by Anne Bishop
“She likes books?”
“Yes.” Kowalski took a sip of coffee. His hands shook when he set the mug down. “We both do. We read a lot.”
Simon continued to study the officer in a way that made Monty want to knock over the table or start shouting just to break that focus.
“Polite,” Simon finally said. “Smells good. Doesn’t screech when she talks. Asked about books she couldn’t find in a human store. Should have that shipment tomorrow. She can pick up the ones that are available.” A teeth-baring smile. “Or you can.”
Kowalski looked Simon in the eyes. “I’m sure she would rather pick up her order personally to make sure the books are what she wanted.”
“Books weren’t the only thing your fiancée was interested in, but HGR doesn’t sell music discs, and the music store isn’t open to anyone but Courtyard residents.” Simon smiled at Monty. “But we could arrange a tour of our Market Square for our new friends in the police department. You could each bring a guest, even do some shopping.”
“As long as we don’t expect the merchants to give us the shiny?” Monty asked, struggling to remain calm and polite—and hoping Kowalski would do the same.
Tess, who had been about to top off their mugs, jerked back. “Ah, Simon. You didn’t let one of the Crows watch the register, did you?”
“It will be fine,” he said tightly.
“Say that when you’re trying to balance the cash drawer tonight.” Shaking her head, she walked back to the counter.
Monty looked away before anyone noticed him staring. Her hair had been brown and straight when they walked in. Now it looked like she’d poured green food coloring over strands of it and used one of those curling irons. But she hadn’t left the room. He knew she hadn’t left the room.
“Since I’m closing up tonight, maybe I should take over the register now,” a man said as he approached their table.
Black hair, dark eyes, black sweater and jeans. More olive-skinned than fair, and dangerously good-looking.
“This is Vladimir Sanguinati, the comanager of Howling Good Reads,” Simon said.
Kowalski bobbled the mug and sloshed coffee on the table.
“Sorry,” he muttered, grabbing the napkins Tess had put on the table.
“This is Lieutenant Crispin James Montgomery and Officer Karl Kowalski, our new police contacts,” Simon said.
“How intriguing,” Vladimir replied.
Monty didn’t know why it was intriguing, or why Kowalski reacted to the name like that, but he did know there were things he wanted to think and say, and it wasn’t safe to think or say them while he was in that store.
“I won’t take up any more of your time, Mr. Wolfgard,” Monty said quietly as he pushed his chair back and stood up. He pulled one of the new business cards out of his pocket and handed it to Simon. “My number at the station and my mobile phone number. If you need assistance—or just want it for any reason—please call me.”
Rising, Simon slipped the card into his trouser pocket without looking at it.
“Since we’re all friends now, you should come in for coffee again,” Tess said.
“Thank you, ma’am. We’ll do that,” Monty said. He buttoned his coat as he and Kowalski walked to the outside door. “Wait until we’re in the car,” he added to his partner, feeling the Others’ eyes watch them as they walked past the store windows to the parking lot.
When they got in the car, Kowalski blew out a breath and said, “Where to, Lieutenant?”
“Nowhere yet. Just start the car so we don’t freeze out here.” Monty stared straight ahead, letting thoughts solidify into words. But he wasn’t quite ready to say what he suddenly understood, so he asked a question. “Sanguinati. You jumped like you were poked with a needle when you heard that name. Why?”
“Doesn’t mean anything to you?” Kowalski waited a moment. “Are you familiar with the term vampire?”
Monty turned his head and stared at the other man. “That was one of the bloodsuckers?”
Kowalski nodded. “As in drain their prey of blood. In popular fiction they’re called vampires, but that species of terra indigene call themselves Sanguinati. No one really knows much about them except that they drink blood, don’t seem to have anything else in common with the fictional version, and they’re just as dangerous as the shape-shifters. And there’s been some . . . evidence . . . that they have another way of extracting blood besides biting you.”
Glad he hadn’t drunk much coffee, Monty swallowed to push down his churning stomach. “Do you think they’re using those stores as easy places to hunt?”
Kowalski tipped his head back. Finally he said, “Can’t say for certain about the Sanguinati, but the shifters aren’t using the stores that way. Wolfgard wasn’t kidding about them eating a shoplifter’s hand, but we’ve never filled out a DLU because someone went into one of those stores.” He turned his head and looked at Monty. “What’s on your mind, Lieutenant?”
“I’ve been thinking that most of what you know about the terra indigene you learned because you’ve been brushing against them all your life. You probably grew up in a neighborhood that’s close enough to the Courtyard that you know the rules for the social center.”
“I’m not the only cop in Lakeside who’s brushed up against the Others at a social occasion. The terra indigene control most of the world. It’s foolish not to take an opportunity to figure out more about them. And, for the record, before I met Ruthie, I did some necking and petting with a girl who worked in the Courtyard, but we parted company after a few dates and I never used one of the rooms above the social center for a romp between the sheets.”
A silence filled the car. Monty ended it before it became a wedge between him and the younger man. “Terra indigene. Earth native. At the academy, no one ever explains exactly what that means. Maybe command doesn’t know exactly what it means or is afraid the truth would scare too many of us, and frightened men with guns would get us all killed.”
