Title: By Paths Coincident 21/?
Author: Honorat
Rating: T
Characters: Jenkins, Eve Baird, Jacob Stone, Isaac Stone, Cassandra Cillian, Ezekiel Jones, Parker, Alec Hardison, Eliot Spencer, Damien Moreau, Chapman, Lamia, Sophie Devereaux, Nathan Ford, Tara Cole, Flynn Carson, Others TBA as needed.
Pairing: Parker/Hardison, Cassandra/Jake, Cassandra/Eliot, Eve/Flynn, Nate/Sophie, just a touch of Eliot/OC
Disclaimer: Dean Devlin, John Rogers, TNT own these characters.
Description: The Librarians discover Leverage International. Jacob Stone and Eliot Spencer have a family past, but they aren't the only members of the two teams who've met before. Expect whiplash between light and dark.
By Paths Coincident
Eliot was back at the Brew Pub within 20 minutes looking like he'd just ridden in off the range in faded Levis, a wrinkled western-cut plaid shirt, scuffed cowboy boots, and a well-worn Stetson. No one was going to make the mistake of thinking Eliot was a noob on a ranch, Hardison reflected. He eyed with curiosity the heavy coat and carry-on pack Eliot had slung over his shoulder. Eliot did not normally fly with any sort of luggage, so what had he decided he couldn't live without on this upcoming job?
A zipping sound from the ceiling made both men look up as Parker landed between them. Hardison knew from past experience that the duffle she was carrying held only her rigs and ropes, a couple of changes of non-descript clothing, and a bag of cereal.
Eliot knew it, too. "Time to visit the closet," he told a disgruntled Parker. "If you're gonna be playing my girlfriend, you're gonna have to dress for it. Also, what part of 'it's still winter up there' are you not comprehending?"
When Parker turned to him, Hardison shrugged. "It's either pack here or shop there."
As the reluctant Parker shinnied back up her line, he and Eliot plodded up the stairs. Hardison's own luggage was suspiciously light of actual clothing and contained large amounts of electronic surveillance equipment and tools. Since he did not really know what role he would end up playing, he figured that a high quality suit and accessories would be a sufficient addition to his usual wardrobe. Anything else he needed could be purchased on the ground.
When Parker's duffle was heavier by a few pairs of jeans and shirts, a winter coat and boots, and the little number she'd danced in during the Fiddle con, they were ready to depart for the airport.
"Okay. I've made each of us a Canadian resident packet," Hardison said, handing out the RFid blocking document holders. "Here are your passports, your SIN cards, and your Alberta drivers' licenses. And Eliot, here's your Permanent Resident card. Not gonna be able to sell that as a Canadian accent, no way, no how."
Eliot shrugged acknowledgement of the point
"And here are your Alberta Health cards, Blue Cross cards, credit cards on the Bank of Montreal, and some Canadian cash." Hardison dealt the items to his team.
"Oooh! Pretty!" Parker smiled, fanning out a handful of bills. "Like a rainbow. Why can't we have pretty money?"
"Because we are a nation of soulless bureaucrats, mama," Hardison said. "Now put that away and have some toonies and loonies for the snack machines and the parking meters."
Eliot shoved the handful of change into his pockets. Parker made her coins disappear and then smirked impishly while pulling them out of Eliot's hair.
Eliot scowled and ducked his head away from her. "Let's go," he growled.
"One last thing," Hardison added as they headed out to Lucille 4, "because I care. Tim Horton's gift cards for y'all in case you need a coffee or a muffin or something. Mmmhmm."
They stopped, briefly in the Brew Pub to drop off Parker's carnivorous plant for Amy Palavi to babysit while they were gone. Amy had become used to the sudden addition of that responsibility. The note with Parker's care and feeding instructions was curling up on the edges with age and use. They left the plant where Amy would find it when she came in to work.
Hardison was pretty sure Amy had figured out at least part of what Leverage did. They were going to miss her when she was finished with her Arts degree. Nate had liked the Brew Pub as a headquarters because of the high turnover of restaurant staff, but somehow they'd managed to mess that up. None of their staff wanted to leave. Partly it was the exorbitant salaries Eliot insisted on paying them, but part of it was the fact that no matter how their chef grumbled and lost his temper and cursed at them over a missing ingredient or a botched technique or a sloppy presentation or an unsanitary practice, the entire crew adored him and followed him around like Mary's little lambs. It was, Hardison grinned to himself, cute. And someday, when he didn't value his fingers for typing, he was going to tell Eliot so.
Because Hardison wasn't paying attention, Eliot got to drive, having outmaneuvered Parker in seizing the seat behind the wheel, for which all Portland should be grateful. They still had plenty of time to make it to the airport, so there was no need for Parker's brand of drag racing between two points on a map.
Staying out of security camera footage even in airports was second nature for the members of Leverage International, Eliot reflected. Admittedly, Hardison's ability to locate all the cameras and Parker's skill at planning their routes ahead of time made that avoidance a lot easier than it used to be for him. And thanks to the hacker, their carefully chosen tickets had kept them clear of random TSA searches. Since Eliot never checked luggage under when flying, anything he planned to carry on a trip had to be on his person or in carry-on luggage that never left his sight. He could feel the ceramic knife he'd kept from his mile-high fight with Dan Erlich strapped to the calf of his leg just above where his boot came.
