A pair of tourists hurried past. The control chips on their belts emitted a series of blue flashes. Six automated suitcases followed the man and woman like ducklings.

Cait took Socorro by the hand and pulled the child aside. They moved over to stand beneath a huge holo-image of the UN Enclave floating in the middle of Lake Michigan. There were too many people here at O’Hare Spaceport. Their emotions scratched at Cait’s nerves like fingernails on an old fashioned chalkboard.

Socorro’s brown braids bounced on her shoulders while she placed the pet carrier on the floor in front of the holo-image. She radiated a calm sensibility and maturity for an eight-year old. "Will we have time to take a tour?"

Cait shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe." She looked over her shoulder at her twin, Kevin, standing in line with her two husbands. The tension coiled within her loosened its grip. A few more minutes and they’d all be together again.

She smiled at her first husband, Tiny. It was hard to miss him. Bald-headed, two and a half meters tall with skin so dark he could have been carved from onyx, he stood out in any crowd. He stepped up to the countertop, duffel bag in tow and loomed over the customs agent like an avenging warrior. His demeanor was better suited to a ravaged battlefield than a bustling spaceport.

Socorro squatted down beside the carrier and peered inside. A mournful meow greeted the child’s scrutiny. "Licorice's tired of being cooped up too. She wants me to let her out."

"We'll let her out later when it isn't so crowded," Cait murmured. She shifted her attention to the customs agent and shook her head at the stringy brown hair plastered to his scalp. Was water being rationed again that he couldn’t keep his hair clean?

She watched her second husband, Indio, turn around and whisper in her brother’s ear. Tall and lean with old burn scars that covered the left side of his face Indio’s appearance matched his undercover persona of a hardened criminal. He should be standing here with his daughter Socorro, but 'coach' tickets had placed them on opposite ends of the shuttlecraft.

She sighed, then gave Socorro a reassuring smile. "Your daddy and Tiny will be finished soon."

Socorro's gaze grew even more distracted. She slipped her hand into Cait’s and whispered. "They have selkieskins in their luggage. Won't they get in trouble?"

Cait blinked. The child was right. Their discovery of the skins on the asteroid had caused an interplanetary uproar. She and Socorro had opted to leave theirs in storage at Sanctuary Station until after the Interplanetary Trade Commission hearing next month.

She turned around and watched her husbands place their luggage on the counter. They should have left their selkieskins behind instead of bringing them dirtside, but there was no reasoning with men. Stubborn and capricious in their logic, they decided to keep the valuable biological spacesuits in their possession.

The agent gestured for them to open their luggage. They looked at each other and shrugged. With a flick of their wrists they unzipped the bags, turned them over and spilled the contents on the countertop.

Two selkieskins oozed out from the stack of clothing; two quivering masses of dark plasma. Shimmering moire streaks of iridescent reds, blues and greens rippled across their black surfaces in random pulses.

The agent puffed his potbellied paunch out to its fullest extent and poked his finger at one of the skins.

"Wait! Don't touch it!" Her husbands shouted.

The skin rippled and oozed over the agent's hand. He staggered backwards while the selkieskin flowed relentlessly past his elbow. His fear slammed into Cait like a punch in her gut.

Indio stepped behind the agent. He wrapped his arms around the terrified man and held him still while Tiny reached out with his gloved hands and pulled the selkieskin off.

"They're bio-engineered symbiotes, legally registered as artificial life-forms at the UN Space Station, Sanctuary." The distinctive sound of Indio’s raspy voice rose above the muted murmur of arrivals and departures coming from the ceiling loudspeakers.

A second customs agent, her dreadlocked hair tied back into a bushy ponytail, stepped up to the counter. She held her body very stiff and kept her distance while Tiny and Indio let the selkieskins slither back into their bags. "I heard about those things on last night's news. May I see the customs clearance vouchers from Sanctuary, please?"

Indio released the first agent, patted him on his arm, then pulled a coded chip from his belt and handed it over.

The woman inserted it into the sofscreen wrapped around her left wrist. Her co-worker stared at the information scrolling up on the sofscreen. "It functions as a space suit? How?"

Explaining that would take them forever. Cait raised her arm and pumped it three times to catch her brother's attention. Kevin looked up and smiled at her. She pointed at the ped-walks. He nodded and motioned at her to go on ahead.

She took Socorro by the hand and said, "Let's go."

The entrance gate behind them and the Trade Commission delegation walked right by the customs area without any of their luggage being searched. A swarm of newsvid reporters raced up waving mikes and vidcams and yelling questions at the delegates.

Socorro yanked her hand away and tried to see past the reporters. "Where are we going? Isn't daddy coming with us?"

"I already let Kevin know we're leaving. He'll tell your father and Tiny. We’ll meet them at the hotel."

"Okay." Socorro adjusted the backpack over her shoulder and picked up the pet carrier. The kitten yowled but the little girl ignored its protests.

The back of Cait’s neck tingled. She looked over her shoulder at two dark featured men standing beside the spaceport's newsstand. Their hostile gazes slid past her to the U.N. delegation and newsvid reporters. Even though she wasn't the focus of their attention, they still made her skin crawl.

It's just nerves, she told herself. I’m jumping at shadows just because Nowan Corporation attacked the mining camp at the asteroid.

She straightened her shoulders. Her first priority was Socorro’s safety and the best way to keep the child safe was to leave this crowded area as soon as possible.

They made their way over to the ped-walks. She chose the one on the end because it was vacant. She didn't want anyone to come close enough to touch her or Socorro. They stepped onto it and let it carry them down a long tiled corridor.

Socorro tugged at her sleeve. "After we meet the rest of your family, are you and daddy and Tiny going to get married?"

