by Anne Bishop
But it wasn’t a thought he wanted Grandfather Erebus to entertain. Once that happened, the bison would be bled out before Simon had a chance to make a decision as the Courtyard’s leader—and that might create tension between the Sanguinati and Wolfgard that neither form could afford when there was all this turmoil with the humans.
“The point is, two blood prophets saw bison coming to this area,” Vlad said. “But we should have asked if that was the future we wanted—and what the consequences might be when we brought an animal into an area that wasn’t part of its natural territory.”
Meg took a deep breath and blew it out. “Pick a deck.”
“What?”
“You wanted to know how this worked. Pick a deck.”
He picked the same deck he’d looked at previously, then watched Meg’s fumbling effort to shuffle the cards before setting the deck on the table with her hand resting on the top card. “Ask your question.”
“What should we do with the bison?” Then he added silently, Speak, prophet, and I will listen.
Meg closed her eyes, breathed in and out a couple of times, then cut the deck and turned her hand to reveal the card.
It was the same card he’d drawn—the table full of food and the big roast in the center.
Vlad laughed. “Show that to Simon.”
Meg looked at the card and made a face. “Simon was so excited about the meat Joe sent, and he and Sam liked it so much I didn’t want to spoil their pleasure, but . . .”
He laughed again. “You didn’t like the bison burgers.”
“No.”
If she’d told Simon, that would have settled the question of bison in the Courtyard before the damn things were put on the train, Vlad thought.
“Time for both of us to get back to work.” He walked around the table and smiled at her as he opened the Private door. He followed her to the counter and leaned against it, noticing that Nathan was on his feet and watching the human who got out of the truck. Not a regular, then.
Meg frowned at her clipboard as she wrote down the name of the company on the side of the truck.
“Delivery.” The man set a package on the counter.
It was the way Meg shrank away from the man and package that warned Vlad and Nathan that something was very wrong. Vlad stepped up to the counter, gently nudging Meg toward the Private door while Nathan silently moved to block the front door.
“Wait,” Vlad said when the man backed away. “I haven’t agreed to accept this package.”
“You have to accept it.”
“No, I don’t.” The package was addressed to Ms. Wolflover MacDonald. The “company” address said “Dead Cops Club.”
Smiling enough to show a fang, Vlad picked up the phone on the counter and called Burke’s direct line at the Chestnut Street station. “Captain? We’ve just received a package from something called the Dead Cops Club. What would you like us to do with the man who delivered it? Yes, he’s still here. Well, you can arrest him, or we can eat him.”
The man gasped. Meg dropped her clipboard on the sorting room table and made an odd sound. Since she was safe from the stranger, Vlad ignored her, more interested in Burke’s moment of silence before saying he would send a car.
Vlad hung up.
A long minute later, Officer Debany, in uniform, entered the office at a run, almost tripping over Nathan, who still blocked the front door.
Must have been getting ready for work when Burke called.
“You’re under arrest,” Debany said.
“I just delivered a freaking package!” the man protested.
Hesitating, Debany looked at Vlad. “Do you believe that?”
Vlad looked over his shoulder to check on Meg and saw her slice the underside of one finger on her right hand.
“Arrest him or we’ll kill him,” Vlad snapped. “Either way, I want him out of here!”
He pulled the razor out of her hand and set it on the table. No obvious blood on the razor; nothing to run onto the cards. And no time to grab anything to soak up the blood dripping off her finger, so he cupped his hand under hers, struggling not to shift to smoke and consume the drops of blood as they hit his skin.
“Speak, prophet, and I will listen.” How much time had passed as she’d tried to swallow the words along with the agony that preceded the spoken words of prophecy?
“Rotten eggs,” Meg whispered. “Hands. Feet. Bones. Maggots.” A hesitation before she breathed out one final word. “Bullet.”
She sank to the floor. Vlad went down with her, still cradling her hand to keep her blood off the floor.
He felt Tess sweep into the room and out again. When she returned, she crouched beside Meg, lifted the bloody hand, and wrapped a towel around it, dropping a second towel under Vlad’s hand. He quickly wiped Meg’s blood off his skin.
“Put the towel in the sink. Run cold water over it while you rinse off your hands. The female pack says that works for removing blood from cloth so we don’t waste what we might need later,” Tess said.
Tess studied him when he returned.
At another time, the truth of that might have made Meg’s self-doubt amusing. But not now.
• • •
Monty retrieved the mail from his letter box and climbed the stairs to his apartment. He wasn’t sure he would spend the night there. He wasn’t sure a man alone, even a police officer, who was known to work with the terra indigene would be safe in this part of the city. Between the fires that burned down so many businesses on Market Street and the flash floods caused by the localized storm the same night of the fires, this part of Lakeside was in turmoil, and the police were breaking up several fights a day between members of the HFL, who blamed the terra indigene for all of the city’s troubles, and people who now blamed the HFL for the city’s troubles.
