CHAPTER 220

"Prison," the Oracle corrected as if reading Cyrus' mind. "You may use fancy words for it, but it is still a prison." A dark shape moved behind the mist as the Oracle came near the glass. "It has been many years since we last spoke in person."

"It has." Cyrus licked his lips, which had suddenly gone dry. "I have a question of a delicate nature."

"Indeed." The Oracle shifted in his enclosure, his glowing eyes visible through the mist. "Just think of the journey it has been to bring you to this point."

"So you know the question I want to ask?"

The Oracle chuckled. "Perhaps. But I am not ready to answer it yet. Indulge me. I would hear about your reasons for asking it."

Cyrus frowned. "You can't see what brings me here?"

"There are many places on this planet that obscure my vision." The swirling mists parted, briefly revealing a pair of damaged wings. "You have recently steeped yourself in such a place, like a fine tea. I would hear of it that I may taste such a place for myself."

"I have taken an oath not to share the details," Cyrus replied.

"Ah, still a man of your word." The Oracle made a clicking sound, then disappeared into the mists. "Instead of details, maybe you can summarize? It'll be like old times."

Cyrus nodded, understanding at once what the Oracle meant by old times. The Oracle and anyone who spoke with him used to be under heavy surveillance shortly after his capture. This extra attention had waned over the years once the Order was confident that the Oracle wasn't going to possess someone's body or manipulate them. Cyrus had developed these gestures to gain the Oracle's trust, and had never once abused it.

However, things had obviously changed for the Order. They were being listened to, and what he had to say was for the Oracle alone. To anyone listening, it sounded like he was rambling, talking about a man who had discovered a treasure trove of magic. However, the Oracle watched him closely as he made innocuous hand gestures that conveyed additional meaning. Certain signals meant that he was lying, others implied that he was selling it short.

For example, when the Oracle interrupted to ask about how powerful the inherited magic was, Cyrus had shrugged while scratching his chin. "No more than anyone else who comes into magic," he said, but his actions told the Oracle the opposite. There were no monitors in the Oracle's chamber--any cameras that watched him only captured static.

The Oracle listened quietly, occasionally moving back into the mysterious mists of its prison. Some of the top minds of the Order had tried to study the mist's composition, but anytime they managed to capture a sample, it would somehow disappear. When questioned on it, the Oracle tended to dodge the question. It liked to talk, but refused to elaborate on what it was or where it had come from. The mist didn't come from the Oracle, but somehow manifested whenever the creature was confined.

Finished with his tale, Cyrus moved to sit on a seat that had been carved into the wall. He had been grateful to stand after such a long time driving, but now his legs hurt and he needed to sit. Furniture of any kind wasn't allowed in the Oracle's chamber. For the longest time, it was feared that the Oracle was telekinetic and could free itself with a heavy enough object. Ever since the day of its capture, however, it had shown no talent for telekinesis.

However, Cyrus was not alone in the idea that the Oracle was simply playing a long game where each move was decades in the making. Not knowing how long the Oracle would live, it was simply better to take extra precautions.

"You weave a good tale, Master Cyrus." The Oracle turned around, his large wings brushing against the glass. "But for the life of me, I am uncertain what this has to do with your question."

Cyrus felt a yawning pit in his belly and he swallowed the lump in his throat. "While I was...a guest of this household, there was a woman there."

"Maybe I don't know your question after all." The Oracle snorted, causing the mists to swirl. "Could it be love after so many years?"

"Do you remember when you would answer all my questions with stupid poems? I far prefer that to your sense of humor." Cyrus tightened his lips. "The woman who held me captive...her voice was familiar. And she wouldn't let me view her, never directly. I suspect that she isn't what she said she was."

"Surely it couldn't be the woman who gave you those scars."

Cyrus touched his face and shivered. Hundreds, if not thousands of spiders had attacked him at the command of an Arachne he had hunted back in the early seventies. He had lost his partner in the fight, but the creature had been destroyed.

Or, at least, so he thought. While wiping down Murray's house, he had discovered odd footprints that had raised all of the hairs on his neck. If the Arachne had survived, she would be well over eighty years old, which was far older than one should live.

Which meant she had reproduced.

"It couldn't be her," he replied. "But what if she had offspring?" If Eulalie really was an Arachne, that also meant that her sister who had died was probably an Arachne herself. Was Mike Radley hiding a nest of them?

The Oracle tsked at him while tapping a long digit against the glass.

"I can only see what is or what will be," it replied. "If you want answers about the past, then open a history book."

Cyrus stood and smoothed out his shirt. "Fine, then. I'll be direct. Are the Arachne gone or do they still walk the Earth?"