by Anne Bishop
“Don’t eat my lunch while you’re looking for the water,” Meg shouted.
Jake didn’t reply, which made her think that half of his reason for helping was being able to poke around the back room for anything a Crow would find interesting. But he returned quickly and handed her the glass of water before shifting back to his Crow form and flying to his favorite spot on the wall.
She heard sirens at the same time she heard a vehicle drive up the access way and suddenly stop. Before she could twist around to see who had arrived, Simon was crouching beside her.
“Meg?”
“I’m fine.” That’s as far as she got before Jackson crouched beside Simon, being less subtle about sniffing the air for the scent of blood.
Then Merri Lee ran out of Howling Good Reads’ back door. “Michael says the police were called. There’s trouble? Meg, are you all right?”
“Suspicious package,” Pete said. “Something the police should investigate. Meg had a bit of a reaction to the package and needed some air. No need for alarm.”
“You, Ruth, and I need to talk later,” Meg told Merri Lee.
“A lot of us have something to talk about,” Simon growled.
Meg drank some water. Learn the nature of a thing. Until she knew what was in the package, she wouldn’t be able to understand the connection between it and a basket of apples—or why she’d seen something that wasn’t there.
• • •
Monty walked into Captain Burke’s office, followed by Kowalski and Louis Gresh, who closed the door.
Burke eyed the door, then folded his hands on the desk blotter and gave the men his fierce-friendly smile. “I’m usually the one who decides if it’s a closed meeting.”
“This needs to be a closed meeting,” Monty replied.
“There was a ruckus in the Courtyard?” Louis asked.
“Of sorts. Theral MacDonald is all right. She didn’t know anything had happened, or that it concerned her, until I went to the medical office to talk to her. Meg wasn’t available, but Nathan Wolfgard was forthright about what had occurred.”
“So was Pete Denby,” Burke said. “He called me again while you were taking a formal statement from Nathan. The package was inspected?”
Monty nodded. “A box of expensive chocolates, with a card that read, ‘Sweets for a sweet girl.’ No signature on the card, and the only thing the clerk at Everywhere Delivery could tell us was the package was brought to their receiving window just before closing yesterday and the man paid the extra fee for perishable merchandise that needed to be delivered the next morning. The clerk didn’t remember much about the man; just that he looked like he’d been working outdoors—had grass stains on his clothes and dirt on his work boots. There is nothing to indicate the package was sent by Jack Fillmore, Theral’s abusive ex.”
“But?” Burke prompted.
“There are signs that the chocolates had been tampered with. There were no foreign objects inside the chocolates that were examined, so the lab will have to run tests to figure out what was inserted.” Monty swallowed anger. If Meg Corbyn hadn’t reacted badly to the package, Theral could have given the chocolates to the children as a treat. What might have happened to Lizzy, or Sarah and Robert Denby, if anything in the chocolates was intended to incapacitate an adult?
“On our own time, Officer Debany and I have called hotels and rooming houses, particularly those that offer suites that are rented by the week, and haven’t found anyone registered under the name Jack Fillmore,” Kowalski said.
“Which means he’s coming into town for each of these emotional hit-and-run attacks, or he’s staying here under an alias,” Burke said.
“Most likely using an alias, even if he is living and working in another town,” Louis said.
“That might explain the gap in time between when he sent the flowers to Theral to confirm she was working in the Courtyard and this delivery of tampered sweets,” Monty said. “There are a limited number of human-controlled towns and cities within a reasonable drive of Lakeside, and even staying overnight to check on the MacDonald house or watch Theral to try to establish a routine would mean using the scheduled days off work. If Fillmore took any other time off from a job, that would be recorded and form a pattern.”
“We have no proof that Fillmore sent the flowers or these chocolates,” Burke pointed out. “We’ve made assumptions based on Theral’s history with this man, and we were more inclined to take her word because Lawrence MacDonald was her cousin and one of us.”
“So far he—or someone—has tried twice and hasn’t gotten past the front counter in the Liaison’s Office. Actually, it’s the Liaison’s Office that I wanted to talk about.” Monty relayed the information Nathan had given him about Everywhere Delivery becoming Everywhere Human Delivery.
Burke blew out an angry sigh. “Damn fools. If people keep pulling this crap, humans will be evicted from Lakeside. I’m going to ask Pete to check on the land leases, see how much of the city could be lost and how soon. Only the gods know what we’ll do if trains coming and going from Lakeside completely lose the right-of-way through the wild country and the city is no longer a viable destination.”
“The roads between cities are also a leased right-of-way,” Louis said. “And ships moving cargo on the Great Lakes are already in a precarious position. We could be isolated.”
“Every human-controlled city on the continent can be cut off. People have been forgetting that lately.” Burke looked at the three men. “Anything else? No? Then let’s do what we can to keep things smooth.”
Monty, Kowalski, and Louis left Burke’s office.
Thinking about the loss of the right-of-way between cities, Monty went to his desk and called his mother to urge her, again, to pack up and come to Lakeside as soon as she could.
• • •
Simon, Jackson, Blair, Henry, and Vlad stood in a circle around one of the BOWs.