The confused melange of emotions swirling around inside Socorro gnawed at Cait's empathic senses. She hesitated. Was Socorro's emotional turmoil the real reason behind her uneasy feelings about the crowded terminal?

Cait rubbed the tiny laser scar on her right arm. Socorro wasn't her daughter but the dangers they'd faced together on the asteroid had forged an emotional link between them. Talking this out should soothe both of them. "According to the customs of my people, I'm already married to them."

Socorro's shoulders sagged.

"My family will have a big party to formally recognize our marriage and..." Cait let her voice trail off into a tantalizing promise.

Socorro bounced on her heels with excitement. "And what?"

"Do you know what the word cater-corner means?"

The child frowned and wrinkled up her forehead with concentration, then lifted her finger in the air and traced a diagonal line. "It's the corner at the end of a slanted line."

She touched Socorro's cheek. "In my family, we have a special relationship called caterkinship. There's a ceremony that goes with it. We fast for one day and go out into the forest. While we wait for the night to turn to day, we pledge catermorf with moonlight, starlight and silver. Would you like to become my caterdaughter?"

Socorro's pupils grew larger and changed her green eyes to almost black. Wonder filled her face and flowed into Cait. "Yes," she said. "I would like that very much."

Cait smiled. Socorro would be the first daughter of her sisterline. "I want this too. When we arrive at my home in North Carolina, we will take this oath."

Happy anticipation brightened Socorro's face. The ceiling arched up above them while the ped-walk carried them into an underground parking garage. Cait straightened up and looked around. The cavernous space ahead of them clawed at her senses.

It felt wrong. All wrong. She'd let her instincts overrule her common sense. Safety was above. Not here. She studied the ped-walk. There weren't any controls for her to reverse it. She gnawed at her lip. There had to be another way out.

The sudden clang of metal on metal reverberated throughout the garage. She whirled around and shoved Socorro behind her. Standing beside a recycling bin about fifteen feet away from them was a woman with short white hair.

Dirt smeared rags covered the woman's stocky frame. The woman dumped a load of old computer wafers from her motorized shopping cart into the container and the machine spat out a credit chip into her hands.

They walked over to the woman. "Excuse me, ma'am." Cait said softly. "We've lost our way. Can you tell us how to get back upstairs?"

The woman straightened out the grimy rag on her shoulders and said, "Such lovely hair you have dearie. My name's Rachel. What's your name?"

Cait pulled Socorro back and glanced over her shoulder for another way out. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to ask this woman for directions.

Rachel pointed to the right. "Keep going that way. The exit's behind the sign that says Rest Rooms."

Socorro bobbed her head in a quick nod and shifted the pet carrier in her hands. "Thank you, ma'am."

The woman leaned down and peered inside the carrier. "Ooh! What a pretty little kitty."

Cait fished out a credit chip from her pocket and handed it over. "I appreciate your help."

The woman snatched the chip and tucked it away. There wasn't any odor coming from the woman's filthy clothing. Was Rachel a special operative stationed here to sniff out potential thieves? Was her presence here an added precaution because of the arrival of the Trade Commission delegation today, or was there some other reason?

The elevator was exactly where the baglady said it would be. Cait spared a swift glance over her shoulder. The woman had turned her back to them while she dumped another load of computer wafers into the recycling bin.

"Upper level concourse, please," Cait told the sofscreen imbedded in the door panel. The sound of a descending car told her the lift was responding properly to her request.

A distant crrrump drowned out the smooth purr of machinery. Had the lift malfunctioned? She pulled Socorro away from the entrance doors, back against the opposite wall and shielded the child with her body.

Socorro twisted around in her grip. "What's wrong?"

There was a brilliant flash of light, sound slammed into them and the ground swayed under them and bowled them over in a jumble of arms and legs. It felt exactly like she’d imagined being caught in the middle of an earthquake would be like. Thick black smoke billowed up around them, making them choke and cough where there was no room to cough. Cait's inner eyelids slid down to protect her eyes. Slabs of concrete rained down upon her head and shoulders and pinned her to the floor.

She heard a sharp snapping sound from her right leg. Pain soared through her in a nauseating whirl. Goddess! That hurts! I better not pass out. Socorro needs me.

The thunderous roar gradually died down. She shook her head and concentrated on taking slow, careful breaths. The pain settled down to the level of a throbbing toothache. It was bearable as long as she didn't try to move. She concentrated on wiggling her toes inside her sneaks. Her toes moved. Good. That meant her spinal cord remained intact. She felt Socorro wriggle out of her grasp.

Sirens wailed in the distance. First one, then several, then an orchestra of them. She blinked the tears and the inner membrane from her eyes and tried to focus. Was Socorro hurt too? Had there been an earthquake? Or a bomb within the spaceport?

More smoke and flames billowed up in the distance. She heard Licorice screeching and frantically scratching with her claws at the latch of her cage.

The entire left side of her face trobbed like a migraine. She wiped the sweat trickling down her face and stared at her hand. Blood covered it, not sweat. She reached up and felt the swollen bulge of a goose-egg.

The pet carrier blocked her view. She pushed it aside and saw Socorro on her knees in a relatively clear patch of the floor.

Dust and small fragments of concrete covered the child's head. Socorro crawled over the broken slabs to Cait's side. She grabbed her hands and tried to pull her out.

Panic seared through her from the child’s touch. "No," Cait managed to say. "Don't try to move me. Not yet. I think my leg is broken."

She reached into her pocket. Moving with exquisite care, she pulled her computer sofscreen out and passed it to Socorro.

The child unfolded the sofscreen, squeezed the corners to stiffen it then tried to activate it and call for help. It didn't respond.

