I turned and made my way back to the house. The fog had burned off finally and it was looking to be a rare sunny day. My security system let me back in with a cheery, "Good morning. It's October 20, 2056. The temperature is 9 Celsius outside…" It 21

rambled on and on, and once again I reminded my- self to have the thing removed. But I always forgot. So tomorrow it would be the same, "Good morning. It's October 21, 2056. The temperature is… blah blah blah."

As I pulled off my boots in the mud room, I found myself whistling an old tune. Well, maybe not whis- tling, more a tuneless wheeze.

Look on the bright side of life… dee, dah, dee dee deedilty dah.

I couldn't remember any more of the words. That used to drive Caimbeui crazy when we were to- gether. My inability to remember more than a few snatches of lyrics from any song. Sometimes I even got the words wrong. What was that called? Oh, yes, mondegreens.

The kitchen was warm and I set the kettle on to boil on the flat heating element. I went upstairs and started the water for a bath. Stripping out of my clothes, I grabbed my robe and wrapped it around me. The kettle had begun to whistle and I went downstairs to fix tea.

In a few moments I had a tray all set to take up- stairs. Sheer decadence to dispel the night fears. Tea and scones while taking a hot bath. Maybe later I'd read-from a real book with pages.

I'd just settled into the tub when the telecom beeped. Happens every time. As the machine picked up, I heard Caimbeul's voice.

"Aina, I know you're there," he said.

I gave a universal gesture for contempt and went back to drinking my tea. I hadn't heard word one from him in eight months. Frag him if he thought I was going to get out of a nice warm bath.

"Look," he said. "I'm en route to the UK. I should be landing in about an hour. Things have been happening. Things you need to know about. I have it all under control now, but we need to talk. I'll be up to Arran in about four hours."

I closed my eyes. The uneasiness that I'd almost dispelled was back. For Caimbeui to come here out of the blue meant something was up. Something big. The dreams came back to me. I shivered. The water had gone cold and I suddenly didn't like lying there naked and vulnerable.

Quickly, I finished washing my hair and got out of the tub. As I dressed, I tried not to dwell on Caimbeul's unexpected visit. Whatever the reason for it, I would know soon enough.

And I doubted the news would be good.

It is dark.

A blackness so thick and heavy it feels like a weight against her eyes. It is suffocating, this dark- ness. It feels as though she is being swallowed up by it. Being turned into it…

Caimbeui was late.

Though I wasn't surprised, I was annoyed. It wasn't as though I were looking forward to seeing him, but if you drop in on someone with "impor- tant" news, you'd bloody well better be on time.

I'd made tea with all the things Caimbeui liked. Scones, of course, with lemon curd. Those ridicu- lous little sandwiches with the crusts cut off, slices of cake, tarts. He had a sweet tooth. But now the sandwiches had gone hard and the cake was stale.

I'd switched from tea to sherry, then to scotch. And still no Caimbeui.

Finally, six hours after he'd said he'd arrive, I heard the crunch of tires across my gravel.

I waited until I saw him emerge alone from the car before opening the door. Even though I had se- curity sensors, you can't be too cautious.

"Prompt as usual, I see," I said

"Ah, Aina, still charming as ever," he replied. "No 'How are you? Why are you late?' You wound me."

I snorted.

"Please, spare me the usual dancing," I said. "It's cold out here. Come inside."

I turned and went into the house. Behind me I could hear him getting his bag and shutting the doors to the car.

"Lock the door and switch the system back on," I called over my shoulder.

He muttered something under his breath, but oddly enough he did as I asked. I went into the great room where I'd started a fire earlier that evening. Sometime between the sherry and the scotch.

"Did you leave that woman at home?" I asked.

"Yes," he said as he shrugged off his coat and tossed it on the couch. He flopped down into one of the wing chairs in front of the fire. I handed him a snifter of brandy and poured myself another scotch.

"I'm surprised. I'd've thought you'd bring her along to iron your shirts. Or something."

"Or something?" he asked. Coy, that one.

"Whatever it is you do with girls young enough to be your great-great-great-great-great-great-great- great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great- great-great-"

He held up his hands. "I get the picture."

"Oh, please, I don't want to hear about your peculiarities in that area."

"Do you care?" he asked. "What goes on between us is none of your business." 25

I turned away from him, stung by his remarks. Of course his life wasn't my concern. It hadn't been for centuries. But old habits die hard.

The silence stretched out between us. Once I en- joyed them. But now it felt awkward and tense. I longed for things to be as they once had, but it was far too late for that. As usual.

"I had a terrible time getting through UK cus- toms," he said at last.

"Were you carrying anything?" I asked as I turned and walked toward him. He gestured for me to sit across from him as though this were his house and not mine.

"No."

"Made any enemies in the UK lately?"

He smiled then. I was glad he wasn't wearing his makeup. That awful mask he'd adopted out of some perverse sense of humor. Wicked Caimbeul.

We chatted then about meaningless things. Things to distract us from the free-floating tensions of a failed romance and too many years of history.

The fire had begun to die down and we were both a little muzzy.

"So," I said. But it came out more like "show." "Why all the mystery about your visit?"

Part of me, foolishly, hoped that his surprise had to do with the sudden realization that he'd been mo- mentarily insane all those years ago when he'd left me.

"I beat them," he said, his voice dropping into a slightly drunken, conspiratorial tone. "You've been saying that NAN would bring them back with all that blood magic. And you were right, Aina."

I felt a cold finger touch my heart. Suddenly the alcohol warmth fled and I was wide-awake sober.

"What are you saying?" I tried to keep my voice from shaking, but I failed. He didn't notice, though.

"They tried to get back, but I stopped them," he said. "Ah, well, I did have some help. A group of shadowrunners I enlisted. We went and played our little games on the metaplanes. God, it was fantastic. I haven't felt so alive since-I don't know when. Can you imagine it? Just my wits against them.

"Oh, there was some business with them recently in Maui, but that was easy enough to handle."

He gave a pleased laugh. Full and rich. I hadn't heard that tone in his voice in so long I'd almost for- gotten he could sound that way. Had it been any- thing else to bring this joy about I would have been delighted, but all I wanted to do was shake him. Hard. Laughing and enjoying this… this catastro- phe.

It was just like him to think he'd finished them off. What hubris. What ego.

"… And then I told them the story about Thayla," he was saying. "And I sent them on a quest to find her voice."

"Did it work?"

"Of course it did," he said, indignantly. "What do you take me for? A dilettante? I know we've had our disagreements, but even you can see what a feat this is.

"What I see is your ego is out of bounds again. In your endless fascination with being involved in the machinations behind things, you've missed the point. As usual."

"You're jealous," he said.

"What?"