The three of them were enduring a five hour layover in the Seattle airport, and Eliot was grateful that the other two had finally fallen asleep. Parker was curled up on her chair with her head in Hardison's lap. Eliot found himself unaccountably touched that she would let herself sleep in such a public place. Even a year ago, that would not have been the case. Somewhere about her person, she had managed to conceal an octopus clock that her sticky fingers had been unable to resist in one of the airport gift shops. Travelling with Parker was always an exercise in keeping her out of the duty free chocolate and trying to distract her from whatever shiny thing was going to take her fancy, but he hadn't seen that one coming. Parker practicing appreciating things was having some unintended side effects. The clock had waving arms, and Parker had been enchanted. He shouldn't have been surprised later to see it was missing from the shop wall, although how she had managed it since it was immediately behind the person at the till was a mystery.
Hardison, still clutching his tablet, was also sleeping and had gradually tilted over until he was drooling on Eliot's shoulder. Eliot planned to use that fact as ammunition at some point, but he did not push his friend away. He continued scanning the waiting areas surrounding them on three sides. No one had sat down in their immediate vicinity. Anyone who drifted in their direction found themselves repelled by Eliot's fierce stare. Even the occasional crowd, pushing toward a gate, swerved away from the no-fly zone he was maintaining around his team and their carry-on luggage.
Their boarding call finally sounded over the loudspeakers, and Eliot roused his team. Parker awoke like he'd flipped a switch, instantly on her feet and alert. Hardison made protesting noises and tried to nuzzle his way back to a comfortable snoozing position, but Eliot stood up, dumping him unceremoniously, and with Parker, pulled him upright and propelled the half-asleep hacker through the boarding procedure. By the time they were stowing their carry-on luggage, Hardison had re-animated, ready to spend the remainder of their flight to Calgary amusing himself hacking into the flight information of their plane while Parker watched cartoons and Eliot divided his attention between assessing the threat level of their fellow travellers and reading a book.
The travellers identifying themselves as James McCoy, Kira O'Brien, and Michael Burton landed in Calgary at 11 a.m. local time. Coincidentally, at 11:39, a non-descript, badly rusted VW Rabbit went missing from long-term parking if anyone had been paying attention. Burton was heard to complain that there was no room for his legs, and O'Brien would have preferred to have taken the late model Mustang, but McCoy had told them to shut up and get in the damn car. The vehicle had departed the parking lot and proceeded sedately to the Deerfoot Trail southbound. Police would later find the stolen car, undamaged, with a full tank of gas, in the parking lot of a MacDonalds in Airdrie. McCoy was heard to say that the tank of gas had doubled the value of the car. Gasoline was frickin' expensive in Canada.
In another, possibly related, incident, an '89 Dodge Ram pickup and a two-horse trailer disappeared from a storage facility on 114th Avenue. No cameras recorded the theft, nor was any fence cut, and the gate remained locked. McCoy was heard to threaten O'Brien that if she drove the VW one kilometer over 118 on the highway, he would wring her neck. Burton objected that the speed limit was clearly posted at 110, and shouldn't they obey the law if they were so very illegal already. O'Brien snorted that only old people and people with guilty consciences drove the speed limit on the QEII. If they didn't want to draw attention, they shouldn't be the slowest vehicles on the road.
Caffeine was a poor substitute for actual blood in your veins, Eliot reflected as he eased the truck into the lane leading to the QEII highway. His system was currently metabolizing two cans of Coke, three cups of coffee, and a can of Red Bull, and his brain was beginning to complain with a bitter buzzing in his ears. He brought the vehicle up to speed, judging when to enter the steady traffic. Behind him, Parker and Hardison followed in the Rabbit. Hardison was occupied altering the papers for the truck and hacking into the registry for license plates in the province to change ownership of the vehicle. At least the two of them had slept some in the last two days.
Flipping through radio channels until he found the loudest, most annoying music possible, Eliot turned the volume on maximum, eliminating any chance of sleep ambushing him. They were headed back north to a little farm just west of Airdrie where they would pick up the horse Hardison had found on Youtube and Parker had chosen because she liked her name. Eliot groaned and resisted thumping his head on the steering wheel. There was no possible way that could go badly, was there?
Nevertheless, as the city of Calgary fell away behind them, Eliot found himself growing less tense. After all the years he had been cooped up in steel and concrete and glass and asphalt, smelling nothing but exhaust and chemicals, he couldn't help enjoying finding himself out on the surface of the earth again, surrounded by sky. Solid grey clouds hung sullen over the prairie. To the west, the distance-faded ridges of the Rockies rose along the horizon, and all around him stretched fields of barren, black earth lightly furred with golden stubble where the wind had scoured away the snow that still lay in ditches and on the northern sides of hills. This was a harsh land, still held in the grip of winter—nothing like the sweet red clay of Oklahoma where the hot wind rattling through the dry grass had whispered to his soul, but akin in some ways.
Eliot realized he was looking forward to this job for different reasons than usual. Not just for the thrill of the chase, of pitting his mind against those who deserved his wrath, with the bright, sharp chance of violence and pain at the end. Not just for the satisfaction of the win and bringing relief to their clients. But for this opportunity to return to a simpler world, one with ancient, slower rhythms. A world of livestock and weather and hard, physical labor, where the dirt on his hands was real and honest and could be washed away at the end of a day. A world that could have been his had he made a different set of choices.
"There is," Parker's voice noted disapprovingly in his ear, "nothing tall here. Anywhere. I wanna go back to Calgary and swing off the Tower."
Eliot laughed until it seemed that something snapped in his chest, and he could breathe again for the first time in days.
