by Anne Bishop
“Detective Swinn used words to open that wound yesterday when he and his man drove Victoria to the village,” Ilya said. “And this morning at the bank, what he said to her was not only wounding but very personal.”
Farrow stared at Ilya, then looked past him, as if he was piecing together something that wasn’t visible to anyone else. “Then he knows someone who knew her before she came to Sproing.”
“Agreed.”
Farrow continued to look toward the street. “The first body stirred up people and had them talking, worrying that the trouble might come into Sproing itself. But it didn’t change the core feel of the village. Grimshaw being assigned here . . . A blanket feeling of relief—and budding hope in the villagers that they could take up the business of living without being afraid all the time.”
“And the arrival of Swinn and his men?” Ilya asked.
All the color drained out of Farrow’s face as he whispered, “The stench of overripe garbage spreading beyond the alley into the streets, into the shops, into the homes.”
Interesting. Julian Farrow always said that he felt places, not people, but this was the first time the Intuit had revealed anything that descriptive about what he sensed. It sounded more like a memory than an observation about the here and now.
“Whatever really brought Swinn here will sour this village,” he said.
Farrow nodded.
“The restoration of The Jumble is the key to Sproing’s survival.”
Farrow nodded again.
“Then perhaps we can work together to ensure that Victoria retains control over the human part of the terra indigene settlement.”
Farrow gave him a tight smile. “We can do that. But it can be a fine line between helping someone and giving that person the impression that you don’t think she’s capable of helping herself.”
Ilya repressed a sigh. That fine line in a wounded female like Victoria was probably smudged, and all he could hope for was not to stumble too far over that line and make matters worse.
“Do you still want these books?” Farrow asked.
“Yes.” As Farrow turned away, Ilya added, “I didn’t feed on her. In case you wondered.”
Farrow didn’t reply, but Ilya had the impression that the human male was relieved.
CHAPTER 20
Vicki
Windsday, Juin 14
I thought some rude things about Julian Farrow when I unpacked the bag of books and discovered he’d sold me the first five Wolf Team books instead of the whole set, filling the bottom of the bag with books by someone named Alan Wolfgard as well as other authors I hadn’t heard of. Then I saw the boys’ response to the Wolf Team books and could, grudgingly, appreciate Julian’s strategy.
Conan and Cougar weren’t swift readers—or accurate spellers, if the sign on the chain across my access road was anything to go by—so five books would be plenty for the four readers currently using my library. And when they had finished with those books, there would be more that could be purchased, either by me or by them, if I was very brave or incredibly stupid and took them into Sproing to visit Lettuce Reed and purchase books for themselves.
For a community that maintained that the Others were Out There, Conan and Cougar would be an eye-opener—and probably fill the doctors’ office with a slew of people experiencing heart palpitations or dizzy spells, especially if someone forgot about looking human and slapped a paw on a counter to lay claim to something of interest.
Then again, if people signing up for the trail rides that Ineke had proposed weren’t interested in seeing the terra indigene, they wouldn’t be getting on horses and riding around in the Others’ backyard, so to speak. But I could appreciate that there was a difference between seeing one of the Beargard in the woods and having one sit on the stool next to yours at the diner. There would always be the possibility that you would look tastier than the food on his plate.
I’d been more focused on Conan’s and Cougar’s reactions to the books because of the whole tooth and claw thing they had going for them, but eventually I realized Aggie was spending a lot of time looking at the covers and not saying anything.
“Nothing of interest?” I asked.
She traced the title on one of the books with a finger. “If there was a Reader at The Jumble, more of the terra indigene could enjoy the stories. Every terra indigene settlement has a Reader. Sometimes more than one.”
Aggie looked at me. Conan and Cougar looked at me.
“You want me to be the designated Reader?” I could hear the capital R when Aggie said the word.
They all smiled at me. Conan and Cougar hadn’t seen enough smiling humans to get all the teeth sorted out. The result was unsettling. It also made me wonder how they enunciated as well as they did.
“I guess we could start with the first Wolf Team book,” I said. “Maybe I could read for an hour before dinner tonight?” It had been a while since I’d done any reading aloud, but I thought I could do a decent job reading to the three of them.
Aggie bounced up and down and clapped her hands. As she dashed out of the room, she said, “I’ll tell my kin. They’ll pass the word.”
Kin? Word?
Conan took the second Wolf Team book and Cougar took the third before wandering off and leaving me to sort through the rest of the books Julian had tucked into the bag. I remembered seeing some of the titles in the stacks of books he’d had on the island counter. I didn’t recognize the authors or the publishers. Of course, I didn’t know Alan Wolfgard’s work either, but the name offered a clue about what he was.
Using half a piece of heavyweight writing paper, I made a tent sign, put it on one shelf in the library, and shelved the new books I’d purchased that day. As I worked, I let my thoughts wander through the events of the past forty-eight hours. A lot had happened since I called the Bristol Police Station to report a dead body.
