Wild Blue Under

by Judi Fennell

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “But it’s her window.”

  “I know.”

  “But then she’ll find out we can talk.”

  Maybelle closed her eyes as a particularly blustery wind kicked up. “No—she’ll find out he can talk.”

  “I don’t understand you, Maybelle.”

  Tap, tap, tap.

  “Do you remember Foghorn, Adele? My third mate?”

  “The one with the big—”

  “Uh huh.” Maybelle’s shudder had nothing to do with the weather. “Don’t remind me. The day he lost that tail feather was the happiest day of my life.”

  “But what does that have to do with Valerie?”

  “Well, Foggy always thought he knew what was best. The best place for bread crumbs, the right park bench for Fiddle Faddle…” The sparrows paused a moment to remember the lovely, buttery taste of their favorite treat. “The fastest way to cross Grove Street, where to get the plumpest sunflower seeds… everything. That male was an authority on everything.”

  “I still don’t see—”

  “Pay attention, Adele! Foggy thought he knew what was best and would never consider anything else, least of all what a female had to say or what she ought to know.”

  Tap, tap, tap.

  “Those two males over there aren’t planning to tell her the truth.”

  Adele gasped. “That sunflowers don’t really grow in your stomach if you eat the seeds in their shells?”

  Maybelle rolled her eyes. “No. Not that. They’re not going to tell her she’s a Mer.”

  “How do you know? You can’t possibly hear anything. The air cooler is on, and they’ve shut all the windows.”

  “Oh… well… I might have overheard—”

  “Maybelle Merriweather!” Adele’s high-pitched chirp soared an octave. “You did not go over there and eavesdrop!”

  “No, actually, I eave-sat. And a good thing, too, or we’d be telling Mr. Flying High there that he’s beaking up the wrong window, and she won’t learn the truth.”

  “This wouldn’t have anything to do with that gull telling you to mind your own business when you followed him yesterday, would it?”

  Maybelle fluffed her feathers, then set to preening them. Honestly, it was so blustery today, what with the wind tossing up all sorts of particles. And she’d just groomed herself.

  “Of course not, Adele. And he didn’t tell me to mind my own business. He said it wasn’t any of my business. Which, of course, is wrong since this is my street and we don’t want any riffraff moving in.”

  She glared at the big, hulking gull. “Males! They think they’re the gods’ gift to females. And now he’s got The Heir treating Valerie as if she were a featherhead…” Maybelle tsk-tsked. “No. We girls need to stick together, and she deserves to know what she’s getting into.”

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Val pulled the pillow over her head. Dingy-gray morning light was barely making its way through the vinyl blinds.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  She slammed her arms on top of the pillow, anchoring it to both sides of her head and wishing she had an A/C unit in her room to block out sound.

  TAP, TAP, TAP.

  Something was bound and determined to wake her up.

  She fumbled with the blinds next to the head of her bed, feeling for the string to draw them.

  “Hurry up, already, will you? We have to get out of here!”

  She sat up and yanked the cord and found herself staring at that seagull, with its eyes and beak in a decidedly grumpy configuration, its wings half-spread, and the feathers on its back fluttering in the wind.

  She looked behind it, expecting someone (okay, Rod—and she wasn’t hoping to, just expecting to see him, and, no, she hadn’t been dreaming about that kiss) to be there. But then she remembered she was on the second floor above the store, and the fire escape was off the other bedroom, the one where the guy who’d kissed her slept…

  So who was doing the talking?

  “Livingston?”

  “Oh, Hades.” The bird shook its head and resettled its wings on its back.

  The bird had cursed. At her.

  The bird could curse?

  He did a two-step on the window ledge. “It’s getting windy out here. Could you let me in, please?”

  Let him in? A talking, cognizant seagull? Was he crazy?

  No, actually, she thought she might be the crazy one.

  The bird sighed and focused his eyes on her. “I can explain, Valerie.”

  The bird was having a conversation with her.