Eliot parked the truck on the rutted gravel drive of the ranch beside a realtor sign advertising the property for sale. Three loud, tail-wagging dogs of varying sizes met them to announce their arrival, and an elderly man dressed in heavy winter coveralls left the tractor whose engine he had been bent over and walked towards them, wiping grease-stained hands on a faded rag. He wore a broad brimmed hat and his long, iron-grey hair hung to his shoulders.
Eliot stepped out, leaving Hardison and Parker in the vehicle. This was his world, and Hardison noted the way he moved differently in it, with an ease and looseness at odds with the hyper-aware control he normally exhibited. He met the old man with a charming slow smile and outstretched hand, and the two of them spoke for a few minutes before the rancher waved his arm toward a set of outbuildings, a barn, and some fences.
Looking back toward the truck, Eliot gestured with a tilt of his head that he was heading in that direction.
"I guess, since the only reason I am not currently sleeping in a king-sized bed in a luxury hotel in Calgary is that I wanna watch Eliot meet that horse, I better get out." Hardison shivered and made sure his coat was done all the way up to his chin. He pulled his knit cap down firmly over his ears and took an extra wrap of his scarf around his neck. Tucking his hands into bulky mittens, he squared his shoulders and prepared to venture into the elements.
To his surprise, Parker joined him. She wasn't one to be bothered by the cold, but even though Kentucky Thunder, the racehorse they'd once stolen, had convinced her that not all horses were out to slaughter her, she still didn't like them much.
"You don't want to wait in the truck?" he asked, rubbing his arms to keep his circulation circulating. Why did anyone even live in this country?
"No," said Parker giving a little skip alongside him and blowing smoke rings with her breath. "Eliot's getting his pony. I want to see, too."
The two of them jogged to catch up to Eliot.
"Mr. Nepoose, these are my friends, Kira and Michael," Eliot introduced.
"We've already spoken," Hardison said, shaking the man's hand. "Nice to meet you."
He marvelled that anyone could have bare hands in these frigid temperatures and not have fingers dropping off.
Mr. Nepoose and his dogs led them to a shed beside a fenced enclosure where five horses stood together at the far end by a metal trough.
"There she is," he said. "Here's a halter and lead. And here's some oats."
Eliot removed his gloves and stuffed them in the pockets of his jacket. He slung the mass of rigging over his shoulder and scooped a single handful of grain from the metal bucket the old man produced from the shed.
"What's she like to catch?" he asked.
Mr. Nepoose eyed Eliot with speculation. His stern mouth quirked up a little. "Depends."
Eliot's eyes narrowed as he considered that response. Then he turned and headed along the fence toward the access point.
The ground around and within the enclosure was an unpleasant mixture of still frozen earth, sodden straw, and dark brown puddles of acrid-smelling liquid interspersed with piles of horse manure in varying stages of decomposition. Hardison was sure he was going to acquire tetanus, sepsis, and possibly the bubonic plague if he took one step nearer. That mess was totally the reason humankind had invented cars and cities and hand sanitizer.
Eliot, however, let himself in the gate and strode out through the muck like he hadn't even noticed it was there.
Well, that would be why they called those boots of his shit-kickers.
Parker ignored the condition of the ground and hopped up on the top rail of the fence. Gingerly, Hardison picked his way around the worst of the disgusting substances to stand beside her. He pulled out his phone and grinned up at the excited Parker.
"I'm videoing this so I can put it in slow motion and set it to music."
Eliot walked to the middle of the corral and stopped, not approaching the horses yet. Wandering into a herd of strange animals was good way to get yourself kicked. Three of them raised their heads to assess whether or not he posed a threat or an opportunity. One grey head with black points belonged to the roan paint mare Parker and Hardison had chosen.
Keep an open mind, he reminded himself. Hardison was a smart man, and Aimee had approved his choice. However, even Aimee could not be sure of an animal she'd only seen in a YouTube video of dubious origins. And Hardison's knowledge of horses was limited to animals he'd met in video games.
Taking a deep breath, Eliot held out his hand with the grain on his flat palm. "Hey there, Spark," he called softly, not wanting to startle any of the animals. "Would you like some oats?"
Spark's ears twitched and her head went up a notch. She took a step in his direction. The other horses began to pay attention, too. Eliot wondered if he were about to become the center of a pile-up. He needn't have worried. Spark pinned her ears back, tossed her thick, black forelock, and gave her companions white-rimmed stink-eyes, causing them to do the horse equivalent of shrugging nonchalantly and sauntering off muttering, "We weren't plannin' nothin'." Apparently his mare was at the top of this pecking order. All oats were hers until further notice.
She wanted those oats, but she was not inclined to trust him, so her approach was suspicious and stiff-legged.
Eliot did not see a point in trying to mislead her. He held out the halter in the other hand. "Hello, beautiful," he said enticingly. "How about I take you out to dinner, and we get to know each other?"
At the sound of his voice, Spark stopped, her ears pointed so sharply at him that they seemed to be lifting her head. She eyed the halter and lead doubtfully.
"I'm not offerin' you counterfeit coin," Eliot assured her. "You're really something, in spite of that shag carpet you're wearing." He babbled on, not really paying attention to what he was saying, just letting her hear his voice and judge his character. He praised her neat muzzle with the snip of white directly between her nostrils. He complimented her slim throatlatch and the length of her canon bones. He admired her striking color and the angle of her pasterns even though they were covered in muck. The long winter hair on her left side was also matted with whatever she had last lain in, but Eliot politely did not mention that aspect of her appearance.
Spark circled him, well out of reach, her ears swivelling to follow his voice. She paused, indecisive, pawing the ground with an impatient forefoot.