The elevator doors opened behind them, then started closing again. Socorro jumped to her feet and lunged for the doors. Cait grabbed the child's pants leg and gritted her teeth against the agony of that move. Goddess, she prayed. Give me strength. Taking shallow breaths made the pain easier to bear.

Tears streaked the dirt and grit on Socorro's face. "Why’d you stop me?" She sniffed.

Cait chose her words with care. Frightening Socorro out of her wits wasn't going to solve the problem. "You can't use the lift. It might leave you stranded between levels. Use the ped-walk instead. It probably stopped moving now. Find your daddy, Kevin and Tiny and bring them here to help me."

Socorro wiped her tears away with her hand and smeared the dirt on her face even more. "I'll bring them." She picked up the pet carrier. "I promise."

She watched the child climb over the debris, then let her head sink back down onto the cold concrete. All I have to do now is wait. Another ominous rumble sounded in the distance. Cait closed her eyes.

The new was always layered on top of the old. That was the way of every city. The rich and mighty flew on the glittering skyways high above the decrepit trains and battered sidewalks used by the poorer residents. Only a few obscure historians knew about the network of abandoned freight tunnels forty feet below the streets of Chicago.

The blue clay walls and ceiling of the tunnel system soared above Mider's head. Tiny florescent lights embedded in the walls lit the room. A black cauldron simmered on a hot plate. A remote viewing sofscreen hung on a hook above the hot plate and cauldron.

He’d lived his entire life inside this abandoned tunnel system and preferred it that way. Having white fur all over his body, fanged eyeteeth and nictitating membranes had its drawbacks.

The only time he could walk around on the surface without concealing his face was during SF conventions where people assumed his unusual appearance to be an elaborate costume.

A trio of miniature Nubian goats scampered through the garden into the room and settled down on the floor by his feet. Rachel’s knowledge and skills had become a valuable resource for him. Fifteen years ago when she retired from her job as a private investigator, she’d helped him liberate the parents of these goats from a hidden military base.

Never mind the risk of the military becoming aware of his existence, the results of that foray had given him another reliable income source. Milk from one goat produced as much silk as ten thousand spiders. Then when you added in the cannibalistic and territorial tendencies of spiders, goats were better providers of the rare and highly sought after fabrics.

After he brought them here the first thing he did was take the few surgical instruments he owned and remove the male goat’s scent glands. Washing them twice a month with scented shampoo also helped keep their odor to a bearable level within the confines of his underground home.

He stretched his arms over his head and worked out the kinks in his arms and shoulders. The soft material of his shirt slid over his back. The familiar weight of his braided hair slapped against his ankles while he moved around the room.

Leather strips bound his shirt and pants to his chest, arms and legs. The strips were the easiest way to keep his clothing from shifting around against the grain of his fur.

He hated having his fur rubbed backwards.

He picked up a dye-splattered apron and tied it over his clothes. Only three weeks left to prepare his fabrics for the Tenth Interplanetary Science Fiction convention at the UN Enclave. Five times stronger than Kevlar, ten times stronger than steel, spidersilk was a highly prized commodity for both military and commercial applications.

The conventioneers didn't find it strange to see a man with his face and body covered with white fur selling fabrics in their dealers' room. As long as he avoided any long conversations with members of the Costumers' Guild, no one realized he wasn’t human.

He leaned over the table, pulled on a pair of gloves, lifted the lid, laid it beside the hot plate and peered inside the cauldron. The beeswax had melted.

The white fabric needed a design. He removed the gloves, tucked them in his belt, picked up one of the paintbrushes laid out in an orderly row beside the hot plate and dipped it into the hot wax. It took only a few moments to outline a Mandela. The wax dried almost immediately.

With the first section of the design properly drawn, the next step was to dip the cloth into a vat of yellow dye and hang it up to dry.

Batik was a tedious process but well worth the effort. Having a much longer lifespan allowed him to retain archaic skills forgotten by shorter lived humans. He picked up another small chunk of beeswax from the table, added it to the cauldron and watched it dissolve into the hot liquid.

A bell chimed behind him. He flipped off the switch under the hot plate and placed a lid on the cauldron before checking the monitor behind him. The screen's image showed Rachel riding down the coal chute entrance. He leaned closer to the screen and reached for her mind with his.

Fear and worry were the strongest elements of her emotional aura. She fussed and pulled at her cart, keeping it steady until she exited the chute and pushed it onto the rutted passage toward his home. The flashlight clipped to the front barely let her see five feet ahead of the cart.

He ran through the garden into the adjoining cavern past a heavily curtained bed and stopped in front of a metal door. The wheel in the center of the door spun easily under his grip.

Rachel pushed the cart inside. He pulled the door shut behind her. She tore off the top layer of cardboard and gestured at him to look inside. He looked and saw an unconscious woman; her supple body curled in a fetal position.

Moving with extreme care, he reached inside, picked up the woman and carried her over to the bed. Rachel moved in front of him, pulled aside the embroidered curtain and shoved a pile of books off onto the carpet. He laid the woman on the bed. There were markings on her left arm. A tattoo? He leaned closer and peered at the spiral of blue woad lines. He rocked back on his heels. That's a Sidhe tattoo. How? Where?

He touched the unconscious woman’s arm and let his fingers stroke the dark blue lines. That particular design came from a sisterline he'd thought had vanished over 2500 years ago.

He pinched her eyelids open and found the second pair of inner eyelids. He opened her mouth and stared at the delicate curves of her fanged eyeteeth. She was real. This was impossible. A young Sidhe woman lay upon his bed with dried blood matting her calico colored hair.

He turned to Rachel, took a deep breath and controlled his urge to grab her by the shoulders and demand the information he needed. "Where did you find her?"

