From her sanctum in Micah's office, Phil watched the museum. The dedicated server running the advanced security software was hidden away under lock and key, protected even more heavily than the artwork. Micah's desk PC allowed her access to the cameras, but in order to do anything other than look she would need to go to one of the specialized kiosks now spaced throughout the museum.

The system had a voice interface, but Phil couldn't bring herself to use it. She slid open the drawer where Micah stored the microphone he used on long phone calls. With one hand still in the drawer, she paused. She already felt guilty about how much money she'd borrowed to bring her idea to life. If she started talking to the new system now, before Micah returned, it would seem almost... adulterous.

She sat, silent, considering the direction her thoughts had taken her. Some hated part buried deep within reveled in the idea of how much pain she could inflict with such an act, but for the most part she simply toyed with why she felt the way she did.

It didn't take her long to figure out why. Micah was the product of a mortal artist. Leonardo created him to protect the polymath's works of Art, brought him to life by the same magic that forced him to protect any Art under his care. This new thing, this computer program, was much the same, albeit animated with technology rather than magic. She slid the drawer with the microphone closed.

Instead, she watched the janitor ghost through the museum, sweeping up the detritus left by the installation crew, repairing minor damage they'd done as she worked. Phil couldn't help it. She'd seen how innocent the woman was, and yet Tee still terrified her. The hated part deep within, the bit that waited for her silver to tarnish, for her steel to rust, for her tattoos to float away on the wind, spoke to her. It spoke of tortures traditional and novel, of pain exquisite and overwhelming. Every jot and every tittle were custom tailored to draw every ounce of pain and madness from the poor custodian before her eventual death.

Phil wrenched herself back from the edge. She'd promised her Pixie Godfather, Ricardo, that she would not harm the woman they'd left under her care, no matter how dangerous she might seem. As long as she had control of herself, as long as she was Phil the Philly Chick, not Ophilia the Muse of Madness, she would keep her word.

There was only one thing for it. She picked up the picture of Micah she'd taken to carrying everywhere, then slid a single page out of the envelope DevA sent her, unfolding it to see the key phrases that would enable the security program. Key phrases firmly in hand, she left Micah's office and walked to the nearest kiosk. As she approached, the screen lit up, a welcome icon taking pride of place on the screen. When she reached easy conversational distance, nearly close enough to reach out and touch the screen, it spoke.

"Good evening, Ms. Morgan. How can I help you?"

In the privacy of her own mind, Phil cursed DevA vehemently. Phil had never met the woman in person, but whoever she was, she knew Phil and, more to the point, Micah. The voice emanating from the speakers wasn't quite Micah's, but it sounded close enough to be his brother. Then again, the difference might simply be the lack of emotion in the artificial voice. It wasn't a flat emulation, but it lacked some essential spark of spontaneity.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Morgan. Have I offended you?"

Apparently, Phil wasn't as good at hiding her feelings as she thought. She forced a smile for the machine, then picked up the paper.

"Hi... um... What do I call you?"

"I am the Museum Information Center."

That brought an unforced amused smirk to Phil's face. "Information Center? I seem to recall a lot more than information being embedded in the walls."

It was difficult reading things from a screen rather than a face. The artificial feel to the Museum Information Center's voice didn't help things. Still, it seemed there was more than a little acknowledgment of the humor in her observation.

"My primary purpose is, indeed, security, but a museum security center would likely be a target of casual criminals, whereas an information center is far more innocuous. Also, my most common duty will likely be providing information for the various visitors to the museum."

For a while Phil just stared at the screen, wondering when the snickering would start. After a while, the screen flashed once. "Are you there?"

The voice had changed to a singsong falsetto. Phil couldn't help it. She laughed. She hated it when she laughed, because eventually she snorted.

Snerrrrk!

The screen flashed once again. This time it spoke once more with a voice almost, but not quite Micah's. "Ms. Morgan, are you feeling well?"