"I've got oats," Eliot coaxed. "Nice, yummy oats." He held out his hand as far away from his body as it could get. "And there's more outside the corral, if you wanna come along with me."
Making up her mind, Spark resumed her slow, unwilling approach, interrupting it occasionally to toss her head and snort. Once, she lost her nerve and returned to her original orbit, but then she trotted several steps closer. Finally, she was in range to stretch her neck just far enough that her nose almost touched his hand. Eliot could feel the heat of her breath and the tickle of her whiskers on the tips of his fingers.
"Thatta girl," he said, so quietly it was almost a whisper. "Nobody's gonna hurt you."
She took one more step, and her lips brushed his hand, soft and dry. Then she was gone, whirling so fast she practically turned inside out and bolting for the far end of the corral.
Eliot looked down at the globs of muck now decorating his jeans and jacket, kicked up by her precipitate departure. Here was some of that honest dirt he'd been so nostalgic about.
Spark was tearing around the fence line as though she were being chased by all the hounds of hell, bucking and kicking out, shaking her head, pivoting and doing it all again in reverse. The other horses watched her with bored tolerance, as though having Spark stage a one-horse rodeo was a common enough occurrence that it no longer affected them.
Eliot observed her critically, noting her power and speed, even in this constricting space, impressed with her agility on the treacherous ground. She looked good. Unfortunately looks and even athleticism weren't the most important aspects of a good ranch horse. Whether she had the temperament and the willingness to work remained to be seen. He wasn't going to have time to spend an hour a day catching some will-o-wisp, elusive sprite of a horse. He needed something reliable.
He trudged back to the gate to restock his bribe.
"Yeah, you got your oats," he told Spark as she breezed by him, "but we still haven't got to know each other, so how do you know you won't like me?"
The moment Eliot's horse went batshit insane, Parker abandoned her perch on the fence and hid herself behind Hardison. Since Hardison seldom got to be protective of Parker who never seemed afraid of anything, he was actually stunned and pleased at first. Then Parker asked in a small voice, "Is that horse going to kill Eliot?"
"No," Hardison reassured her, "of course not." Since Parker's fear of horses stemmed from a strange childhood memory where she had seen a horse kill a clown, Hardison could understand why this horse's behavior would make her anxious. But he also couldn't help remembering the statistics he had first looked up to show Parker her fear of horses was irrational. Turned out the number one culprit in animal-related human mortality in North America was the horse. He had not told Parker that fact.
Now, as he watched the thousand pounds of iron-shod death thundering around Eliot, he was having second and third and fourth thoughts about their bright idea to give Eliot such a dangerous creature.
Eliot, of course, did not look nervous at all as the horse went kicking by him, its feet at the perfect height for caving in someone's skull. But then Eliot never looked nervous—not when guns were pointed at his head, not when a bomb was counting down its last seconds behind him, not when surrounded by cops and sirens. Eliot was pretty much a dangerous creature himself. But when Eliot was actually nervous, he just looked angry. Hardison tried to tell whether Eliot was looking angry right now.
"Is that safe?" he asked the old man beside him.
Mr. Nepoose gave another of his unrevealing shrugs. "Maybe. It is good your friend does not show fear."
That was Eliot, all right. He did not seem to possess that particular expression.
Hardison could feel Parker peeking over his shoulder while Eliot walked toward them as if he hadn't a care in the world. However, Hardison's moment of relief when Eliot made it safely to the gate was short-lived.
Eliot simply asked for another handful of oats. He left the rope and stuff that he was going to use to catch the horse on the fence rail and returned to confront the rampaging animal in the corral.
There was something wrong with that man.
Spark was running a predictable route, one she and the other horses had worn deep into the earth along the rail of the fence. She was getting bored with her antics, slowing to a trot and paying attention to him again, so Eliot simply stepped into her path on her next revolution.
"C'mon," he told her. "That's enough. I've left the halter on the fence, so I can't catch you even if I wanted to, and I've got some more oats."
Instead of slowing, Spark sped up, bearing down on him at a gallop. Eliot stood his ground. He could hear Hardison making a bit of a commotion at the gate, but he ignored the distraction. He was in no real danger, although he imagined it might look like it. Spark's ears were up and pointing at him. If she were planning to trample him, she would be giving warnings. Horses were prey animals, not predators. Their instincts were to avoid confrontations, not cause them. He concentrated on appearing non-threatening and equally non-yielding. As he had expected, at the last minute she swerved aside, so close that he could have touched her without reaching out.
He imagined "Damn it, Eliot!" figured prominently in whatever Hardison was on about.
Spark skidded to a halt behind him, her hooves ringing on the frozen earth. Eliot did not turn to look at her. Instead he closed his eyes listening. Holding the oats in front of him, but making no attempt to stretch out his arm, he waited. He could hear the clip squelch of her steps approaching him, steady instead of tentative. She knew he had more oats, and she was determined to get them. She circled around him again and paused.
The two of them waited.
Eliot listened to her deep breaths. The wind flicked his hair across his face, but he did not move to brush it away.
Then Spark took the single step that brought her into range of the oats. Eliot felt again the touch of her mouth lipping up the kernels from his palm, but this time she did not dart away when the oats were gone. Instead he felt her whiffling breaths as she investigated him. The smell of sweet alfalpha hay and dry grain combined with the scent of exertion-heated horse brought back a burst of memory of summers on his grandfather's farm. Eliot remained perfectly still, making no move to capture her or prolong her stay.