"I found her in the parking garage at O'Hare Spaceport. I went there to check out a lead about Mair."

How many times had he told her to leave Mair alone? Rachel flinched away from his glare. The last thing he needed was for that sisterline to find out he’d survived their Wild Hunt.

She sat down on a bright red cushion and untied the filthy rags wrapped around her sneakers, kicked them aside and discarded her ragged coat. A stylish jumpsuit of soft denim now covered her plump body from neck to ankles. "This woman came down to the parking garage and asked me for directions. There was an explosion. She was hurt. The fire was spreading. I couldn't leave her behind."

He turned to the unconscious woman, lifted her head slightly and felt the goose-egg on the side of her face and the smaller lump in back of her scalp. He risked a quick probe at her mind with his empathic senses. A faint echo of awareness answered his efforts. She was far, far down the path to oblivion.

Can I help her? He didn't know. He had no real healing skills.

Rachel knelt on the floor and hauled a small leather trunk from under the bed. She opened it, pulled out the medi-kit and handed him a gel filled ice pack. He pressed it against the back of the unconscious woman's scalp and laid her down very carefully onto the pillow. "How long ago did this happen?"

Rachel bit her lip. "I don't know. About two hours ago. I wasn't thinking too clearly at first. What was I supposed to do? Leave her there and hope someone found her before the fire did?"

He nodded at her to continue.

She twisted her hands together. "I hid her under the scraps in my cart and rode the El into town. By the time I got her down to Lower Wacker Drive it was too late to flag down an ambulance and explain why I had her hidden in my shopping cart."

"Was she alone?"

"She had a little girl with her. The little girl ran off to get help."

"A girl child." He managed to croak the words past his suddenly parched throat. This is folly. He warned himself. If there was a child, then it meant this woman had already chosen her life partners. He dare not dream that she might choose him also.

"Was the girl her child?" he asked.

Rachel shrugged. "I don't know. The girl had dark brown hair. She didn’t look like her at all."

He sat on the bed and touched Rachel’s hand. "The child ran off to get help. Who was she going to find?"

"I heard her tell the little girl to go get her daddy and someone called Tiny."

He pulled his sofscreen out of his pocket, unfolded it and initiated a search. "Two hours is much too long a time for her to be unconscious. She needs a physician."

Rachel stroked the white fur that covered his arm. "But what about you? Are you going to risk people finding out about you?"

He braced himself against the sudden flare of panic that surged up inside him from Rachel’s touch. No matter how many times he'd explained it to her, she kept forgetting his empathic abilities. But he'd become accustomed to her habits and knew enough to shield himself from her emotions whenever she touched him.

The only human he’d ever trusted with the secret of his existence was Rachel. But now... "This woman you found. She's Sidhe, like me." He pronounced the word Sidhe in the proper Gaelic manner, as Shee. "I don't want her to die."

She wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him. Her fierce love filled him with warmth. "I've lived my life. I've watched my children grow up and I visit my grandchildren every month. But you have no one. I've hated to see you living all alone like this."

"I know." He brushed his lips across the top of her head. "I cherish our friendship. You've kept me sane."

She sat back and stared past him for a few moments. Then her face brightened. "Dr. Nour owns the women's clinic on Lower Wacker Drive. I can ask her to come down here with me."

He shook his head. It would take too long for her to go back up to the surface, speak to Dr. Nour and return to his home. This woman needed help as soon as possible. "I'll come with you."

"You can't let other people see you. They wouldn't understand."

"Dr. Nour is Muslim, correct?"

"Why does she associate with you? You're Jewish."

"Dr. Nour's a member of Miriam's sect. They want to bring back the ancient rights that Muslim women had when Islam began and the Islamic teachings that gave all religions equal standing in the community."

He sighed. "The women who frequent her clinic, they wear the chador, do they not?"

He didn't have to touch Rachel's hand to feel her confusion over his question. The expression on her face told him that.

He went to the chest at the foot of the bed, opened it and pulled out two bundles of black fabric. "I am small-boned. Five foot eight is tall for a woman but I should be able to pass as long as I'm decently covered."

Rachel held her hand out for the other chador. "That should work. I’ll help you put this one on her."

He selected a pair of tinted sunglasses and willed his heart to slow down its headlong pace. It would have to work. He had no other choice.

* * *

Huge concrete posts supported Lower Wacker Drive. This section contained two lanes of vehicles zooming by in both directions. Dirt and small stones flew up around the billowing skirt of Mider's chador. Concrete arches let in patches of sunlight from the river and lightened the dim twilight of the expressway.

He balanced the Sidhe woman in his arm and followed Rachel up the narrow sidewalk. Cavernous warehouses and loading docks loomed over them. Side streets led up to the parking garages and luxury hotels on Upper Wacker Drive.

A group of adolescents flew three inches above the sidewalk on their airskates. Pastel pink and blue dyes colored their spiked hair. Silver and gold rings glittered against their eyebrows and ears. Their jeans were all glitz and shine. They yelled at Mider and Rachel, their voices filled with cruel promises.

He clutched the chador-covered body of the unconscious woman to his chest, then stepped back and placed his burden on the sidewalk. If these ruffians tried to harm his companions, his Sidhe strength should catch them unawares. "Rachel. Step aside. Please."

A trash removal truck lumbered up on the expressway. Air brakes hissed and moaned as it rolled to a stop and slammed its claw arms on the sidewalk directly in front of the skaters. They twisted in mid air to avoid the claws, crashed into each other and screamed more obscenities.

The driver opened the door of the truck, jumped down to the sidewalk, placed his hands on his hips and glared at them. Blue tattoos of dragons and snakes spiraled around his thick muscled arms. Intricate blue curlicues covered his bald scalp and neck.

