Keeper of the Moon. Harley Jane Kozak

wait, wait. None of this is true. First, that sitcom girl wasn’t Elven. She was completely mortal. And not very talented, I’m sorry to say, because I don’t like to speak ill of the dead. And second—”

      “The sitcom girl didn’t have the disease,” Alessande replied. “She overdosed on meth. One of our people took the 9-1-1 call and leaked misinformation to the press.”

      “Why?”

      “To draw attention away from the Elven. Standard procedure. Mortals see patterns, even where they can’t understand them. The human girl disrupts the pattern.”

      Sailor glanced at Vernon. Despite Alessande’s assurances, it unnerved her to speak of mortals this way in front of one. “But—okay, you said I have the symptom, but then you said I’m not bleeding abnormally. So what symptom are you talking about?”

      The teakettle whistled. Alessande gave a nod to Vernon, then went to the kitchen. He crossed to the front entryway and lifted a mirror off the wall.

      Sailor watched him walk toward her with the mirror and grew fearful, her hands reaching up to her face, her mind racing with images of what had been done to it when she was unconscious. She didn’t consider herself excessively vain, but she was an actress, after all, and fairly pretty, and so …

      The man handed her the mirror. She looked at herself …

      … and gulped. Her eyes were no longer green, but a deep shade of scarlet.

      Don’t freak, she told herself. Keep it together. Could be worse. She took a deep breath, then turned her gaze resolutely to Vernon. “Okay, what does it mean?”

      He looked directly at her, and because she had a fair amount of the Elven telepathic abilities, she could read his thought: Good. You didn’t panic. “We don’t know what it means,” he said. “Yet. We’ll find out.”

      “You don’t know? So I could be going blind, or—”

      “How’s your eyesight now?”

      “Fine. Great.”

      He nodded. “I wouldn’t worry, then.”

      “They’re not your eyes,” she pointed out. “So, wait.” She spotted the other woman reentering the room. “Alessande, you can catch it from me?”

      “We don’t know,” the Elven woman replied. “But so far, so good.”

      “So what’s the cure?”

      Alessande brought in a tray of tea. “We’ve yet to find out. It’s not like we can send out a press release and confer with the CDC.”

      True enough, Sailor thought. When times were good, the Others lived easily under the radar among humans, blending in with little effort. It was during crises that the mandate for secrecy created problems.

      Alessande handed Sailor an earthenware mug, steaming-hot and filled with roots and leaves. “Sip. Don’t burn yourself, but keep on sipping.”

      “What is it?”

      “Síúlacht. You picked the right hillside to tumble down,” Alessande said. “Not too many of us can make a good batch of síúlacht. I’m one of them.”

      The scent arising from the mug evoked a memory, but the memory refused to coalesce. Sailor took a sip and shuddered. The bitterness was intense, but so was the effect. Her senses sharpened, her sinuses cleared and she felt energy return to her.

      “It’s a delicate situation,” Alessande said. “On one hand, we need to study the disease, find out whether other cities have experienced it, but on the other hand, we need to downplay it. So far, only the Elven community knows, along with some high-ranking vamps and shifters. And werewolves—Antony Brandt, the coroner, and others with inside jobs, who can control the flow of information.”

      “But not the Elven Keepers?” Sailor asked. “That doesn’t make sense.”

      Alessande and Vernon looked at one another.

      “Well, shit,” Sailor said, intercepting the look. “So the other Keepers do know. Everyone knows but me.”

      “Probably the Antelope Valley Keepers don’t know,” Alessande said reassuringly. “And San Pedro. That guy’s clueless. Bakersfield, too.”

      “The San Pedro Keeper died last month,” Vernon said.

      “Great,” Sailor said. “So except for my colleagues out in the sticks, and the dead ones, I’m the only one the Council doesn’t bother to inform? I’m the Canyon Keeper, for God’s sake.”

      “If you’d had the information,” Vernon said, “what would you have done with it?”

      “That’s hardly the point, is it?” Sailor asked.

      “It may be exactly the point. If you’re so new at this that you plan to share news that’s confidential—”

      “Hey, give me some credit, would you? They either don’t trust me, or they consider me too inconsequential to bother with. Whichever, it’s insulting. And for that matter, what are you doing with all this insider information?”

      He hesitated, and Alessande said, “He’s my friend. I trust him with my life. Keep drinking. You’ve had a trauma and a racing heartbeat won’t improve things.”

      “I’m fine, I’m calm, I meditated this morning.” Sailor took a last gulp and set the mug on the coffee table. It was strong stuff, whatever it was—she’d already forgotten the name. The Elven were good at that sort of thing, the healers of the Otherworld. She pushed herself up off the sofa. “Alessande,” she said, “thanks for rescuing me. But it’s my job to protect your species, not vice versa, and if I’m contagious, I’m not doing you any favors being here. Not to mention that I have work to do, and I can’t do it lying on your sofa.”

      Alessande nodded. She reached for a sheath attached to her belt and pulled out a dagger with a four-inch blade. “Someone or something out there means you harm,” she said, placing it on the table. “Can you use a dagger?”

      “Yes.” Sailor picked it up admiringly. It was beautifully etched, and she shared the Elven preference for blades over bullets. “I’ll get it back to you.”

      “Go straight home and stay there,” Alessande said. “Don’t go out again tonight.”

      Sailor started for the door, but Vernon stepped in front of her, barring her way. She felt an energy between them that excited her. When she stepped around him, he grabbed her. His touch was electrifying, but she couldn’t understand why, and that alarmed her. There was something Other about him, but she couldn’t identify it.

      “Take your hand off my arm,” she said.

      His grip tightened. “Don’t be stupid, girl.”

      Sailor almost laughed at his effrontery. “Dude,” she said. “Who’re you calling girl? Not to mention who are you calling stupid? I’m the one holding a knife.”

      He smiled fleetingly, and the shimmery thing happened again, changing his face. A shock went through Sailor as she stared at him, the surge of sexual energy intensifying. Then the moment passed and he was the homely stockbroker once more. Had she just imagined the change? Or was something truly affecting her vision?

      Vernon let go of her arm. “I’m serious. You should be examined by a doctor, one who understands Others. Your Council needs to study this disease.”

      “Come, Jonquil,” she said, and snapped her fingers at the dog, who hopped up from the stone floor and ambled after her. She walked around Vernon, opened the door and then turned back to him.

      “The Council,” she said, “can kiss my ass.”

       Chapter 2

      When