Spark nudged him in the chest with her nose, as if trying to figure out what sort of man he was. The second nudge was more forceful, but not enough to off-balance him. Eliot opened his eyes and met hers, dark and liquid and curious. He wondered if she understood that he represented a complete apocalypse for her—the end of one world and the beginning of another. Everything and everyone she knew would vanish. He felt a twinge of sympathy for this animal who had no choice to whom she would belong, no say in where she would be taken.
The small muscles at the corners of her mouth stood out with tension, and he slowly raised his hand to rub out the tight little line on one side. "Hey there, beautiful," he said. "You about ready to calm down?"
Spark snorted softly and butted her hard forehead demandingly against his arm. Eliot obliged by stroking a hand up the boney ridge of her nose to scratch the white star between her eyes. He straightened her tangled forelock, then ran his hand back and forth along the crest of her neck behind her ears.
"You wanna come along now?" he asked the mare, keeping one hand on her nose and giving a little tug on her mane. "There are lots more oats out there for a sensible horse."
Spark gave a creaking sort of sigh and then took a step alongside him. She stopped for a moment, and he thought she might pull away, but then she followed him docilely enough toward the gate where Parker and Hardison waited. Or at least Hardison waited. Parker's distance away from the gate was increasing in direct proportion to the approach of the horse.
Hardison concentrated on removing his heart from his esophagus and recovering from his attack of tachycardia when Eliot did not, in fact, get murdered by that horse.
"Look," said Parker, emerging from behind him. "It likes him."
They watched as Spark allowed Eliot to touch her and then to lead her toward the gate.
"I am impressed," said Mr. Nepoose, who had remained silent throughout the excitement. "A horse like that—many people are interested. Your friend is the first one she has let lay hands on her."
"So, no one else would buy her?" Hardison asked.
"Oh, there were those who would have her for her bloodlines alone, but I tell them, 'The horse doesn't want to go with you, she doesn't go."
"Why are you selling her?" asked Parker, beginning to drift away from the gate.
The old man looked down at the dogs sitting at his feet. "She was my son's horse. He is gone now. She needs someone else."
"Oh," said Parker, edging still further away.
"Sorry to hear that, sir," Hardison said.
"These things happen," Mr. Nepoose said, watching Eliot and Spark approach.
By the time Eliot had Spark to the gate, Parker had reached the nearest scalable structure, one of the sheds.
Spark allowed him to put a halter on her and then followed him out of the corral.
"Mind if I take her for a spin?" Eliot asked.
"You most certainly should," Mr. Nepoose agreed. "Her tack is in the barn. This way."
Spark behaved with perfect manners while having the grime curried and brushed out of her coat. Eliot did not bother doing a thorough job, just made sure that he removed the worst of the matted dirt and that there was nothing under the saddle to irritate her. He had chosen to leave her ground-tied rather than hitching her to the rings in the small barn. Something about her told him this was a horse who wasn't big on constraints. She rewarded his confidence when he was picking the caked ice out of her feet by having them lifted and waiting for him each time.
The blanket and saddle flung on her back did not bother her, and she dipped her head and took the snaffle bit accommodatingly, allowing him to pull the bridle easily over her ears.
"She doesn't use a curb?" he asked.
"Never needed one," Mr. Nepoose said. "If you cannot get her to do something with a snaffle, you're never going to get her to do it with a curb."
Eliot led Spark past several stalls of yearling heifers, to the door opening into the larger arena that Mr. Nepoose indicated.
"Wouldn't mind working some cattle with her if that's all right."
"Of course. When you're ready, I'll let them into the arena."
As the barn door closed behind them, Eliot checked the cinch and tightened it a bit more. Then he gathered the reins on Spark's neck with one hand and turned the stirrup with the other. The moment he had his foot in it, Spark sidled sideways and backwards, exactly the maneuver to make mounting her extremely awkward. Nevertheless, he managed to scramble aboard as she set off on a stiff-backed, jolting trot.
"You little stinker," Eliot exclaimed, quickly finding his other stirrup and settling firmly into the saddle. "I do believe you're gonna try to pitch me off, aren't you? Well, you go ahead and try, sweetheart. I'll have you know, I always won the calf ride at the local junior rodeo when I was a kid."
Spark's ears were swivelled back listening.
That was the only part of her that was listening. She ignored the bit and any pressure from his legs and gave a little crow hop.
"Is that all you got?" Eliot asked her, amused, keeping a steady contact with her mouth to encourage her to keep her head up where bucking would be difficult.
Spark let him know that she had plenty more dynamite where that came from by suddenly exploding into rodeo-quality sunfishes punctuated by powerful sideways kicks. Eliot stuck with her, although it was a near thing when she swapped ends several times in rapid succession. He was thankful for the deep swells of the pommel which were going to give him bruises but kept him in the saddle.
Spark bolted for the far side of the arena, informing him in no uncertain terms, that the reins were not only a flawed means of communication but were utterly useless as a method of control. Eliot, not having the leverage of a curb bit, could only rein her wide and hope she'd turn before crashing into the fence. He was pretty sure she wouldn't jump it, but if she did, he was going to discover exactly why show jumpers did not use saddles with horns.
At the last second, Spark threw herself aside and slid to a halt, sending Eliot out of one stirrup and half way up her neck. If she bucked even mildly, he was going to take a solo flight.
However, Spark stood still, quivering, as Eliot maneuvered his way back into the saddle and found his stirrup again. When she made no further move, he dismounted and went to her head.
"Hey," he said, running his hand along her jaw and then rubbing at the tight muscle next to her mouth. "What was that all about, huh?"
