“It is possible, but I have doubts that the light they could shed would be visible. The lack of ability to communicate heavily implies that there’s almost no overlap between us and their current predicament. What we can say with certainty is that Mrs. Erickson has strong shamanistic powers, powers that have never been trained. My memories were somewhat damaged, so my recall is incomplete and cannot be the final word, but I have no memory at all of a successful attempt to imbue someone with a power to which they were not born.”

Kaylin cleared her throat and lifted an arm.

“The marks of the Chosen are a different matter.”

“Why? The power was granted to me when I was a kid; I wasn’t born with it.”

Helen’s eyes darkened considerably as she considered Kaylin’s words. Teela’s couldn’t get any darker, and Sedarias had adopted indigo prior to her arrival. Severn’s eyes were brown and almost unblinking as he, too, considered what Kaylin had said.

“There may be conditions that must be met for the marks of the Chosen to be granted,” Helen said. “No comprehensive experimentation has been done, and some research went into finding a definitive answer before it was finally abandoned.” At Kaylin’s expression, Helen said, “You are correct. The marks are external to the person who wields them, and there are many who would have killed—and did—to attempt to receive the power of those marks for their own use.”

Silence then.

Kaylin’s only hope was that Serralyn would find out more information that might prove useful now that she knew exactly what she was looking for.

Kaylin’s last day on the front desk was the usual blend of annoyance and confusion; she had two missing persons reports, which she treated seriously and handed off to the correct people instantly. For these, she had no difficulty being almost perfect as a Hawk; she considered the possible consequences serious.

It was the vampire reports, the arguments about dogs, the he stole my cat, and the general attitude of people who expected that Kaylin, as an officer of the law, was somehow a gofer, that tended to wear her—or any other person who sat at this desk for too long—down.

Mrs. Erickson was late, which didn’t help the background anxiety much; it cleared when the old woman entered the office, familiar basket over her arm. She smiled brightly at Kaylin, and Kaylin was reminded of just how much she loved the older woman’s face because the lines etched there had clearly been etched there by time and that gentle smile.

She rose and retrieved the basket; it was heavier than usual.

“I bake when I’m worried,” Mrs. Erickson said.

“That’s...a lot of baking.”

“I’ve been a bit more worried than usual.” The smile with which she framed the words was apologetic.