke.”

“Oh,” he said quietly. “Well, whatever happens, it’s not your fault, Ellen.”

His mouth quirked. “Compared to direct Power jolts in your pain centers or sensitive parts, it’s probably not bad. See you later.”

“O
h, Jesus wept, now what?” Harvey asked, panting as they toiled up the last, almost vertical stretch of the dune. “You auditionin’ for a remake of
Rocky
now, boy?”

“I’ve gotten soft,” Adrian said.

He pushed himself to the top and stopped, feeling the burn in his thighs, and the way the cool wind off the Pacific flushed the wet warmth of his soaked T-shirt to instant chill. He paused for a moment, testing his leg for any twinges from the healed wound. There was nothing but the clean strain of hard effort. Then he pulled the practice blades out of his rucksack.

“Not so much in body, as in mind. I have to be a warrior again if I’m to free Ellen and kill my sister.”

“I haven’t gotten
soft.
I’ve just gotten goddamned
old
, Adrian! Hold up!”

Seabirds wheeled overhead, or skittered long-legged through the low waves below. The air smelled wet, salt, cold, and faintly of the wrack along the high-tide line.

Harvey joined him, bending over and resting his hands on his knees for a moment to suck in more air.

“Y’know, boy,” he said, taking the wooden blade. “If this were a movie instead of real life, we could have a great
montage
right now. It’d be more economical.”

“Montage of what?”

“You know, little short clips of us doin’ all these sweaty manly warrior things, and then they skip to the part where we’re all toughened up for the fighting. Saves the waste of good killing and bikini time in an action movie.”

Unwillingly, Adrian grinned at him. “Instead we have to
do
all the sweaty, manly warrior things.”

“You do. Ol’ buddy, you’re going in close. I’m going to be hanging back with my fancy sniper rifle. Nothin’ wrong with my trigger-finger yet, as opposed to my reflexes, my knees and my wind. I leave that personal-style stuff with knives to you youngsters.”

Adrian snorted. “I’m fifty myself.”

“Yeah, you’re fifty years old chronologically and physiologically maybe twenty-eight. You-um purebred Shadowspawn prince. Me-um lowly human ape scum. I’ve seen quite a bit more than fifty years and I feel every physio-fuckin’-logical one of ’em.”