Spark tossed her head and pulled away from him. He still had the reins, but he did not try to draw her back.
"Look," Eliot sighed. "I know, I'm not who you're expecting. And I'm sorry he's gone. But I'm willing to give this a try if you are."
He stepped back to her side but did not attempt to remount. Instead, he massaged the crest of her neck where it joined her withers like horses would do to each other, standing nose to tail in the pasture. When Spark finally gave a vast, shuddery sigh and turned her head toward him, Eliot patted her shoulder.
"C'mon," he said, leaving the reins slack and picking up the stirrup. "Let's do this."
From the safety of the shed roof, Parker watched Eliot talk to the scary horse. The horse seemed to be listening to him because its ears rotated to point at him. That was a neat trick. Parker concentrated on her ears to see if she could make them move; however, they remained disappointingly stationary. Too small, Parker decided, running a hand over the curve of one ear. She needed longer ears.
Parker could see that Eliot was going to get back on the horse. She tensed, wondering if it was going to go all wild again. That would have been exciting to watch except that was Eliot out there, and Parker did not want Eliot to be broken. Eliot got damaged all the time. That was what he did. But he always stayed in one piece. While Parker was pretty sure that horse could murder a clown without half trying, it had better not be planning to attempt to kill Eliot.
Parker glared at the horse. "We got you to make Eliot happy," she thought fiercely at the animal. "So get busy and do it."
For an instant, the horse turned its head as though it was aware of her.
Apparently Parker's message got through because this time the horse did not go all explodey violent. It just stood quietly.
Maybe she was developing the ability to control things with her brain like Nate, Parker thought, pleased. That would be a useful talent. "Now behave yourself," she projected at the horse, experimenting.
This time, when Eliot mounted, Spark stood still and waited for his signal to move. Eliot left the reins hanging loose, almost to her knees. "I'm just going to sit here," he told the mare. "You go wherever you want."
She flickered her ears at him and shook her head so that her bridle jingled. Then she took a tentative step and stopped again. Eliot increased the pressure of his legs ever so slightly, giving her permission to go, and Spark stepped out in her long striding walk with more confidence. She wandered over to the fence the arena shared with the corral and spent a moment watching the other horses, then she circled the entire arena, cutting corners atrociously with one ear back to see if he'd notice.
"Nuh uh," he told her. "Don't look at me. I'm just along for the ride."
Taking him at his word, Spark went to the gate, going up to it sideways to allow Eliot to unlatch it and let them through, and then performing a perfect turn on the forehand to allow him to close it behind them.
Eliot stroked the white patch on her neck. "Okay, that was pretty impressive. You figure out how to do that all on your own?" He nodded at Spark's owner and at Hardison, who was looking rather strained, and he waved at Parker, perched on top of the shed.
Spark followed the fence line to the corral and then around it before asking to be let through another gate into a large pasture. She dropped her nose and nibbled at some of the tall frozen grasses that stuck up through the snow and wandered in the direction of a small herd of white-faced cows that surrounded a round bale of hay.
Eliot let himself relax, enjoying the sensation of having no enemies in the vicinity, no place to be in a hurry, breathing in the scents of leather and horse and cattle, listening to the creak of the saddle and the crunch of Spark's hooves breaking through the hard surface of the snow.
Spark investigated the cattle who ignored her, took a bite of the hay, and then moved off on an exploration of the pasture. About halfway around, she broke into a jog trot that quickly became a lope, negotiating the icy ground with ease. Following the worn tracks left by the cattle, she arrived back at the pasture gate. For the first time since he'd laid them down, Eliot picked up the reins, although he still left them long, and asked Spark with his legs and hands to go through the gate.
She was an entirely different animal now, responsive to his lightest touch, and he could see where those championships had come from.
"How about you and me go chase some cows?" he suggested.
The shingles under Parker's hands crumbled with the tangy scent of old wood and moss and rusted nails. So different from city roofs. The wind ran through her hair like frozen fingers carrying strange, uncomfortable scents of decaying ice and large animals. Be careful, it whispered. Don't trust what seems safe. Parker shuddered, but not from the cold.
Hardison was actually cold. She could see him down below, shivering and stomping his feet and rubbing his arms.
Eliot and the horse were returning to the arena. The horse hadn't tried to kill him again, but Parker had no frame of reference to judge the motivation and capacity for deception of a horse. Eliot, on the other hand, looked at ease, the way he did in his kitchen, as though he was safe from himself on that horse. Parker felt most free of herself when she was jumping through space, adrenaline rushing, life and death separated by the tensile strength of a thin line. But Eliot came closest to shedding the burden of who he was when he was creating art. Parker wondered if riding a horse was art for Eliot, too.
Eliot halted the horse next to Hardison and the old man.
"Do not hurt Hardison," Parker thought at the horse, "or I will turn you into Puppy Chow with my bare hands." It seemed that her mental powers were continuing to be effective, because the horse just stood there with its tail swishing and ignored Hardison.
"Hey, man," Hardison said to Eliot. "That was some pretty intense shit out there."
Hardison had also thought that the horse might want to kill Eliot.
Eliot shrugged. "She was just taking me out for a test drive. We've come to an agreement."
He turned to the old man. "We're ready to try workin' those cows, if you have 'em, sir."
The old man nodded. "I'll just let them into the ring."
He sounded a lot more respectful now than he had before, like Eliot had surprised him. He headed in the direction of the barn that butted up against one end of the arena.