Detectives Swinn and Reynolds were forbidden to return to The Jumble, and Ilya Sanguinati had stressed on the ride home that if Swinn or anyone working for him contacted me, I was to hang up immediately and call him. Officers Grimshaw and Osgood were exempt from that gag order, but no one else.
It seemed excessive to insist on no contact at all since I wouldn’t mind answering a question or two if it helped solve the puzzle of why the first dead man had ended up dead, but Ilya seemed to be holding back a fair amount of anger and I didn’t want it spilling over on me, so I agreed to do what he asked.
Then it struck me. He had heard what Swinn had said. I doubt he understood why it had hurt so much or why I’d gotten so churned up instead of calling Swinn an asshat and moving on, but he’d witnessed the eruption of Mount Victoria and had decided to shut down the problem by denying Swinn any access to me without him being present.
So, yay, Team Vicki.
The shelf with the new books looked so nice, I made a few more tent signs and rearranged the books I’d previously acquired. I spent a happy hour putting the books into categories so that other residents, and potential guests, of The Jumble could find specific kinds of books.
I slipped the last book into place when Aggie’s comment about having a Reader truly sank in.
Every terra indigene settlement has a Reader. I wasn’t really the proprietor of a human business. Like Honoria Dane, I was the token human who provided a valuable service by bridging the cultural gap between the Others and the residents of Sproing.
Given that the survival of humans on the continent of Thaisia depended on the Others’ feeling some tolerance toward us, bridging the cultural gap should be a good thing. Which made me wonder if the attempt to force me out was part of a plan to have a particular person replace me in order to influence the terra indigene who lived around Lake Silence—or if it was part of a plan to break any chance of peace between our species.
* * *
• • •
Whe
n in doubt, call your attorney.
I didn’t think I’d sounded urgent, but I’d barely had time to pick up my basket of gardening tools and start weeding the flower beds that bordered the screened porch when Ilya Sanguinati walked up behind me, startling me enough that I squeaked and would have fallen on my butt if he hadn’t grabbed one of my arms and hauled me to my feet.
“I didn’t hear the car.” I had to stop squeaking and develop the full-bodied scream that actors in scary movies managed to achieve. Then again, they weren’t really scared breathless, which I’m sure helped with scream volume.
“I came across the lake,” Ilya said.
“You have a boat?” I couldn’t imagine him rowing a boat or paddling a canoe, so maybe it was a little sailboat?
He laughed. “The Sanguinati’s smoke form can travel over water as easily as land, and the direct route across the lake was faster than using the car.” He waited a beat. “You had a question.”
“Every terra indigene settlement has a Reader.”
“That is a statement, not a question.”
“Aggie and the boys are excited about me being the Reader here, but I’d like to know exactly what that means.”
“Because of the sacrifice usually required to achieve it, being the Reader is a position of respect in a settlement.”
Sacrifice? What kind of sacrifice?
“Would you like to work while we talk?” he asked. “I don’t want to disrupt your schedule of chores.”
I noticed he didn’t offer to help. Then again, when the Sanguinati turned into smoke, their clothes also turned into smoke, which just added to their mystique. I had heard that the whole turning-into-smoke thing was the reason the Sanguinati always dressed in black or shades of gray. That might be something someone made up. Or it could be cultural, like Simple Life men wearing dark trousers, white shirts, and suspenders. But seeing Ilya crouch beside me as I weeded the flower bed, I really wanted to ask if it was as hard to get grass stains out of Sanguinati clothing as it was regular old human clothes.
“Every form of terra indigene has its own teaching stories, the lessons one generation passes on to the next,” Ilya said. “And there are stories that are told as entertainment that appeal to many different forms. It’s only in the past few decades that some of our stories have been written down and put into books that many can enjoy.”
“Like the Wolf Team stories and the books by Alan Wolfgard?”
He smiled. “Exactly. But reading printed words is a human skill, and to most forms of terra indigene, acquiring human skills is considered a necessary contamination—a sacrifice a small percentage of us make in order to keep watch over the two-legged predators who are also prey.”
Well, hearing that sure made me feel special. It also made me realize how The Jumble was different from other terra indigene settlements. “The Readers aren’t usually human, are they? They’re terra indigene who have learned to read well in order to share the stories with the rest of the . . . residents.”
“Yes. Here, with you, the reading hour can be a point of interaction as well as entertainment.”
And a lot of responsibility. “Every day?”
“Oh no. Perhaps one evening a week—and not on your cop and crime TV night—you could read a chapter from a book like the Wolf Team. On another evening, a folktale or one of your human teaching stories. On the third evening, you could read an article or two from a magazine like Nature!—something nonfiction.”
I stopped weeding and looked at him. “I would think you would know more about the natural world than the humans writing about it.”
“But knowing how humans view the world is valuable,” Ilya countered.
Three evenings a week didn’t sound too demanding. And most human social life finished up soon after sundown since everyone who didn’t want to be eaten stayed home after dark, so I would still have plenty of time for my own reading and personal chores.
“Julian Farrow might have books of human folktales or short stories that The Jumble’s residents would find appealing, and he could stand in as a second Reader,” Ilya said casually.
