Calling the Wild Read online

  “But that doesn’t really discount it. Think about it, what better way to hide the list than in a painting that isn’t magic touched? Anyone who came looking for the list would be a magic worker, and so would probably only pay attention to pieces created by other magic beings. The magic worker who created the list could have given it to a human artist.”

  “I had not thought of that,” he ruefully admitted, leaning closer to give the painting more careful attention. He pushed his glasses up, scanning the list she was looking at. “Did you get all the words?”

  “Yes.”

  “But it is in code, correct?”

  “That’s the impression Drak gave me.”

  They stood at the painting for another half an hour, examining every word, discussing theories as to what the code could be and how to break it.

  A thick knot coiled in Moira’s belly, and the harder she worked to understand the code she believed was there, the thicker the knot grew. Finally, she raised her hand, stopping Kiron in the middle of his explanation as to why the placement of a stripe of peach paint was important.

  “This isn’t it.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Why?” he questioned.

  “It just…isn’t. It feels wrong.” Moira flipped her little book closed. “Come on.” She turned away, wending her way out of the contemporary sculpture gallery and back to the main skylight covered staircase.

  “That painting was growing on me,” he complained.

  “I forced it, tried too hard.”

  “Codes are not meant to be easily broken, if the answer is there, we will find it.”

  “The problem wasn’t that the code would be difficult, it’s that we were trying to force something to be there that wasn’t. It’s my own fault. I was so sure the list would be on a piece of art like that one. I had it all figured out and went in looking for what I thought I should find instead of what I needed to find.”

  Moira stopped in the hall, but Kiron put a hand at her back, leading her down the stairs. They turned a few corners in silence, Moira focusing on her shoes as she let her mind turn over the problem.

  There were over 300,000 works of art of display in this place, and her one idea for where to start hadn’t panned out. It would take days to search the whole museum.

  “I don’t know where to go from here,” she admitted.

  “I do.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes.” Ahead of them lay the museum’s café.

  “Food?”

  “We need food.”

  “We had breakfast.”

  “Hours ago.”

  “Two!” she exclaimed.

  “Time to eat again.”

  “You have an insane capacity for food.” Moira grabbed a tray and handed it to Kiron who was examining the various stations.

  “You don’t eat enough.”

  “I don’t have your metabolism and would be the size of a house if I ate the way you did.”

  “Better than having your bones stick out.”

  “My bones do not stick out.”

  “I could feel your hip bone when I touched you.”

  “Maybe you should stop feeling me up, you pervert.”

  Two college students wearing UC sweatshirts snickered at her comment as they stood in front of them at the pizza station.

  “Then stop throwing yourself at me, you rampaging nymphomaniac,” Kiron threw back.

  The college students lost it, falling into gales of laughter. Shooting them a nervous glance from over their shoulders, the boys taking a minute to give the “nymphomaniac” a once over, they moved out of the pizza line, sliding away towards the burger station. Kiron smirked.

  “You cannot tell me you did that on purpose,” Moira muttered.

  “It removed them from the line.”

  When they got to the counter, Kiron ordered a whole pizza. Geneva Conventions were agreed upon with less debate than went into their topping selection. After being advised to come back in a half an hour, Kiron moved on to select fries, a cheeseburger and a bowl of chowder. Moira snagged a salad, looking longingly at the open face focaccia sandwiches, but resisted, knowing they had a pizza coming. They paid an exorbitant amount for their food and took a seat, munching away on salad (Moira) and burgers and fries (Kiron) while they waited for the pizza.

  “What do you want to do after we eat?” he asked, taking a long pull from his soda.

  Moira snagged a fry before answering. “It would take days, maybe a week, to search this place, and we can’t afford to be here that long, because I can’t put a spell on it to hide us. Modern art seemed to be the logical place for what I was looking for, but that didn’t work.”

  “Why Modern art?”

  “The books were created in recent times, though the information inside them is old.”

  “Even if it was created yesterday, it does not mean the artist could not create something in the style of a different time, something so accurate it would fool the humans.”

  “Damn, you’re right. This is overwhelming, and this is only the first step.”

  “Quests never run smoothly.”

  Moira stabbed a cucumber, but didn’t eat it, instead staring into middle space. Their pizza arrived, brought out to the table by a pretty redhead. Moira wondered at the VIP treatment. They’d been told they would have to come pick the pizza up, until she got a look at the utterly smitten expression on the redhead’s face.

  Kiron smiled, then turned to look at the girl who still hovered by the table. Poor thing probably thought he was smiling at her, rather then at the steaming hot pizza.

  “Ohhh, darling, this is just what I wanted,” Moira cooed. “These silly pregnancy cravings have been hard for me. I’m lucky to have you.”

  The redhead flushed, her pink cheeks contrasting unhappily with hair. She shot Moira a simultaneously horrified and apologetic look and scuttled away. Unlike the woman outside, the poor girl felt bad about ogling another woman’s man.

  Kiron slide a slice onto a plate and handed it to her. “Eat up, the baby needs food.”

  “Ha ha, you’re very funny.”

  “You are the one who frightened away the pizza delivery girl.”