"Hey, Parker," Eliot said. "You wanna get me the rope from my pack?"
"Sure," Parker agreed. But she waited until Eliot had taken the horse away before jumping down off the roof and heading back to the truck.
The rope turned out to be different from anything Parker had ever handled. She ran her fingers over its stiff coils—not the sort of cordage she would use to rappel off a building, although probably strong enough. This rope had no give to it, hard and exacting. The rope she used flowed and bent. This one was like Eliot—it stood its ground. Parker held it up and inhaled its unfamiliar scent, nylon but with faint hints of sweat and animal hide and the powder it had been stored with. Three strand, with a firm lay, about 35 feet long, she judged. Parker loved rope, and this strange one was intriguing.
Reluctantly, she approached Eliot and the horse. Before she had to get too close, Hardison intercepted her.
"I can take that, mama," he said, bumping warmly against her.
Parker decided to let him have the rope. Hardison was not often the adventurous one in their relationship, and so she let him take the rope from her and give it to Eliot, even though, for Eliot, she would have done it herself.
Giving the horse a wide berth, Parker jumped to the fence, and from there to the roof of the shed again. She saw that the arena now contained a bunch of young cows. Eliot was attaching the rope to his saddle with the leather strings that hung from it, and then he rode the horse through the gate held by the old man.
Now that the horse was not trying to kill Eliot, Parker decided she liked watching the two of them. They moved together easily, not like before, when they'd seemed to be going different directions. Eliot had an alert, interested look on his face. He was definitely having fun.
"Good horse," Parker thought.
Eliot made the horse walk into the middle of the bunch of cows. At first, Parker could not tell what they were doing, but then there was one cow separated from the rest. It did not like that, so it made an attempt to rejoin the herd. Apparently the horse did not want it to do so. As far as Parker could see, Eliot wasn't doing anything, just sitting there, holding on to the saddle while the horse did everything it could to keep that cow from going where it wanted to go. The horse spun and danced back and forth and crouched on its haunches and made the cow go away from the others instead of toward them.
Finally, the horse forced the cow through a narrow gate into a small pen at the other end of the arena and helped Eliot close the gate. Then the old man opened the barn door to let the other cows go back inside where they seemed to want to be. The cow in the pen made unhappy noises at being left behind and bumped around.
Eliot was doing something with the rope, which interested Parker.
Rope!
He was tying it to the protrusion on the front of the saddle and separating it into loops in both hands. The horse fidgeted and bounced a bit, but Eliot said something to it, and it settled down. The old man crossed the arena and opened the gate. Out came the cow, very fast, heading for the barn.
The horse followed it, going from zero to sixty instantly. Eliot swung one of the loops of rope and tossed it over the running cow. He then jumped off the horse, who slid to a stop and started backing up, pulling the rope tight so that the cow flipped in the air and landed in the muck.
That looked like fun. If she ever decided to learn to ride a horse, Parker wanted to be able to throw ropes and tip over running cows.
Eliot jogged to the cow as it struggled to its feet and slipped the noose off its neck. Once it was free, the cow bee-lined for the barn, but this time the horse didn't seem to care. It just waited for Eliot to come back to it and get back on.
Parker looked down at Hardison, and he grinned up at her.
"I think Eliot likes the horse," she said.
"He always does prefer a woman who can kick his ass a little." Hardison smirked.
Parker stretched down, and Hardison stretched up, and they bumped fists in congratulations.
As Eliot dismounted and led the horse through the gate, he had on one of his "I am not smiling, but I am totally smiling" looks on his face.
"She'll do," he said, patting the horse on its shoulder.
Hardison laughed. "You like her. Admit it."
"I ain't admittin' nothing," Eliot said.
"Ha!" said Hardison. "Then why are there little pink hearts blipping on and off in your eyes?"
He dodged Eliot's half-hearted punch. As Eliot led the horse away, Hardison called after him, "I now pronounce you man and horse!"
It was far past the usual end of the day, but no one had left the Annex.
Colonel Baird was wearing a path around the central table, pausing occasionally to adjust something on her desk. The rhythm of her footsteps and the exactness of the arcs she was following were beginning to shimmer into patterns in Cassandra's exhausted vision. She tried to banish the glittering graphs and numbers by closing her eyes and pressing her fingertips to her ears, but the images persisted, parading on the backs of her eyelids.
Desperately, she turned to Ezekiel, wondering what he had found to do on the computer. Whatever it was had completely absorbed him, and he seemed oblivious to Baird's circumnavigations as well as to Cassandra's increasing agitation.
The absence of Jacob Stone filled the Annex with suffocating pressure.
Baird had told them that since there was no evidence of foul play, Stone would have to be missing 48 hours before the police would take the disappearance of a healthy, middle-aged, white male seriously—no matter how reliable he usually was. For Baird, who needed action like she needed air, waiting for something to alter in the situation, something upon which she could exert force, was obviously a torment.
The only one of them apparently unaffected was Jenkins who was seated at his desk, sipping his eternal cup of tea and reading a newspaper dated 1876. His only contribution to the search for their missing art historian had been to affirm that Jacob Stone, living or dead, was still on the planet.
In an effort to escape everything, Cassandra retreated to the laboratory, but while the solitude reduced the persistence of her calculations, none of the experiments in progress could hold her attention.
It was late. None of them had eaten in hours, not even Ezekiel. She should just go home. But even the thought of doing so made Cassandra feel sick to her stomach. Being alone was a worse feeling than numbers swirling out of her control.
Waiting for any news of or from Jake was going to drive her to desperation. If only there was something she could do.