  Even if she wasn’t crazy for thinking that, her next action cemented the tenuous state of her sanity. She unlocked the window, allowing a gust of damp air laden with the perfect blend of strong coffee and banana-nut muffins from the bakery next door to waft in with the bird.

  “I thought you were Rod,” the bird said, hopping onto the bedside table.

  “And I thought you were a trained mimic.” She sat back on the mattress, a little too stunned to do more than stare at him. How could a seagull talk? She’d heard of talking parrots, macaws, canaries, but seagulls?

  “Where is he? I’ve got news for him.” Livingston hopped onto the dresser, leaving little wet webbed footprints on the veneer.

  For some reason, the sight of those footprints released her from her stupor, and she glanced at her bedroom door. It was still closed. And locked. “I’ve got news for you, Livingston. You’re not going anywhere until you tell me how you can talk.”

  “Air vibrating through nasal tubes is what the scientists have come up with.” He flapped his wings once, gliding over to her door and cocking his head when he landed. “Can you let me out so I can speak with Rod? We don’t have much time.”

  “Much time for what?”

  “You’ll find out if I don’t talk to him. Open this door, already. We’ll explain later.” The gull hammered his beak against the luan door as if he were a woodpecker, chips of the thin veneer pinging off with each bill-strike.

  “Hold on.” She jumped out of bed, momentarily registering the fact that her ankle was back to one hundred percent—one of two odd things about the morning and she’d only just woken up—and turned the knob.

  Livingston reached Rod’s door faster than she’d thought possible, a mixture of half-flight and half-run. He barreled into the room, beak leading the way. “Rod! Get up! We’ve got trouble and we need to get moving!”

  Still trying to process coherency and verbalizations in waterfowl, Val hadn’t given a thought to the idea that maybe she shouldn’t follow the bird in.

  Rod slept in the nude.

  And seemed very comfortable with that fact.

  “Good morning, Valerie,” he said, rising from his side to sitting, all appropriate muscles doing all appropriate actions which just seemed, well, so appropriate…

  “Uh… well… uh…” Babbling, too, seemed appropriate.

  “We don’t have time for formalities!” Livingston zoomed around the room, grabbing Rod’s discarded shorts—no boxers, she’d been right, followed by his shirt, dropping them on Rod’s shoulders. “Throw some clothes on, grab your bag, and let’s get moving, people!”

  Rod scratched his head, rumpling the bed head he sported, which didn’t do as much for her coherency as those flexing stomach muscles, and, er, other areas did for her libido.

  “What are you squawking about, Livingston? And—” Rod pointed the red shirt at Val—“in front of her?”

  “The catfish is out of the net, Rod. She knows I speak. I thought her window was yours. Shows what happens when you don’t have enough time for proper reconnaissance. Nothing to be done about it now. Just be thankful she’s on our side, but JR, he’s definitely not, and he’s definitely on his way.”

  “JR?”
<
br />   Rod jumped to his feet, flipping his shirt over his shoulder, and stepping, commando, into the shorts so fast Val almost missed the gluteus-maximus show. Almost, but to her eternal happiness, not quite. The man didn’t have one ounce of fat on him and those legs were toned, one fluid line of muscle from hip to ankle. He must work out for hours every day to keep his body in such amazing shape.

  Rod threw on the T-shirt, swiped something from the dresser and shoved it into his pocket, then grabbed his duffel bag from beneath the foot of the bed, and zipped it closed. “You’re sure it’s him?”

  “Absolutely. And he’s working fast. Crows, jays, cowbirds… We need to make waves right now.”

  Rod yanked the zipper the final few inches, then headed for the door, grabbing Val’s hand as he passed her. “Livingston’s right, Valerie. Let’s go.”

  Val slammed her other hand against the doorframe before Rod could pull her through it. “What do you mean, ‘Let’s go’? Go where? Who’s JR? Why are we worried about him? And what’s with a coherent, talking seagull?”