  “Aww, shut up, I feel bad enough already.”

  “Don’t. The human will get over it.”

  They sniped at each other over pizza, until sniping turned to the discussion of the art they’d just seen. Moira explained some of the symbolism built into the American artists’ pieces, while Kiron waxed poetic on the movements that lead to Modern and Contemporary art.

  It was the most normal hour Moira’d had in six months. The loud clacking of silverware and chatter of families faded to the background. Moira teased Kiron over his habit of quirking his eyebrows to ask a sarcastic question, while Kiron learned to tell a half smile from a full smile by the dimple that appeared in her right cheek.

  The light changed, from midmorning to full afternoon, the position of the windows allowing the changing angle of the sun to flood their table with golden warm sunbeams. Moira looked at the empty metal pizza tray and groaned.

  “Please tell me we didn’t eat that whole thing.”

  “Would you feel better if I said I ate most of it?”

  “No. I would feel better if you said you ate all of it.”

  “Do you want me to lie to you?”

  “In this case, yes.”

  “Very well. I ate the whole pizza. You did not have three pieces and half of my fries.” He said, brow quirked. Moira groaned and hid her face in her hands. He peeled her hands away. “You are on a quest to save your life, why do you care how you look?” he asked with genuine curiosity.

  “I’m not going to fit into any of my clothes tomorrow. Actually my pants are kind of tight right now.”

  “Let me see. Just stand here beside the table and let me have a look.”

  “Nice try, but no. Let’s get out of here before I eat again.”

  Not ready to face the daunting task befor
e them, Moira led him back towards the entrance, where the gift shop sucked them in. She covetously stroked tiny replica Louis XVI furniture.

  If she’d had a home, Moira would have gone wild buying poster replicas of the paintings they’d seen in the galleries. She cooed over the poster of “The Old Guitarist” and was surprised to see that the pale ghostly woman was visible in the poster, her face situated in the bowed neck of the old man.

  Even if she’d been willing to waste money on anything, she didn’t have room to take it. Depending on what happened here they might have to abandon the van, currently parked at Midway Airport long-term parking, and get a smaller vehicle. Anything from the shop would be pure indulgence.

  Kiron was on the other side of the large gift shop, standing with his back to the room, nose buried in a book. As Moira came behind him, she heard two older women, patrons of the museum as indicated by the small gold pins they wore, talking about him.

  “He’s that Italian movie star.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course, look at him.” The women’s gaze appeared to be focused on his butt in the tighter than fashionable jeans.

  “He certainly looks very European.”

  “And the sunglasses, don’t forget the sunglasses.”

  “Should we ask for an autograph?”

  “I want to, but I can’t remember his name.”

  “I’m fine to just keep looking at him. God bless the Europeans and their tight pants, much better than that sagging business.”

  Moira hid her smile and moved to stand beside Kiron. She rested her hand on the small of his back and then slid it down to his ass, fitting her fingers into one of his back pockets. Kiron turned to her, eyebrows arching above the frames of his glasses.

  “Just having a little feel.”

  “Now who is the pervert?”

  Moira removed her hand, turned and winked at the ladies. One appeared embarrassed that Moira knew where they’d been looking. The other threw her head back and laughed.

  “Staking your claim on me once more?”

  “Actually, these ladies seem nice. Maybe I should invite them over for a quick fondle.”

  “I am delighted to know that you are willing to whore me out.”

  “Yup.”

  Kiron turned back to his book, fighting the smile that tugged one corner of his lips.

  Moira moved down the shelf, running her fingers over the spines. The Greek mythology section caught her eye. A nice fat encyclopedia-style book begged her to take a look, and Moira pulled it out, propping the top of the spine on the edge of the shelf so she wouldn’t have to hold the massive ten-pound book on her own, and flipped it open to the Cs.

  Skipping past Cadmus, Callisto and Cassandra she found the section on Centaurs.

  Centaurs are the half-horse/half-man creature of the Greek Pantheon. Born of a damned union between Ixion, a mortal king, and a cloud Zeus had formed into the shape of the Goddess Hera. There are also versions of the legend, which name the mother of centaurs as Nephele, the rain cloud.

  The centaurs personify the most boorish of human characteristics. The race personified violence and ignorance. They were overly indulgent drinkers and carousers, given to violence when intoxicated. Living in squalid caves, with rocks and tree branches for weapons, they ate raw flesh and wore uncured hides.

  The picture beside the text was a gruesome rendering of a wild-eyed half-man half horse with a chunk of dripping raw meat in one hand and blood streaming down his chin. The forest the centaur stood in was full of gnarled broken trees and dead rotting vines.

  Centaurs are slaves to the animal half of their nature, forever denied the higher pursuits of man.

  Moira smirked at the book, enjoying how wrong it was. Kiron was one of the most passionate beings she’d ever met, and his understanding of art and kindness of spirit were both far greater than that of humans she knew.

  Moira flipped the page.

  There were two exceptions among the centaurs. The first, and most famous, is Chiron. Chiron was a celebrated scholar, healer, astrologer and oracle, though he is most famous, and most widely seen in Greek literature, as a tutor to some of the greatest Greek heroes.