Fright flickered across the adolescents’ faces. They backed away from him, then skated off in the opposite direction. The truck driver turned around, nodded at Rachel and said, "Kids have no respect nowadays."

Rachel grinned and jerked her thumb at him. "Thanks, Jesse."

Jesse waved for them to continue their interrupted journey. "No problem." He turned around, climbed up to the top of a large green garbage bin, peered inside and yelled, "Rise and shine, Billy. You know I hate cleaning blood and guts out of my rig."

Mider picked up the Sidhe woman and cradled her in his arms again. He followed Rachel past the garbage bin. They needed to traverse only three more blocks to reach their destination.

A heavy grillwork of iron bars provided extra security for the small storefront tucked in beside a modest kiosk and fast food console. Women's Health Clinic, read the neatly stenciled sign on the door. In smaller print the next line said: Dr. Fatima Nour, M.D.

Rachel led him inside. She walked up to the receptionist and whispered a few words. The receptionist nodded and let her go past into the door at the other end of the room.

Mider sat down at the end of a long row of seats along the wall. Even though he was dressed exactly like them, the other womens’ gazes seemed to penetrate the thick folds and veil of his chador. He sensed their recognition of him as male. Perhaps it was because he cradled an unconscious woman in his lap.

How could they bear these heavy robes weighing them down with only a small slit for their eyes? The building's climate control wasn't much help either. Dried sweat matted his fur. He felt like ripping the chador off and scratching himself all over.

A few of the younger ones sat unveiled. Their chadors hung on hooks by the door.

The receptionist tilted her head and peered at him through the narrow slit in her veil. Her curiosity stabbed into him across the room. She said nothing and continued to type data into an old-fashioned computer. The soft clicking sound of her typing filled the silent room.

The door behind the receptionist opened. Rachel stuck her head out and motioned at him to come inside. He rose to his feet and carried his burden into the next room.

The only difference between the physician’s chador and his was the caduceus pin clipped to her left shoulder. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder when she stood up to greet him.

He laid his charge down upon the gurney in the middle of the room and wrinkled his nose against the odor of strong disinfectant that permeated the sheets. Dr. Nour placed her hand upon his arm where the sleeve of his chador had risen up past his gloved hand. He felt her shock change to intense curiosity. "Your sunglasses," she said. "Take them off."

He removed them. Dr. Nour's pupils dilated while she studied his eyes. She reached up, pulled his veil aside and stared at the fur on his face, then withdrew her hand as if she'd been scalded. Her confusion spilled over him, then swiftly changed to inquisitiveness.

Questions, a ton of them, surfaced in the doctor’s coffee colored eyes. There was no time to explain. Mider hurriedly removed the chador from the unconscious woman.

Dr. Nour motioned at him to step aside. She took his place, lifted the woman's eyelid and found the inner membrane. Her shoulders stiffened under the heavy material of her chador. She turned around and stared at Mider. Her hand twitched as if she wanted to pull his veil aside again. "Do your eyes have this membrane too?"

He nodded and braced himself for her next question.

"Who is she?"

"I don't know her name. She is Sidhe."

A sharp burst of anger flowed from her into him. Dr. Nour said, "She is she? What kind of answer is that? Do you take me for a fool?"

Patience, he reminded himself. Patience. She had handled her shock fairly well all things considered. "Sidhe is a Gaelic word. It means 'the fair folk.' It's spelled S-I-D-H-E but pronounced Shee."

"Who are you?"

"My name is Mider. I am also Sidhe."

Dr. Nour gestured at the unconscious woman on the gurney. "She has no fur."

He took a deep breath and exhaled carefully. This physician was his only hope. "The furred ones are genetic throwbacks in our sisterlines."

"Ah." Her gaze went abstracted. "Sidhe..." she said. "Could that be another word for Djinni?"

He smothered a sigh. The last thing he needed was to be mistaken for one of her country's ancient legends. "We're empaths, not daemons. We have no magical powers."

She tilted her head up. Her dark gaze showed serious consideration. "Your pupils are red."

"I'm an albino."

She blinked, then said, "This is true. Albino eyes lack pigmentation and are extremely sensitive to light."

This Sidhe woman needs your help." Rachel's harsh voice interrupted them.

Mider pulled out a leather pouch, untied it and poured loose gemstones intermingled with silver and gold coins onto the countertop. "This should be sufficient to pay for your services. List it in your files as an anonymous donation. She needs an exoskeleton brace for her leg while it heals. I want her to be able to walk out of here when you're finished."

She gave him a sudden, disturbed look. "Why?"

"This woman is one of my people. I want her healed, no matter the cost. An exoskeleton makes it easier."

She slanted an oblique glance at the unconscious woman. "Are there any other anatomical differences that I should be aware of?"

He shrugged. "My people have interbred with humans for thousands of years. Our basic anatomy is the same."

She nodded, then pointed at the squat machine on the other side of the gurney. "Bring that over here."

He hurried to comply with her command. It took only a moment for her to position a wafer-thin silver cap on her patient’s scalp. She keyed up the sofscreen embedded in the top of the machine and watched the images and numbers scrolling up on the screen.

Her gloved finger stabbed at a dark mass within the red tinged image of the skull. "There's a blood clot pressing down on her brain. We'll have to shave that lovely hair and drain the clot or she'll die."

"You're going to perform a trepan?"

She spun around. "Are you familiar with the procedure?"

He inclined his head in a stiff nod.

"Have you ever performed a trepan?"

"No."

"Can you assist me with this procedure?"

He didn’t think she’d appreciate knowing his previous surgical experience consisted of removing scent glands from a male goat. His answer was brief and concise. "I can."

"I'll help too, if you want." Rachel's voice quavered despite her brave words. "We don't want anyone else to know about Mider."