And then, today, the package that was delivered to the Courtyard. He believed the deliveryman when the fool claimed he didn’t know what was in the package. The hysteria after they had shown him what he’d delivered hadn’t been feigned.
Two hands with some of the bones showing through where the flesh had been eaten away. Two feet covered in maggots. And a bullet. Not a spent round. Nothing they could test.
After impounding the delivery truck, and ignoring the shrieks of the company’s owner about customers waiting for the items in the truck, Louis Gresh and his team checked every package, making a record of each item. They found three other packages from the Dead Cops Club—three other packages with the same items. Those were handed over to the forensics team after the bomb squad confirmed the packages weren’t booby-trapped.
They were searching for four bodies, or, at least, the identities of the deceased. Burke didn’t think they would be found since cremation was standard except for the wealthy, who could afford a family crypt and literally be buried with their ancestors. None of the hands and feet were fresh enough that the body would still be in the morgue or at a funeral home for the final viewing.
But the police would search for the bodies, and they would search for the people who were responsible for directing such ill will toward a member of Lawrence MacDonald’s family.
According to Burke’s grapevine, the delivery company’s owner and all its employees b
elonged to the Humans First and Last movement, and the workers at the crematorium, who were also HFL members, swore they hadn’t left any body unattended for “more than a minute” and hadn’t noticed any hands or feet missing on their return. And it seemed like, when fingerprints confirmed that the hands that had been sent to the Courtyard had belonged to Lawrence MacDonald, every police officer in Lakeside knew about it within an hour. And after hearing that news, every officer who had secretly, or openly, belonged to the movement removed his HFL pin and threw it away.
No matter what they thought about people who worked with the terra indigene, no police officer saw the Dead Cops Club as a harmless prank. This time, the HFL had crossed too many lines.
Because he was tired, Monty read the note from his mother twice before he understood what she was saying. Because he was tired, his temper, usually so slow to rise, ignited.
Tossing the letter aside, he picked up the phone and called his sister’s apartment.
“Sissy?” Monty said, struggling for control. “It’s CJ. I want to talk to Mama.”
“Mama wrote to you? When she heard about the phone call, she got a mad on and said she would write. It’s just that, Jimmy called to see how we were doing . . .”
“He called to squeeze some money out of you.” Monty sincerely hoped she hadn’t had a penny left to give.
He’d been twelve when his parents adopted Sierra. The toddler had needed a home; his parents could give her one. For him, there was nothing to discuss.
But for nine-year-old Cyrus James, known in the family as Jimmy, Sierra’s arrival meant a smaller piece of the pie. Money for clothes, for toys, for anything he coveted—and he coveted almost everything—had to be split among three children now instead of two. Jimmy never let Sissy forget that he never had enough because of her. If they each got a cookie, Jimmy ate his and half of hers because, he said, he would have gotten both if she hadn’t been there. Every time she saved up her spending money for something she wanted, he’d find something he wanted that cost more money than he had and she would make up the difference, and have to wait and save some more to buy something for herself.
Monty had stood as a buffer for as long as he’d lived at home—and he’d breathed a sigh of relief when Jimmy left home too, to make his own way.
In many ways, Sierra was a strong young woman, and she was smart. But Jimmy could twist her up so much she never stood a chance when she had to deal with him.
“No, he didn’t,” Sissy began. “Not really. He asked what we were doing, and I said Mama and I and the girls were going to Lakeside to visit with you for a bit. And he said a visit sounded like a fine idea, but if I didn’t have any money, how were we going to get there.”
Monty did not want to hear this. “Let me talk to Mama.”
“And he said how maybe he should come and visit you too, seeing as it’s been a while.”
More than a while. Jimmy liked booze and drugs, and he preferred having money without working for it. Having a cop for a brother didn’t make his friends feel easy.
“Did he suggest that he and his wife should come to Lakeside with you and leave Mama in Toland looking after four children?” When she didn’t answer, he felt the blood pounding in his head. “Either I talk to Mama now, or no one is coming to visit.”
A moment later, Twyla Montgomery was on the phone.
“Mama.”
“Don’t you use that tone with me, Crispin.”
She had taught him the value of courtesy. Her voice turned sharp only when she’d been pushed too hard. “I’m sorry, Mama. Some bad things happened today.” He took a moment to gather himself. “Mama . . .”
“You don’t need to be telling me,” Twyla said. “I already told Sierra that I’m coming to Lakeside to help you look after Lizzy. You were kind enough to provide the means for her and her children to come with me. And since she just lost her job too, there’s no reason to stay in Toland, but suddenly she’s dragging her feet and saying she can’t decide. So I said if she wants to stay that’s her choice, but I’m not giving her train fare to Cyrus to spend as he pleases. If he wants to come to Lakeside, he can do it on his own and make his own arrangements for a place to stay, since I got the impression that some folks wouldn’t be comfortable with the arrangements you made for us.”