  Chiron schooled Asclepius, Aristaeus, Ajax, Theseus, Achilles, Jason and Heracles. Under his tutelage, students uncovered their highest potential, becoming more than human. He is considered a kingmaker, for without his guidance none of the above mentioned heroes would have gone on to fulfill their roles in Greek mythology.

  Beyond helping them with a philosophical understanding of their place in the cosmos, Chiron also tutored his students in the art of warfare and the hunt. He aided many in their quests, including Peleus’s quest to wed the goddess, Thetis, a union that would result in the birth of Achilles, who Chiron would later tutor.

  Even in death he helped the humans, for when he was wounded in battle with a poisoned arrow that would never allow the wound to heal, he gave his life and immortality in exchange for the life of Prometheus who had brought mankind fire.

  The picture on the opposite page was a soft oil painting titled “The Education of Achilles”. In it, the young white-skinned and golden-haired Achilles sat on a stone before a centaur, learning to play the harp. The centaur was draped in the skin of a massive beast with a lion-like tail. He stood tall and proud above the young Achilles, hands gesturing as if speaking or teaching. His face was covered by a beard that rose up his cheeks to meet the wild bush of curls on his head.

  The caption beneath the picture read:

  Chiron tutors the young Achilles. Chiron was the greatest of the centaurs, and unlike the others was the child of Coronus and the nymph Philyra. His name can be found transliterated as Chiron, Cheiron or rarely, Kiron.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Kiron shelved the book on Pre-Raphaelite painters he’d been perusing and turned to look for Moira. The afternoon had been pleasant, a soft and gentle time. Moira needed it, needed times of normalcy and healing. It was not natural for her to find comfort in human things and places, for he knew, as much as she still denied it, that she was not human. But he would participate, play the game and pretend, for her.

  She was standing at a shelf, large book propped open on her arm and partially resting on the shelf. She flipped between two pages, moving one of the large glossy sheets back and forth, comparing the information she found on either side.

  “Find anything interesting?” He asked, coming up behind her. In response Moira smoothed down the page in her hand, letting him see an artists’ rendering of a savage human-horse beast.

  Kiron curled his lip in disgust, scanning the text that accompanied the painting.

  “Ignorant humans.”

  He expected Moira to come back with a teasing remark, gently torment him with the picture, but when she turned to him her face was cool and serious.

  With great care she flipped the page, showing a very different image. This painting was one he’d seen in person, traveling to London to see it before it was given to the Yale Center for British Art in New Haven.

  The artist, James Barry, was human, but one of the few who could see something beyond, for in his blood was the watered down blood of mages. He was never heralded as a great artist, for his technique, though good, was never brilliant. He showed himself in his desire to paint only great and brilliant things. And because of his blood he knew more than he should, and it showed in his paintings.

  Moira’s hand smoothed the image of Achilles and Chiron, her fingertip sliding over the caption, drawing his attention to it.

  His name can be found translated as Chiron, Cheiron, or rarely, Kiron.

  Kiron looked up from the book, met her gaze through the dark glasses.

  “This is you?”

  “No, not I.”

  “But your ancestor.”

  “Yes.”

  She looked at the page once more, “‘A celebrated scholar, healer, astrologer and oracle, though he is most famous, and most widely seen in Greek literature, as
a tutor.’ This is why you are so calm with me, so patient, why you teach me.”

  “Do not read too much into it, humanity knows next to nothing about the history of the centaurs.”

  “Then tell me.”

  He took the book from her and replaced it on the shelf. “I will, as we walk.”

  They left the gift shop and headed for the staircase, wending their way through the galleries, the focus now on Kiron’s story rather then the search for the list.

  “It is true that there are two races of centaurs, but in the beginning they were very different. The truth of the beginning, and why they were different, is lost, even to us.”

  They meandered into the Asian and Ancient Art Gallery, which, unlike the galleries they’d been in this morning, had black walls. Tourists lined the glass cases along the walls so they stayed in the center, weaving through the freestanding pedestals.

  “In the days before humanity became what it was, before the rise of Minoan and Mycenaean Civilizations, there was strength and great learning along the shores of the Aegean. The men Homer wrote about were real, and their struggles were more valiant than any historian has ever portrayed. In this time, the centaurs were already strong, more than the humans who were struggling to build their civilizations.”

  They stopped to examine a Chinese equestrienne figure, the round-faced female rider leaning forward over the neck of her short, fat pony.

  “The centaurs existed in kind with the humans, our two races working with them, supporting them until the civilizations began to grow. Our astrologers taught them to look at the stars and see the future, while our healers brought them basic medicine. They knew nothing of the hunt or of fighting, and that too was taught, though the fighting was reserved for ritual and sport.

  “When humanity began to thrive on its own, the centaurs, which were already an old and weary race, retreated to The Wild, creating the loose confederation of beasts that would become known as The Wild. There were great counsels between The Wild, The Water, The Dark and The Sky, the wisest of each race coming together.”

  They moved from Ancient Art into Arms and Armor, Kiron momentarily distracted by a pair of ivory flintlock pistols.