  Rod exhaled and tugged her arm. “We don’t have time for explanations now. Let’s get going and I’ll explain on the way.”

  “But—”

  Livingston flew into her back, the top of his head between her shoulder blades, the wind from his flapping wings puffing her hair into her face. “Not now, Human. This concerns you, too. Get in your vehicle and head east. We’ll talk while we’re moving.”

  Thanks to the two of them, she barely had the chance to grab her bag, and then only because she’d put her purse and keys in it the night before. Apparently they’d stop for keys, but not for her to change clothes. Thank God she hadn’t unpacked.

  She rammed her feet into her shoes and they were out the door before she realized she hadn’t even brushed her teeth. Ick.

  Rod preceded her down the metal stairs, Livingston not cutting her any slack from behind. She slid once on the mist-slick stairs, stopping herself with a hand to Rod’s shoulder. They ran to the alley behind the building, Val’s Sentra the only car there other than Mom’s van.

  Rod slammed to a stop in front of her so quickly that she ran into his back—all hard and sculpted against her breasts and tummy, said body parts hitching from the exertion.

  Yeah, exertion. Right. That wasn’t why she was breathing so fast and she knew it.

  “That’s your method of conveyance?” The disbelief in Rod’s voice was matched only by the scorn—enough to bring her out of her hormone-induced fog.

  “It’ll get you where you need to go.” Wherever that was. A swirl of damp air swept a handful of hair into her face and she shoved it out of the way.

  The gull and the man shared a sigh. “Fine,” Rod said, “let’s go.”

  Val ran to the driver’s side and tossed her bag behind her seat. Rod jerked the passenger door open, tossing his bag in the back as well. Livingston flew in and Rod folded his legs between the seat and dashboard, looking like a human pretzel.

  “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting you to have to fit into my car.” She leaned over the stick shift and reached for the seat adjustor beneath his thigh, behind his calf—his really toned, tight thigh and calf, which still had the warmth of sleep emanating from them.

  Val took a deep breath then catching herself, shook her head and released the lever. Rod slid back, taking his scent with him.

  Well, not all of it.

  Val straightened, tucked her hair behind her ears, jammed the key in the ignition, and threw the car into reverse.

  “Buckle up,” she said, doing just that, then glancing in the rearview mirror, not really sure what she was expecting to see. With the tension these two had exhibited in the last ten minutes, she’d expected a herd of buffalo heading for her car, or at least a phalanx of tanks.

  Not the bird—Livingston—with his wings outstretched across the top of the backseat, his beak aimed at the gray sky.

  “Livingston? Are you okay?” Good God; had she really just asked a bird if he was okay? At some point she would have to try to process this otherworldly series of events.

  And figure out why she was going along with it.

  The gull turned his white head her way. “Just drive. I’ll let you know if you have to make any tactical maneuvers.”

  Like that made any sense. But then, none of this did. Which was why she changed gears and did as he asked.

  She was really hoping this was some strange dream, and that if she just went along with the program, she’d wake up to find herself in the apartment bedroom.

  However, if it were only a dream, no way would she have cut it short by having Rod step into those shorts, so now she needed an explanation of why her reality had shifted dimensions…

  “Did you find out why JR’s here? What can he possibly hope to accomplish this far inland?” Rod turned to look back at Livingston, his shoulders obliterating any view she had out the side window.

  And why she’d want any view other than him was beyond her.

  “Watch it!” The bird let go of his hold and fell to the seat when she swerved around a dumpster on the turn. “We can’t afford any accidents.”

  “Sorry.” She was being chastised by a bird. There had to be something funny in that somewhere, but at the moment, it eluded her. And solidified the realization that this was actually happening.

  Didn’t explain it, just solidified it.

  She shifted into third.

  Livingston fluttered back to his perch, for lack of a better term, hanging from the back of the seat by his feather-tips. “I don’t know yet, Rod, but after those ignition wires, I’m not discounting anything. He’s definitely a bird of interest in my mind. Having him show up here just confirms that.”