“Your Meg drives around the Courtyard in that?” Jackson asked.
“Can’t drive it around on the city streets, but she does just fine here,” Simon replied, feeling defensive. Meg’s driving had improved over the past few months, so “just fine” was an accurate assessment of her skill. But as he looked over the top of the BOW at Jackson, he understood the real question. “When the bison grow up, they’re going to be bigger than the BOW.”
“Bigger and heavier.” Jackson set both hands on the BOW’s frame and pushed. The little vehicle rocked. “This will buckle if a bison hits it.”
A shiver of fear went through Simon. The BOWs could chug on the roads in the Courtyard; they could keep someone dry during rainy or snowy weather. They could, with the right driver, chug along on wet or snowy roads without mishap. Could a BOW—and its driver—survive a collision with something as big as a bison? “They would have no reason to chase the BOW or charge at a BOW.” That didn’t mean one of the bison wouldn’t confuse the BOW with something that should be chased or challenged.
“Are they going to be a problem for the deer?” Blair asked. “The Courtyard’s land can feed the herd that lives within its boundaries, and that herd is large enough to feed the pack and provide meat for the rest of the Courtyard’s residents. How much of the deer’s food will the bison consume?”
Vlad frowned. “Tell me again why we have bison in the Courtyard?”
He had room to move, but Simon still felt cornered. “Because Meg saw bison at the River Road Community, and the Hope pup did a vision drawing of Jackson bringing eleven bison to us.” Then it occurred to him that, perhaps, they had misinterpreted the cassandra sangue’s visions. After all, what was seen didn’t always happen.
Maybe having bison right in the Courtyard wasn’t a good idea after all.
“Well,” Henry said, “if the bison are a problem, we’ll just eat them sooner.”
Unhappy about making a bad decision, Simon scrubbed a hand through his hair and wanted to forget about the bison for a little while. It wasn’t too hot today. Maybe he coul
d convince Meg to play a game of chase before they ate dinner. Or he could chase her to and from the Green Complex’s garden if she was going to pull weeds. “If we ate everything that was a problem—”
“—we’d all be fat,” Blair finished.
Henry snorted a laugh. “Until we decide what to do with them, we’ll make sure someone keeps watch on the bison when Meg is out in the BOW.”
That much decided, they pushed the BOW into one of the garages behind the Green Complex and attached the power cord to charge the vehicle.
“You’re taking the early train tomorrow morning?” Simon asked Jackson as they all walked through the archway that provided access between the garages and the apartments.
“I want to get home. With so many humans acting aggressive and strange, I don’t feel easy being so far away from Grace and Hope.” Jackson looked around. “Can we take one more run?”
Vlad stopped suddenly, a peculiar look on his face.
“What?” Simon asked.
“Tess says one of us needs to talk to Meg about her prophecy skills,” Vlad replied. “You and Jackson have your run. I’ll deal with this.”
“Do you know what ‘this’ is?”
“No.” Vlad shifted to smoke and headed for the Market Square and the Liaison’s Office at a speed that could outpace any prey on foot.
“Go,” Henry said. “Run. You’ll feel better for it.”
He couldn’t argue with that, so Simon, Jackson, and Blair walked over to Simon’s apartment to shed clothes and human form—and remember who they really were.
• • •
Vlad stopped in the shadows of the access way and shifted to human before walking to the front of the Liaison’s Office and entering through that door.
Meg is suddenly doubting her ability to see visions accurately, Tess had said. She says she isn’t performing well. She’s upsetting me, so you or Simon needs to talk to her.
Not a problem. He had plenty to say to Meg Corbyn.
he told Nathan.
Nathan eyed the Private door.
Vlad wagged a finger at the other Wolf bed.
A human trait we don’t want to acquire, Vlad thought.
That much settled—and feeling assured that this conversation wouldn’t be interrupted—Vlad opened the go-through that gave him access to the Private door. As he closed that door, Meg turned away from the sorting table, clearly surprised to see him.
“Vlad?”
He closed the door to the back room before walking over to the table. “I understand that you’re looking for a performance review. Isn’t that what humans call it?” He heard the sharpness in his voice.
“Why are you angry with me?”
He had eleven reasons, but the bison really weren’t her fault. “Not you. But I am angry. More than I realized.” To give himself time to gather his thoughts, he looked at the decks of cards on the table. “How do these work?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m not sure!”
The shrillness in her voice made him look at her, really look at her. Was the anxiety in her eyes, the strain he saw in her face, because the Others had asked too much of her, expected too much from someone who was just a fledgling regardless of her physical age?
“You seem to think there is something wrong with your abilities as a prophet. Why? And don’t tell me ‘I’m not sure.’” He pitched his voice to sound like a girl’s and made the tone so insulting Meg was either going to burst into tears or come up swinging.
“Even a little child can tell the difference between a box of chocolates and a basket of apples!” she shouted.
Anger. Good. He preferred that to crying.
