Senses Mag

Someone screamed at the front of the building.
My headquarters shifts position irregularly, as I acquire new buildings. Much of my considerable wealth is invested in real estate. I own more of the town than any other single investor. In Chicago, there is always money to be had by purchasing and renovating aging buildings. I do much of my day-today work out of one of my most recent renovation projects, once they have been modified to be suitable places to welcome guests. Then renovation of the building begins, and the place is generally crowded with contractors who have proven their ability to see and hear nothing.
Gard’s head snapped up. She shook it as if to rid herself of a buzzing fly and said, “A presence. A strong one.” Her blue eyes snapped to Justine. “Who?”
The young woman shuddered and wrapped the towel more tightly about herself. “Mag. A cantrev lord of the Fomor.”
Gard spat something in a Scandinavian tongue that was probably a curse.
“Precis, please,” I said.
“The Fomor are an ancient folk,” she said. “Water dwellers, cousins of the jotuns. Extremely formidable. Sorcerers, shape changers, seers.”


Brief Cases, Even Hand, Page 148