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only little tinkles and a musical clattering. Then, slowly, slowly, drawing off the heat of Cynda’s inner fire, the noise became more rhythmic. Sparks danced along the table’s carved and lead-lined lip, and little flames licked upward. Good pestle that she was, Cynda let her fire grow until her strength ground open the ancient channels of sound, and she began to ring the chimes.
    Like a conference call, Riana thought. Only this one can’t be hijacked or overheard.
    They all had the skills to send basic messages through their tattoos and through objects that rang, but only Sibyls from Motherhouse Ireland could handle complex communications—and do so reliably, in such grand fashion.
    Mist shrouded three of the projective mirrors. After a few more seconds, students from each Motherhouse stepped forward to receive Cynda’s messages. Riana saw Motherhouse Ireland’s green robes first, followed by Motherhouse Greece’s cerulean blue. The brown of Motherhouse Russia took longer to become distinct, because protections were much stronger and older along those lines.
    As the chimes transporting Cynda’s messages to the Mothers began to ring, Riana headed into the kitchen, then down the marble stairs into the waiting embrace of the earth. She felt instantly soothed by the dark, quiet pressure behind the concrete and marble walls, and pleased by the peaceful earth tones of her own choosing. She stopped first at the right of the stairs and went into her bedroom to change into lab clothes, then headed to her small private kitchen for a bottle of water. After centering herself and managing to go five whole minutes without thinking about Creed Lowell or his eyes, she left the bedroom, opened the door on the other side of the stairs, and stepped into the expansive reaches of her underground laboratory.
    Sibyl Motherhouses spared no expense when it came to archiving, communication, or research, the three pillars of their main duty in the world: saving the untrained, the weak, and the innocent from the supernaturally strong. Riana had access to the fastest and most modern equipment available. She even had access to machines and procedures not yet discovered or perfected by the untrained. Soft gleams of silver and glowing green-and-red displays gave the laboratory a secret light all its own. She almost hated to ruin it by turning on the overheads, but time was short. She had samples to analyze, and later, no matter what she thought about it, a dangerous creature to capture and interrogate.
     
     
     
    3
     
     
    The last work session after nightfall didn’t start well. The Sibyls weren’t on recon duty, but Riana knew they had more than enough to keep them busy.
    She settled herself on the sofa, still a little full from dinner, armed with a sheaf of lab values and analyses. Cynda had a stack of communications notebooks spread on both sides, and Merilee was late coming down from upstairs. When the historian made her appearance, her olive skin looked distinctly pale.
    “We’ve got problems,” they all said at once.
    “Me first.” Riana handed copies of her salt analyses and skin sample analysis to her triad sisters, who dutifully glanced at them. As Merilee scribbled an archive number on her copy and made an entry in her archive log, Riana summarized the first part.
    “The salt was definitely fresh, purified for ritual. From what I can tell from the metal deposits left on the skin, the dagger was a double-S curved blade, made of treated silver and locked by all four elements, so regular police forensics won’t be able to analyze it.” She paused, took a breath, and waited for Merilee and Cynda to look at her. When they did, she added the rest of the uncomfortable information. “I estimate the blade was made in the fourth century or before, Proto-Slavic, and it was an object of power. I bet it was stolen from the Volgograd collection, maybe parts not on display. And according to printouts I got from Motherhouse Ireland, the