“If you showed a child a picture of both those things, I assume they would know which was which—if they were old enough to know such things,” Vlad said mildly. At random, he cut one of the decks of cards and turned over the top card. It showed a table laden with food: mashed potatoes, a salad, a basket of bread, cooked vegetables, and in the center, a huge roast.
My answer to what should be done with the bison, he thought as he restored the card to the deck.
“So all this emotional fuss is about you selecting a card that didn’t match the specific danger?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “Did anyone ask you a question? Did anyone, including you, ask, ‘What is in that package?’”
Meg’s brow wrinkled in concentration. “I selected the card with the apples when the delivery truck drove up. Before the package was in the office. But, for a moment, the picture . . .”
When she trailed off, he finished the thought. “It was like one of your training images had been superimposed over the card, showing you a truth beyond what the eye could see.”
“Yes. And when I went to the front counter to talk to Harry, my tongue began burning, like that was where I needed to cut to reveal the prophecy.”
He’d seen the amount of blood that flowed when a tongue was bitten or cut. He didn’t want to think about Meg putting that silver razor in her mouth.
“But you didn’t need to do that because you already sensed that there was something wrong with whatever was in the package.” Vlad touched one of the other decks, an idle movement. “Meg, you made a connection between two things and gave warning. How is that inadequate?”
“Because I have to figure out how to make this work for everyone!” She waved a hand to indicate all the decks of cards.
“No, you don’t,” he snapped. “You were asked to consider if using these cards is a possible alternative to girls cutting themselves to release the visions, not to figure out everything in a couple of days. And we’re not talking about the other girls right now. We’re talking about you. Just you. So what is this really about?”
“My prophecies used to be accurate,” Meg cried. “It cost a lot to buy a cut on my skin because my prophecies were accurate.”
“They still are.”
She shook her head so fiercely he feared she’d hurt her neck. “I’m not accurate anymore. Not like I was in . . .” She swallowed hard. “In the compound.”
“When you speak prophecy, you don’t remember what you see; you don’t remember what you say. How do you know you were more accurate?”
“The Controller’s clients wouldn’t have paid so much if I wasn’t,” Meg whispered. She avoided his eyes. “Where is Simon?”
“He’s having a run with Jackson and Blair while he tries to figure out what to do with eleven large, smelly mistakes.” Vlad sighed. “Maybe it isn’t your prophecies that are suddenly inaccurate; maybe it’s the skills of your interpreters. After all, this is a new experience for everyone in the Courtyard. But you’ve never had anyone show you what you said or draw little pictures like Merri Lee has done to figure out the images. You’ve never seen your own prophecies come to pass, so you’ve never seen if they were true.”
“Until now.” Meg looked around the sorting room.
“I haven’t been keeping score, but I think at least half of the time since you’ve been living in the Courtyard, what you’ve seen hasn’t happened because you saw it. Think about it, Meg. The ponies didn’t die of poison, because you saw them dying and identified where we’d find the poison. Nadine Fallacaro didn’t die when her shop was set on fire, because you saw images that warned enough of us about who and where. So many of the blood prophets were rescued because you saw the danger.” Anger burned in him again. “In fact, Ms. Corbyn, your prophecies have been so accurate, it is your fault that we ended up with those stupid bison!”
She took a step back, de
spite the table being between them. “But I saw them! When Simon wanted to know about the River Road Community, I saw the bison. And . . . and Hope drew a picture of them!”
“You saw them. Hope drew a picture of them. And everyone just followed all the steps that would make that happen without stopping to think if it was something that should happen!”
Meg blinked.
Vlad paced the width of the room a couple of times, the only thing he could think to do with his agitation.
“The Sanguinati are urban hunters for the most part. What do we know about bison?” Nothing at all until he did a little research, but the bison were already on the train by the time he received a message from Tolya expressing some concern about the scheme. “Henry, who grew up in the Northwest, didn’t oppose the idea. Neither did Elliot. And Simon . . . All right. I understand his thinking to some degree. Fresh meat on the hoof. Lots of meat. Enough to feed the terra indigene and the human pack. But it takes a pack experienced in hunting an animal that big to succeed without getting hurt.”
“Hurt? The Wolves could get hurt? No one said they could get hurt.” She sounded bristly, and the fierceness that filled her eyes made him wary.
Vlad stopped pacing. He could picture her, a human who could be felled by a paper cut, waving her broom at a bison, ready to smack it senseless to protect a Wolf pup. The idea that she might try to do exactly that was funny and frightening in equal measure.
Time to steer Meg away from thoughts of critters with hooves. A Wolf could be hurt by a deer’s well-placed kick, or be injured by antlers. Since the Wolves weren’t going to stop hunting deer, he wasn’t going to volunteer information that might cause friction in the Green Complex every time someone trotted home with a hunk of meat.
“You could get hurt too, which is something we hadn’t understood,” he said. “These bison are still young, still growing. But there’s no way to tell how they’ll react to the sight of a BOW, especially once they mature.” And the thought of Meg injured and bleeding in the BOW was beyond anything he wanted to imagine. Not that she wouldn’t be found quickly; even when she drove around alone, there were plenty of terra indigene keeping her in sight.