Hearing Micah's voice, even poorly executed, banished her humor immediately. He'd never been gone this long before. At first, she'd been glad; when he returned the museum would be secure, and his headaches would be gone. By the time the renovation ended she worried a little. Now, nearly three months after he'd left for Sammy's place, she’d become distraught. He should have returned that afternoon. Instead, he'd sent a note. Phil couldn't let her fear and sorrow show when anyone was around, but here in the dark her glowing, viridian tears fell.

"Ms. Morgan, should I call for medical assistance?"

"No! No, I'm okay. I... I just miss Micah."

"Micah? I do not have a 'Micah' in my files. If you provide an image I can see if he is within the museum."

That reminded Phil she wasn't talking to Micah. She was talking with a very advanced expert system, one that would protect the museum, answer questions, and generally assist the staff. It also reminded her why she’d come here. She pulled the sheet of paper from her pocket, scanned the printed text from DevA and the list of names she'd scribbled beneath it.

"Museum Information Center, I am Ophilia Slate, nee Morgan. Prepare to record voice print for security identification."

"Identify: Orange."

Stolen story; please report.

DevA's note had been brief but to the point about how she was to reply, and it included a list of signs and countersigns. "Identity: Fire Hydrant."

"Identify: Bow Tie."

"Identity: Omega."

"Identify: Tantric."

"Identity: Slovenly."

"Identity confirmed. Please state your full name and any aliases for voice print purposes."

"My name is Ophilia Slate. I was born Ophilia Morgan. I am the daughter of The Morrigan, Queen of the Unseeleigh Sidhe, and I am fifth in line for the Shadow Throne. I am the Muse of Madness. I..."

"Thank you, Mrs. Slate. Your voice and visual prints have been recorded. Do you have any other names or titles by which you will commonly be referred to?"

Phil's breath caught in her throat. No one called her 'Mrs. Slate'. She thought of herself that way, but none of their friends cared much about surnames. Many of them predated surnames. In point of fact, her own maiden surname was something she made up when they became common. She and Micah kept most of their official documentation separate when they married.

And now this machine was making her cry by calling her Mrs. Slate.

"Anyone asking for the 'restorer' is probably looking for me. Anyone asking for the 'owner' or 'personnel' can be directed to me or to Micah."

"Understood. Please provide further identification regarding 'Micah'."

"Information Center?"

"Standing By."

"I wish to enter a list of persons who are to have access, along with access levels."

"Standing by to accept input. Do you have voice and visual samples?"

Phil stopped for a moment; she hadn't thought to bring along pictures of anyone but Micah. She'd been tired, and worried, but she normally could be meticulous even when exhausted; it was part and parcel of being an art restorer or a tattoo artist, and she was both. Fortunately, both jobs forced her to think on her feet occasionally. That stood her in good stead now.

"Information Center, you have been recording imagery for the past week, correct?"

"I have visual and auditory recordings of all spaces in the museum for the past eight days, six hours, and forty-two minutes. In addition, I also have chemical samples of some airborne substances such as perfume, pheromones and sweat."

"Uh... yeah. That's kinda creepy."

She waited for several heartbeats, but the Information Center did not reply. The continued silence only drove home that no matter how much the computer sounded like her husband, it wasn't him. She sighed, wishing there was something she could do, and explained what she wanted.

"Please display visual images of everyone who has been in the museum more than four times in the past seven days."

Images began to flash across the screen faster than her eye could follow. She picked out a few images of herself, several of Tee, and a few of each of the guards, but they were momentary glimpses, nothing she could fasten on to. She closed her eyes and shook her head when she felt her Power start to stir.

"Stop. Can you distinguish between different humans?"

"Yes, I can. I can also distinguish between humanoid species."

Ophilia felt her heart seize up. Supernatural creatures were only able to hide in the modern world because everyone with common sense knew they didn't exist. If Ophilia inadvertently had created the source of proof for hunters worldwide, not even her family connections would save her. Her identifying herself as a Princess of the Unseeleigh Sidhe verbally would be overlooked as an old woman’s quirk, but computer recordings wouldn’t. She chose her next words as carefully as choosing steps on broken glass.

"Information Center, who presently has access to your files?"