Too casually? No. Uh-uh. I could not have heard what I thought I’d heard.
“Is there anything else?” Ilya asked.
“No, I just wanted to be clear about the duties of the Reader before tonight’s story time.”
“Then I’ll wish you a good evening, Victoria.”
I watched him walk away, kind of hoping I would see him do the smoke thing. But he still looked human when he walked down the grassy slope that led to the beach, and my thoughts circled back to what he’d said.
I sat back on my heels and stared at the flower bed. If Ineke had suggested that Julian could help me be the designated Reader, I would have said she was playing matchmaker. But Ilya Sanguinati?
Nah.
* * *
• • •
Conan fetched a chair from the kitchen and Cougar fetched a floor lamp from the social room along with a small table where I could set a glass of water. After they conferred with Aggie about potential locations for story time, the three of them had decided that I would stay in the screened porch so that biting insects wouldn’t distract me from reading the story, and by using an extension cord to plug in the lamp, I could be positioned as close to the porch door as possible so that my voice would carry across at least part of the back lawn.
By the time I opened the kitchen door, ready for my first attempt at being The Jumble’s Reader, I’d convinced myself that just because Aggie had spread the word, that didn’t mean anyone would show up.
I’d had no idea that many Crows lived in The Jumble. I’d had no idea that many Crows could fit on my porch. I didn’t know what to say about the large Hawk that was perched on the back of the chair I was supposed to use. I was pretty sure asking him—her?—to move was not a good idea. I was pretty sure having that beak a few inches above my head wasn’t going to help my reading skills. I didn’t know this story. What if there was a Hawk who worked with the villains instead of the good guys? And if this was the same Hawk who had gouged the paint on the roof of Detective Swinn’s car, I didn’t want to think about what those talons could do to me.
Breathe, Vicki. Breathe. And believe that no harm comes to the Reader.
Aggie, in human form, sat on the porch floor beside my chair. Conan and Cougar also sat on the porch floor.
“We’re almost ready,” Aggie said. “The Owlgard . . . Oh, there they are.”
I watched two Owls glide in from somewhere and perch on a branch of the nearest tree. And I felt a gentle tug on my hair, as if someone was trying to figure out how to comb it. But the only being . . .
Oh gods. The Hawk was trying to preen my hair. I didn’t want to imagine what would happen if one of his feet got tangled up in it, so I leaned forward a little, grabbed the book, and said with manic brightness, “Why don’t we start?”
I couldn’t see what was out there just beyond the porch. I caught a glimpse of tufted ears before something settled on the porch steps.
Breathe, Vicki, and make a note to schedule anxiety attacks after reading time.
“Today we’ll start the first book about the Wolf Team,” I said, raising my voice, although I wasn’t sure that was necessary considering my listeners. “It’s called Sharp Justice.” I took a sip of water, then set the glass on the table. “Chapter One.”
CHAPTER 21
Grimshaw
Thaisday, Juin 15
Grimshaw locked the door of his room and headed downstairs for breakfast. He’d been in charge of the Sproing Police Station for two full days and had three dead bodies. Four if he counted Franklin Cartwright, who was the reason he’d ended up in Sproing in the first place.
Last summer, most of the Northeast Region hadn’t received the brunt of the terra indigene’s rage against humans, but he’d seen pl
enty of bad things during the Great Predation, enough that he considered a full night of dreamless sleep a blessing. Since Detectives Chesnik and Baker had wandered through his dreams last night, he really hoped today would be a corpse-free day.
He paused at the door to the dining room when he noticed Paige Xavier sitting next to David Osgood, a shoebox between them on the table.
“Come on,” Paige coaxed. “You can tell me. What is it for?”
“I told you,” Osgood replied, sounded cornered. “It’s for a police investigation.”
Paige gave the baby cop a smile that was two parts siren and one part terrifying. In other words, Female with a capital F. “What are you investigating? The loot you can buy at block sales and estate sales?” She tapped the shoe box. “Don’t forget who showed you the Yard Sale and helped you pick out most of this stuff.”
Grimshaw tipped his head back and looked at the ceiling, but the ceiling chose not to divulge any answers or even offer a paint flake or two of wisdom.
Maxwell, the border collie, dashed over to Grimshaw and gave him a sniff to confirm that his current flock of people-sheep was all accounted for.
The movement drew Osgood’s and Paige’s attention.
Grimshaw entered the room and took a seat. “Good morning.”
“Coffee?” Paige asked, jumping up to pour him a cup.
“Thanks.” He studied Osgood, who was squirming as if his breakfast prunes were working enthusiastically. “You found something?”
“I took David to a place in Crystalton called the Yard Sale,” Paige replied as she filled Grimshaw’s cup. “Most block sales and yard sales are done on the weekends, but the Yard Sale is a shop that buys from estate sales and such and is open during the week. I could have been more help in selecting things if I had known the reason behind this shopping spree.”
“You helped?” He knew that, having just heard her say it. And there was no reason why she couldn’t have helped Osgood select the items. She wasn’t handling evidence or anything like that, but he was interested in why she had helped.