Wandering back in to the main room, Cassandra asked, "Did anyone check the clippings book today?"
Ezekiel looked up from his computer. "I don't think so."
"We had other things to deal with," Baird said softly, coming to a halt and turning her attention on her remaining LITs.
"Well, let's take a peek." Ezekiel rolled his chair over to the table and opened the book to its most recent page. "Only thing here is another classified ad. This one is from the Calgary Herald. What's with the rash of Canadians selling off their magical items? This one says,
For Sale: Spark of Midnight
2009 APHA Blue Roan Tobiano mare.
Sire: Forest Midnight Comet
Dam: CCS Fantasia
2012 APHA World Show 3-Year-Old Open Reining Challenge, 2nd
2013 Canadian Supreme Open Snaffle Bit Futurity Working Cow Horse and Cutting Champion
2014 Reserve World Champion Jr. Working Cow Horse.
This mare epitomizes the definition of versatility! At 15.1 hands, Spark of Midnight combines outstanding athleticism, correctness and durability. She is always willing to tackle any job, and her eye appeal makes her stand out in any venue. This mare will make an excellent addition to your performance or breeding stock. Requires experienced rider.
Someone paid for a pretty expensive ad."
"A horse?" Baird asked incredulously, turning to where Jenkins was ignoring them. "The Library wants us to go get a horse? We don't have any space for a horse. Jenkins, why is the clippings book sending us after a horse?"
"Well, it should certainly be easier than the unicorn." Jenkins took another sip of tea and looked up.
"Wait. We have a unicorn?" Cassandra exclaimed, thrilled for a moment that unicorns existed. However, her thrill was instantly quenched by the hollowness of loss. The urge to turn and share that excitement with Jake was overwhelming. For Baird, unicorns would be something to categorize on an asset to threat basis. For Ezekiel, they would register either as valuable or as useful. Jake was the only one with whom she could share the sheer, giddy delight of actual unicorns.
"Yes we do, in the Library itself. And believe me, the care and feeding of a unicorn is a complicated procedure." Jenkins shuddered delicately.
In the Library.
Cassandra felt the familiar guilt, like a punch to the chest, stealing her breath.
The Library, which she had been responsible for losing, with all its marvels and potentially useful artifacts. What if something in the Library could have helped them find Jake?
"Never mind," Baird said. "Tell us about the horse."
"The horse. Yes." Jenkins cleared his throat. Standing up, he moved toward the stacks, all three of them following in his wake. "Figuring out just what you're dealing with is going to be the complication." He ran his index finger along the spines of a row of books, stopping and pulling out one before turning to face them. "Horses have always had connections to magic. Why do you think that no other creature has stronger ties to human history? There are hundreds of myths and legends about magical horses from cultures around the world. Add to that the fact that horses have travelled with explorers and conquerors, and we could be dealing with almost any one of them."
He handed the book to Cassandra. "Miss Cillian, I suggest this transcription of Xenophon. His redacted works on horsemanship are readily available in mundane libraries; however, he also wrote extensively on the history of supernatural horses and techniques for dealing with them."
Cassandra looked at the ancient book she held in her hand. Embossed on the cover were the words Περὶ ἱππικῆς, peri hippikēs "But I don't read Greek," she said.
"Alas, I do not believe the relevant sections have been translated," Jenkins said, taking back the book and re-shelving it. "We are working at a disadvantage here without Mr. Stone."
"In more ways than one," Baird said. "You do realize that with Flynn away, he is the only one of us with any experience with horses."
"Surely in your military escapades, you, Colonel Baird . . ."
"A camel. Once." She made a face. "That did not go well. There were donkeys, mules occasionally, but I never handled them personally."
"What should I do?" Cassandra asked, feeling useless. As soon as Jake was found, she was going to make him teach her a language.
Jenkins rolled his eyes. "The only research your generation seems capable of conducting. Search the Internet for horses in myths, legends, fables, tall tales, et cetera. And Mr. Jones, you've been given a name and a pedigree there. Use those to find out everything you can about this particular horse."
Ezekiel nodded and turned back to his computer. As Cassandra pulled out her phone, she heard Baird speaking quietly to Jenkins.
"You do realize that this job is going to interfere with our search for Stone?"
"Colonel Baird," Jenkins replied, equally quietly, "these are Librarians. In training, yes. But without Flynn, they are all you have. Dealing with incidents and artifacts of a magical nature is their job. During the course of doing their job, bad things happen. That does not mean they get to stop doing those jobs."
"So you're saying we should abandon him?"
"I am saying, well, yes, basically." Jenkins shrugged. "There is no point in sugar-coating the truth, Colonel Baird. Jacob Stone is gone. Either he will return, or he will not. In the meantime, Librarians have responsibilities. I am sure Mr. Stone would be the first to insist that you meet those responsibilities."
"You mean that Stone's workaholic tendencies are something we should emulate?" Ezekiel piped up.
"A little more of a work ethic in you would not be amiss, Mr. Jones," Jenkins said.
"Hey, I work as hard as the rest of you. I just have more fun," Ezekiel objected. "And I've already found out why we've been sent after this particular horse. What have you been doing with your time?"
"Just tell us what you've found, Jones," Colonel Baird sighed.
"We acknowledge your greatness. Now spill," Cassandra added.
"Well now," Ezekiel said with great satisfaction. "Spark of Midnight has been living up to the last part of her name. She's been owned by four different people in the last four years, and she's killed every single one of them. Ripped their throats out with her teeth. This horse is metal!"
TBC