  Bird of interest, ignition wires… Val was having a hard time trying to keep the car on the road while glancing between Rod’s worried expression and Livingston’s balancing act, not to mention checking out the windows to see what Livingston was looking for. Oh, and trying to process the whole talking-seagull thing.

  “Who’s JR?” she managed to slide into the conversation as she slid into fourth.

  “An albatross,” Rod answered.

  “An albatross? Here? In Kansas? I’d say he’s a bit lost.” Someone’s morning newspaper fluttered across her windshield, obscuring her view long enough for Livingston to comment on it.

  “Watch the road,” he admonished, which was just as wrong as him speaking. “And, lost? Not JR. He doesn’t get lost. That’s the trouble. When JR shows up, it’s because he has a reason and the only reason for him to head this far inland is a reconnaissance mission of his own. I know for a fact he’s not on The Council’s payroll.”

  With the road clear ahead, if not the sky, Val adjusted the rearview mirror to look at the talking bird. “Okay, you guys are starting to freak me out. What are you? Some specialized branch of the FBI? CIA? What?”

  Livingston shook his head. “I’m Chief Special Agent, ASA.”

  “ASA? Never heard of it.” She looked at Rod.

  “As well you shouldn’t,” he said, his eyes hooded—but not in the same way as they’d been during that kiss last night. Those lips that had been so pliant and urgent against hers now thinned to an almost invisible line—

  “But you will,” Livingston said. “Air Security Agency.”

  “Don’t you mean the FAA?” She pulled her mind back on the conversation—with a bird!—and off the kissability of Rod’s lips.

  “No. ASA. I don’t work for your government.”

  “You’re a foreign operative? A spy? Oh, hell, what have you two gotten me into?” One of the tires hit a pothole when she half-turned to gape at him.

  “Eyes on the road, Valerie.” Livingston turned his attention back to the sky. The clouds were growing darker. “Technically, yes, I am a foreign operative. But not to you. And that’s all the expla
nation you’re getting from me until I know what’s what.” Livingston readjusted his hold on the seat.

  “We need to know who he’s working for, Rod. I’ve been over the lists of known anarchists and I can’t come up with one. We’ve got the top wrasse working on it. They’ve studied those wires, the method of ignition planned, the locations they were stolen from, patterns of known movement among those on the list, and no one fits. It’s got to be someone else, someone new. Someone who doesn’t want you to take the throne.”

  “What?” Val yanked the car to the right, almost hitting Mr. Morris’s 1957 Chevy, his pride and joy.

  Rod grabbed the wheel, avoiding an accident at the last second. “Valerie, please. You must retain your composure.”

  “Retain my composure? Are you insane? Yes. Yes, I think you are.” Val shoved the car into fifth and zipped onto the highway. “Anarchists? Throne? What throne? Who are you? What are you?”

  “He’s a prince, Valerie.”

  “Really? Whose? England’s? Monaco’s?” The porcelain god’s? She had to be dreaming this.

  Rod glared at the bird then turned to her. “While England’s throne once sought to rival the territory of mine, today they don’t compare. As for Monaco, it has acceptable beaches, but the buildings, overabundance of Humans, and many conveyances have ruined the shoreline.”

  She gaped at him.

  “Watch it, Valerie,” the bird—the bird!—said from the backseat. “You don’t want to catch any flies with that open mouth.”

  Wake up, wake up, wake up.

  She pinched herself.

  Ouch. Dammit. She was awake.

  “So you’re really a prince? And I’m going along with the program as if heading off into the wild blue yonder with talking seagulls and royal princes is normal?”

  “Valerie, we’ll explain everything later. Right now we need to find a way to go faster. We’ll never outrun JR in this.” Rod patted her arm, and, amazingly, that settled her rattled nerves.

  Until she realized what he’d said.

  “Are you saying that an albatross—and I can’t believe I’m even asking this question—can fly faster than a car?”