Dr. Nour gave her a considering look. The heavy black fabric draped around her head and body made her look like a death goddess. He sent a cautious mental probe at her emotions and found cautious hope. She wants... He thought. No, she needs something from us.

Dr. Nour turned to him. "Rachel told me you live in the abandoned freight tunnels under the city."

He granted her a wary nod. What did she want? Why was this important to her?

Dr. Nour said, "If I help you now, will you agree to help me with other women and conceal them if necessary?"

He blinked. Other women? Muslim women? Conceal them? Why?

"Their husbands beat them and they have no place to hide."

He stared at her then gestured at her dark robes. "I don’t understand. You say you want freedom for Muslim women but you continue to wear a chador. Why?"

Dr. Nour shook her head. "I believe I can help more women by working within the system." She plucked at her robe and rubbed the material between her fingertips. "The freedoms I seek involve property rites and education, not the freedom to display my body."

She looked at him again. Her voice remained soft and composed. Humor glinted within her direct gaze. "Private displays are another issue entirely."

Her ideas held merit. Working with her to help other woman in need would also allow him to form a lasting friendship with this intriguing woman. He held out his hand. "I will assist you to the best of my ability."

Her fingers were strong and steady within his grip. They shook hands and sealed their agreement. She rolled the sleeves of her chador up. "Wash your hands and put on a pair of surgical gloves."

* * *

Such lovely hair. Mider stroked the thick braid of calico hair that had been shorn from the Sidhe woman’s head. It held gold, black, brown and russet tinged streaks mingled together in a glorious melange. He tried to imagine how it would feel to have all of the fur shaved from his body.

He shook his head. This was neither the proper time nor place to sit around thinking silly thoughts. He coiled the braid up in his hand and went over to look at the unconscious woman.

Rachel had left when Dr. Nour began drilling the holes into the woman's skull. She'd become too nauseated to help them finish the procedure. Technically, the surgery was successful. They'd drained out almost two cc’s of blood from the hole in her skull to relieve the pressure against the soft tissue of her brain.

But the young woman remained comatose and it wasn't from anesthesia. They'd used only a local on her scalp. In ancient times, that type of surgery was done with no anesthesia because there aren't any nerves in the brain itself to signal pain. How much damage had her mind sustained from the head injury?

He laid the braid on the gurney beside her head. His hands trembled. He placed his hands on her face and probed. Down, down, down, he fell deep into her mind until he found a small, faded spark of awareness.

Slowly, carefully, he fed his strength to the spark. It glowed, then flared up into a steady flame. Her natural empathic shields flared up with the flame and pushed him away.

He kept himself inside her mind. There was one more thing he could try, an ancient technique his grandmother had described to him. It should work.

He reached into the brain stem; into the primitive area of her mind that controlled the automatic functions of her body.

Dru-bonds pulsed inside her, withered and torn, coiled in upon themselves like wounded children. He reached back inside himself, uncoiled a dru-bond and pulled it out like an umbilical cord and let it connect to her. It shimmered into a bright flare then flowed down, down, down, all the way into her.

It was done. He withdrew from her mind.

The woman sighed. A faint smile flickered across her mouth for a split second. He stepped back, took her wrists and pulled her to a seated position on the gurney.

She sat there with her face blank, her eyes closed and her hands relaxed. The shiny aluminum wires of the exoskeleton around her right leg glinted under the harsh lights in the ceiling.

The door dilated behind him. Dr. Nour entered the room. "What did you do to her? Why is she sitting up like that?"

"I put her in a healing trance for her mind. We call it 'cael marrach'," he said with an abstracted shrug. "The literal translation is enchanted sleep. She can walk now. Her body will continue to function but she cannot speak or see or react to anything or anyone until her mind heals."

He picked up the discarded chador from the chair. "I'll have her dressed in a few minutes. Is there a back door to this clinic?"

She pointed at the curtained wall behind him. "Wait here. I'll get Rachel."

The bright dru-bond that linked him to Rachel flared up like a torch and disappeared. He staggered back, sank down upon his knees and held his hands to his head. A mindless desolation raged deep within him. Distant shouts and screams penetrated the empty space in his soul.

He opened his eyes and found himself lying on the floor with his head cradled in the physician’s lap.

"Are you an epileptic?" she asked. "You fell down and had a series of convulsions. It looked to me like you just had a grand mal seizure."

"Rachel..." he croaked past his parched throat.

"What?" Dr. Nour leaned closer and stared at him.

He grabbed her arm, rolled over onto his hands and knees and pulled himself back into the chair. Oh Goddess. He didn't want to know. Not now. Not Rachel.

Catching his breath, he said, "I'm all right now. Rachel's hurt. I felt it. Please, find out what happened to her."

Dr. Nour’s pupils dilated with shocked surprise and comprehension. She rose to her feet and left the room in a hurried rush.

It couldn't have been more than five minutes but it seemed like forever before Dr. Nour returned. Fresh blood stained the hem of her chador. She walked in slowly then sat down beside him. She took his hands and held them between hers. "I don't know how to tell you this..." Her voice trailed off in a soft sigh.

She shook her head. Compassion glowed in her dark gaze when she resumed talking. "Apparently Rachel went outside for a breath of fresh air. It's dark now. It's quite possible that she missed her step and stumbled off the sidewalk just when that truck came around the corner. I tried to help her but it was too late. Too much blood. Too much damage..." Her voice trailed off again.

He sagged against the wall. That explained why the pain and desolation had raced through him so swiftly. It was over. "She's dead." The word echoed through his mind. Dead, dead, dead. His heart lay within his chest like a stone, numb and empty.

He swallowed the bile that clogged his throat.