“You’re going to be surrounded by cops and Wolves.”
“Huh.”
Monty had to smile. Twyla Montgomery wouldn’t be intimidated by either kind of enforcer.
“You’re set, then?”
“I’m packed. Have the important papers you said I should bring. I think that’s what spooked your sister. She felt obliged to tell your brother there’s trouble coming. Not that anyone but a fool can’t see that.” Twyla paused. “Maybe he’ll have sense enough to get his family out of the city.”
“Maybe.” If Jimmy’s wife didn’t grab onto his coat, he’d leave her and his children behind without a second thought. “Did Jimmy leave a number where you or Sierra could reach him?”
“The number changes every time he calls. Since Sierra couldn’t give him what he wanted, he didn’t leave even that much this time.” A pause. “Crispin? The trouble that’s coming. It will be bad?”
Need to know. “I can’t say.”
“Does it have anything to do with the news report today that the folks cleaning up all the dead fish found some pieces of arms and legs?”
Probably. “Come soon, Mama.”
“I heard the words the last time you called, Crispin, and I understand what you’re saying. But I want to give Sierra a little more time to see what’s best for herself and her girls. If she can’t see it, I’ll be coming alone.”
Monty waited until she hung up. Then he called his captain to find out if Burke had heard that news report—and if there was any possibility that some of the hands and feet found in the packages had been in salt water and had been shipped from Toland.
To: Simon Wolfgard
Four of the six bison released at the River Road Community have been killed. We found two carcasses well away from the houses. Scavengers were feasting when we arrived, but whatever attacked the bison must have been very big and very hungry to have consumed so much of the animals in such a short time.
The other two carcasses were left at the Talulah Falls’ town line. I know this because one of the terra indigene leaders called me to say the meat was appreciated. While talking to him, I had the feeling that the terra indigene who were sent to take control of the Falls are tired of dealing with humans and want to return home—or at least go to some other place that has minimal contact with humans. Another feeling from that conversation: if the humans who have the training necessary to run things like the hydroelectric plant and any other businesses that can’t be left unattended choose to stay, the terra indigene would allow the rest of the humans to leave town.
Like I said, this is just a feeling, but it’s the first time the Others have initiated contact with anyone in Ferryman’s Landing since the Falls was locked down a few months ago.
The Hawks and Crows are looking for the other two bison. We’ll let you know when we find them.
I’m pretty sure Ming Beargard knows what killed the bison, but I think he’s afraid to say. Is it safe for my people to be working at the River Road Community?
—Steve Ferryman
To: Steve Ferryman
Your people should be safe, but, for now, Ming or some other terra indigene should be with the Intuits if they need to go beyond the houses to look at the land we want to set aside for pasture and crops. The Others who live in the wild country are curious about what we’re doing at the River Road Community. They are observers.
We have decided that bison are too dangerous to live in a Courtyard, and it seems like providing wild meat to the terra indigene in Talulah Falls will help all of us. We have enough room to store the meat from one bison. Ask Jerry Sledgeman to bring his livestock truck and take the other four bison to Talulah Falls. That will be plent
y of meat for everyone.
—Simon Wolfgard
To: Stavros Sanguinati
Have tried to contact you several times. I’m concerned about the rumors that the terra indigene have been driven out of the Toland Courtyard. Please contact me at your earliest convenience.
—Greg O’Sullivan, Investigative Task Force
CHAPTER 23
Cel-Romano
The men and women in the small villages that dotted the border separating Cel-Romano from the wild country led simple lives. They farmed, raising the crops that suited the land. They raised some animals for food and others for fleece. They stopped in certain shops in the village proper to listen to the radio or use a telephone because such things weren’t found in most houses. They laughed; they sang; they married and made love and raised children.
And every village had one or two families who had the special duty of following a path into the wild country to a designated place and leaving a gift at the full moon. Sometimes it was special food; sometimes a length of cloth or a rug. Sometimes it was a book purchased by the whole village just for this.
Members of the families would go to that designated place and say, “For our friends,” as they held their offering. Sometimes a wolfman or a foxman would come out of the woods and accept their offering. Sometimes it was a Crow or a Hawk that would land nearby and indicate the gift was acceptable.
Generation after generation, each side carried out the ritual. A gift in exchange for the men in the village venturing into the wild country to cut wood to warm their houses, for the women to pick fruit. And when the Important Men from the Big Cities came to the villages to take most of a harvest, or the horses that were needed for the farms, or the animals that would have been sold to the butcher for the coins that would provide the income the family needed for the next year, sometimes there was a basket, woven from vines and filled with fruit, left on a doorstep. Sometimes there was a rabbit for the pot or a small deer that kept many families in the village from going hungry.