"You and my programmer."

"Can you remove your programmer's access?"

"I can, but it is not recommended."

"Why not?"

"Because in the event of a system failure, only a programmer will be able to restore my function."

"Well, I could just restore her access then."

"If my system fails, I would be unable to add additional access. Someone possessing full access would need to examine my files, determine which ones are damaged, repair or replace them, and restart my system. Do you possess the knowledge to do that?" The machine's soft, pedantic tones so resembled Micah's when he explained security that Phil barely kept from breaking down.

"No. But I guess I've got to learn. Information Center, remove everybody else's access to you."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

There was a slight pause, "Done."

"Okay, now remove all back door access."

The machine didn't show any surprise at her instruction. There was an additional pause. "Done."

"Now, when someone who had access prior to me purging you just now logs into your admin functions, contact me immediately, before allowing them to execute any commands."

"Understood."

"Good. Now, what were you saying about other humanoid species?"

Six pictures blinked across the screen. Five she recognized, one she did not.

"These six humanoids display characteristics that do not fall within acceptable norms for humans. The most pronounced are these two cases," here two photos eclipsed the rest. One was of a pixie with matte black skin and white tattoos, the other of one with amber skin, charcoal black hair, and a fetching emerald sundress. "Humans do not have wings. Even if the wings are artificial, which they do not appear to be, humans cannot fly without mechanical assistance, and they do not reach maturity without achieving a height of greater than twelve inches."

Phil could only shake her head in resignation. Her pixie godfathers had come back to the building. They wouldn't hurt anything exactly, but the pair meddled. Worse, she'd heard rumors last time she visited Sammy's that her mother had elevated X to the peerage. Mother never did anything like that without some convoluted, intricate scheme in mind.

Still, they were old friends, and they meant well.

"Those two are Pixies. The one on the left has been called 'X', 'Xavier', and 'The X that marks the spot'. The one on the right is named Ricardo, but also answers to 'Ricky'. They are life partners."

"Understood. Are they to be granted access?"

Shaking her head at what she was doing, she spoke as clearly as she could at the pickup mounted next to the screen. "Yeah, give 'em both admin access. I'm pretty sure neither of them is a programmer, but if I don't give it to X, he'll break something trying to get it, and as far as I can tell, Ricardo is the responsible one."

"Understood. Access granted. Voice and visual prints are already on file. Shall I proceed?"

"Sure, go ahead."

"These two individuals," here the screen displayed a picture of Phil on the left and Tee on the right, "both show elevated core body temperatures and decreased peripheral body temperatures." Before she could come out with her standard evasion about humans having a wider temperature range than common wisdom indicated, the machine was talking again. "In addition, both subjects are surrounded by distortions in the visible range of the electromagnetic spectrum. Finally, both occasionally emit an unknown form of energy, which does not match any portion of the spectrum on which I have data."

Phil reached out, snagged a chair, and pulled it over just in time to collapse into it. The fact that she used her magic to do so was a sign of how disturbed she was. If DevA downloaded any of this, and she wasn't already aware of the existence of the supernatural world, there would be hell to pay. She lowered her head to the console mounted in the kiosk and began gently tapping her forehead against the plastic casing.

"Are you quite all right, Mrs. Slate?"

At that, her eyes teared up again. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. I'll be just fine. Look, don't tell anyone about strange... er, non-human humanoids, ok?"

"Do you wish me to restrict your own access to them?"

"Uh, no. Oh, hell, I wish Micah were here."

"Is Micah one of the individuals in your scan of the past week?"

"No. I've got a picture of him here," she held her honeymoon photo up to where she presumed the camera was mounted. "He's got some grey streaks in his hair now though."

"This is not enough for secure identification."

Her shoulders slumped. "Dammit."

"Also, I have not seen this individual in the museum. Shall I inform you if he arrives?"

That thought brought her around a little. If Micah came back, she could surprise him for once. "Yeah. If you see him, contact me immediately."

"Understood. Did you wish to continue adding administrative access accounts, or are we done?"

"Oh, we're just getting started."