Dr. Nour laid her hand on his arm. "The police will arrive soon to investigate. You'll have to leave. I can't explain your presence here."

He stared at her. His mind went blank. He felt too numb to think anymore.

Her fingers dug into his arm. "Wait. I almost forget. How will I contact you?"

He blinked as her words penetrated the fog in his mind. She was correct. He must leave and she needed a way to contact him. He said, "The only legal ID I have is a business one. My corporation tends the Winter Gardens in the Chicago Library. I could 'ghost' my sofscreen to yours like I was ‘ghosted’ to Rachel’s."

She shook her head. "That's too risky. I don't want anything that can be traced back to me."

Her logic was impeccable. They must be cautious.

He sorted through the possibilities, then said, "At the Chicago Tribune, they have daily tours. In the basement are the pneumatic mail slots. No one uses them anymore. You can send me your messages in the tube for the Editor's office. I've re-routed it to another location on the rooftop. I'll check it daily."

Dr. Nour touched his arm. Her concern flowed into him. "Be careful."

Indio wanted to blow away the blast proof partition and pin this snot-nosed excuse for a cop against the wall. On the other hand, assaulting a fellow officer in the middle of the police station wasn't going to get him the assistance he wanted. He counted to twenty-five, then said, "This isn't just a missing person's report I want to file. I'm talking about a possible abduction."

The tiny speaker chip in the plastic shield around Officer Jameson’s cubicle added a squeaky texture to her voice. "The only witness you have for this so-called abduction is a eight year old child. That’s dubious grounds for your assumptions."

He leaned against the partition. It creaked under his hand. "Ma'am, I know what I'm talking about. If you'll enter a request for my name under covert ops, you should be able to pull up my status as a fellow police officer, both dirtside and offplanet."

Jameson rewarded him with a blank stare. She pointed at the red line on the floor. "Stand on the line and look straight ahead so I can verify your ID."

He positioned himself per her instructions, gazed into the pulsing blue dot of the partition’s scanner and waited while it transferred his ID into her computer. A few seconds later, the console beeped. Strips of red, green and blue printing from the sofscreen flickered across Jameson's face, giving her the appearance of a multicolored zebra. Hell of a way to spend your life; cooped up inside a transparent shield.

He shook his head. Letting his mind wander off on side tangents wasn't going to help him find Cait.

Jameson looked up, her expression more sympathetic. "Did you check out the morgue?"

"I did. None of the bodies were hers."

Jameson tugged at her lip for a moment then said, "I'd like to help you. But..." She spread her hands apart and shrugged.

He tried to keep his voice calm and reasonable. "But what?"

"We've had thirty seven murders, sixteen rapes, twenty nine assaults and sixty five drug cases today. On top of everything else we have this terrorist bombing at the spaceport on the highest priority level. Unless you can produce concrete evidence of an abduction or a link to terrorism, I'm afraid your case will remain in the pending file."

"How about the baglady my daughter saw? Do you have an address in your files for her?"

She raked her hand through the pale blue curls on her scalp. "I can't release personal files on citizens just like that."

"Not even for a fellow officer?"

She sighed, then keyed up the security grid at O'Hare Spaceport. "Where did your daughter see her?"

"In the sub-basement parking garage."

Her hands moved swiftly over the console and sent a request for more specific files. The image shifted to views of the subterranean garage. She pursed her lips and leaned closer to screen. Another quick stab of her finger and the images blanked out except one that showed the baglady, Cait and Socorro standing together.

He wished he had the ability to morph himself through the plastic partition for a closer look. Instead, he had to plaster himself against it like a leech. The image tilted in a dizzy whirl, then steadied. He saw falling debris and black smoke fill the sofscreen, then clear up.

"Don't you have any sound? I'd like to hear what they're saying."

She shook her head and frowned at him. "If you’re a police officer, you should know that after the People versus the State Case during 2052, we're only allowed to use visual scans."

He coughed and cleared his throat. "I forgot about that. My unit specialized in covert ops."

Jameson sighed, then let her fingers tap more commands into the console. More data scrolled up on the screen. She peered at it then said, "We don't have a fixed address. Her full name is Rachel Shoenfeld. She lives in the transient housing grid on Lower Wacker Drive."

"That's it?"

A haughty sniff accompanied her response. "I didn't see anything that qualifies as a criminal act. That's why security didn't flag it during the investigation of the terrorist bomb. We saw a rescue, not an abduction."

He stepped back and spread his hands apart. "You have my phonenet number, don't you? Let me know if my wife shows up on any other vids. Okay?"

She jabbed her thumb at the exit door. "Okay. I have to keep the line moving, you know."

He’d be damn lucky if she contacted him later. Maybe Kevin and Tiny had had better luck checking out the Emergency rooms.

* * *

Indio hitched his chair closer and squeezed himself in between Tiny and Kevin while the connection went through. The screen lit up on the desktop and showed them Julisa's face.

The image was a bit grainy. There was a thirteen-second delay on account of the distance from Sanctuary Station. They had to make every word count. The rates for a satellite relay call to the L-5 LaGrange position of the station were astronomical.

Julisa leaned over the screen as if she wanted to reach through it, grab one of them by the neck and shake him. "How did three grown men manage to lose one woman?"

Just because his sister Julisa was practically engaged to Cait’s twin Kevin didn't mean she had the right to treat them like idiots. Indio took a deep breath, swallowed his anger and chose a diplomatic response instead of yelling at her. "We're not leaving until we find her."

She blinked, stared at him, then said, "Did you call Grandpa yet?"

"His flight will arrive here tomorrow night."

The hotel room door computer beeped twice. Indio reached for the cut-off switch. "We have company, Jule. I'll call you back later."

She leaned closer to her screen and whispered, "Send me a fax. Keep me posted Okay?"

"Sure." He flipped the cut-off switch and ended the call.

"Entry request," the door's programmed voice said in dulcet tones. "Lilith Harker."

Kevin jumped to his feet. His chair toppled backwards onto the plush carpeting. "Aunt Lily!"

Indio exchanged a flustered look with Tiny. How were they going to explain Cait's disappearance to her aunt?

"Entry request granted," Kevin told the door. It slid open. Feeling like a condemned criminal being sent off to permanent deep freeze, Indio rose to his feet.

Their visitor stepped inside and the door slid shut behind them. Lilith Harker's platinum hair shone almost pure white against the warm caramel color of her skin. She looked like she might be in her early forties even though her chronological age was a hundred and twenty eight.

She stopped in front of Indio. Her dark eyed gaze was quick and appraising. "You’re Edelmiro Jesus Santiago de Arroyo?"

He nodded. He already knew from his experiences with Cait and Kevin not to extend his hand to another empath. If and when Lilith wanted that kind of close contact with him, she’d make the first move.

She turned to Tiny. "Tamerlane Jehu Barnett."

He gave her a polite smile. "Miz Harker."

She reached out and grasped theirs. "Strong names for strong men. Cait chose well. You're family now."

She released Tiny's hand and focused her gaze on Indio. "Cait’s gone. We must accept this and move on with our lives."

Why was she talking about Cait in the past tense? He pulled his hand out of her grip. "Who told you she's missing?"

A sad finality colored her voice. "We know she's gone because we can't feel her anymore."

Kevin lunged forward. "Cait’s not dead. I would have felt it when she died."

She spun around. "What do you feel?"

Kevin stared at her. "Nothing. I can't feel anything from her anymore."

She said, "Neither can I. So it's quite possible that..."

Kevin held up his hand and shook his head. Anger clouded his face. "She's my twin. If she were dead, I'd know it."

Lilith reached for his hand. He jerked it away.

She sighed. "There's another factor to consider. Our bloodline has changed over the centuries of interbreeding with humans. It's possible that our dru-bonds aren't as deep anymore. Maybe..."

Indio stared at her. He didn't like the way she kept referring to humans as a separate species. "If you've interbred with humans, why do you keep calling yourselves Sidhe?"

She smiled; a slow lingering smile that reminded him of Cait. "Sidhe refers to our culture more than anything else."

"No." Kevin crossed his arms and glared at her. "It doesn't matter how much we've interbred. I've always felt it when something happened to Cait. You can't tell me I wouldn't feel her death. She's not dead. She's..."

"She's what?" Lily held her hand out to him.

He shook his head and slumped against the wall with his eyes closed. "She was hurt. I felt that. Then nothing. It was like she'd went away, far, far away."

"A lot of debris fell down in the garage from the explosions," Tiny said.

Indio said, "It knocked her out. I saw that much on the screen at the police station. That could be why he can't feel her anymore."

"I'll find her. I'll feel her when she awakens and ..." Kevin's voice trailed off.

"And what?" Lilith asked. "You know there's no sense of direction with the dru-bond. How will you find her?"

"We'll find her." Indio said.

"No matter what." The determination in Tiny's deep voice matched his.

Lilith turned to him. "Your daughter? Where is she?"

He frowned. What did Socorro's whereabouts have to do with finding Cait?

"I'm right here."

Everyone turned around at the sound of Socorro's voice. She stood in the doorway linking the two-bedroom suite. Her kitten, Licorice lay curled up in her arms. "Kevin’s yelling woke me up. I don't believe Cait's dead either."

Lilith held out her hand. "I'm Cait’s Aunt Lily. We have a large house in North Carolina with lots of land. You'll be safe with us. You'll be able to play with Cait’s sisters and brothers. "

Indio balled his hands into fists. She had no right to propose this without consulting him first. Socorro was his daughter, not hers.

Socorro shook her head. Bright red spots stained her cheeks. "I don't want to go away with you. I want to stay here with my father."

He went over and placed his hand on his Socorro’s shoulder. "Her great-grandfather will be here tomorrow morning. He'll take care of her."

Lily seated herself on the edge of the bed and smoothed out the cover with her hand. "Please," she said. "I want to get to know you better. Your grandfather can stay at my house. We'll help him take care of Socorro."

Tiny swiped his hand across his bald scalp. "We can't stay here. It's too expensive. We'll have to find a cheaper place. And the most logical place to start our search is..."

"...the transient housing grid where Rachel lived." Indio completed the thought automatically. He knew how Tiny's mind worked. He knew Tiny as well as he knew himself.

He turned to Kevin. "What do you think?'

Kevin shrugged. "I'm with you."

Indio's comm unit beeped. He unclipped it from his belt and held it to his ear. "Mr. De Arroyo?" It was Officer Jameson. Her voice sounded squeaky on the comm too. Maybe that was her normal voice.

"Speaking."

"That woman, Rachel."

"Yes."

"She's dead. The report just came in. There was an accident on Wacker Drive. She died instantly."

The room slipped away from him in a dizzy spiral. The best chance they had of locating Cait had disappeared. He swallowed against the tightness in his throat. "Did anyone claim her body yet?"

"Her daughter claimed it ten minutes ago. Here's her address and the address of the funeral home."

"Wait a minute. Let me grab a pencil and paper first." He opened up the drawer in the night table and pulled out a notepad and pencil. "I’m ready now. Give me the addresses."

She rattled them off. He scribbled them down, thanked her for taking the time to call him and hung up.

Tiny stepped forward. "Whose body?"

"Rachel's body." Indio handed him the paper. "Our best bet now is to go to the funeral and see what we can find out."

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