“What’s scarier than knowing you’re always surrounded by creatures who think you’re edible?”
“They really aren’t human, Karl,” Monty said. “Intellectually, I knew that. Now I know that with body as well as brain. The terra indigene aren’t animals who turn into humans or humans who turn into animals. They really are something unknown that learned how to change into a human shape because it suited them. They gained something from the human form, whether it was standing upright or having the convenience of fingers and thumbs, just like they gained something from the animal forms they absorbed.”
“You support the first-form theory?” Kowalski asked.
“That wasn’t taught at the academy,” Monty replied with a forced smile.
“Something Ruthie found in some moldy old history book a while back. There was a theory that the Others have had a lot of forms, changing their shapes as the world and the creatures around them changed so that they remained the dominant predators. But the first form, whatever it might be, is the evolutionary ancestor of all the terra indigene and is the reason they can change shapes. The theory also says they take on some of the traits of the forms they use—like that girl Crow attracted to something shiny.”
“That’s close enough to what I was thinking,” Monty said. “They have learned a human shape, but there is no humanity in them, nothing that recognizes us as more than meat. More clever than deer or cattle, but still meat. And yet, when they couldn’t find the men who killed one of their own, they understood how to punish everyone in the city by tacking on a tax to the water rates. Which means they do have feelings about their own kind.”
“Okay. But what does that have to do with Wolfgard offering to let us see something that’s usually off-limits or making sure I knew they recognized Ruthie? You were polite and got back threats.”
“I don’t think it was a threat. I think Simon Wolfgard was trying to be friendly. But the terra indigene line he comes from has absorbed the wolf for thousands of years and the human sid
e for a few centuries at best, so he sounds threatening even when he isn’t trying to be. He has his own motives for opening those stores to human customers and inviting us to see a market I’m guessing has been seen by very few visitors.”
“So?”
“So we’re going to take him up on his offer,” Monty said. “We’re going to tour the market. Ruthie too, if you’re comfortable asking her to join us. We’re going to stop in and have a cup of coffee on a regular basis. We’re going to be faces the Others recognize. We’re going to try to change the dynamic, Karl. They aren’t human, will never be human. But we’re going to try to get them to see at least some of us as more than useful or clever meat. Then maybe—maybe—the next time adult men act like fools and enter the Courtyard uninvited, we’ll get a call instead of having to fill out a DLU form.”
“I’m not sure anyone ever tried to change the dynamics between us and the Others,” Kowalski said cautiously.
“Then maybe it’s time someone did.” Monty sighed. “All right. One more stop, then I’d like to drive around for a bit to get the feel of the area.”
“Where to?”
“To introduce ourselves to the person who could be our best ally—the Human Liaison.”
They pulled out of the parking lot and turned left at the intersection of Crowfield Avenue and Main Street. They passed one storefront before turning into the delivery area for the Liaison’s Office and the consulate.
“That store is called Earth Native,” Kowalski said. “Terra indigene sculpture, pottery, paintings, and weavings that are pricey but available for sale to humans. A sculptor who works in wood makes something called garden totems from the trunks of downed trees. Big things that can weigh a couple hundred pounds, or pieces small enough to be used as an accent table. Ruthie wants to buy a piece for our new apartment.”
Monty filed all that information away as they pulled in and parked.
Kowalski pointed to their right. “That building is the consulate. Elliot Wolfgard has an office there, and the meeting rooms are usually as close as any city official gets to being inside the Courtyard.”
“Stay here,” Monty said. The moment he stepped out of the car, half the Crows perched on the shoulder-high wall took off and the other half began cawing at him. Someone on the other side of the wall had been working with some kind of hammer, and the rhythmic sound stopped.
Monty walked to the office door and pulled it open, pretending he didn’t see the Crows—pretending there was nothing ominous in the silence coming from the other side of the wall.
As he walked up to the counter, the first thing he noticed was the woman’s hair. It made him think of one of Lizzy’s dolls whose hair was made of orange yarn. Then he noticed how her smile slipped when she looked past him and saw the police car.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he said, pulling out his ID. “I’m Lieutenant Crispin James Montgomery.”
“I’m Meg Corbyn,” she replied. There were nerves—maybe even fear—in her gray eyes, and her hands trembled just enough to be noticed. “Is there something I can do for you?”
He’d seen the sign over the door. He knew what HLDNA meant. In his experience, women usually weren’t afraid without a reason. “No, ma’am. I’m the police contact for the Courtyard, and I just wanted to introduce myself.” He pulled out a business card and set it on the counter. When she didn’t reach for it, he gentled his voice more than usual. “Ms. Corbyn, are you here by your own choice? I can’t help noticing that you seem nervous.”
She gave him a wobbly smile. “Oh. It’s my first day. I want to do a good job, and there’s quite a bit to learn.”
Monty returned the smile. “I know what you mean. It’s my first day on the job too.”
Her smile firmed up and warmed, and she picked up the business card. Then her forehead puckered in a little frown. “But, Lieutenant, human law doesn’t apply in the Courtyard.”
“I know that, ma’am. Even so, if you need my help, you just call.”
Meg hesitated, then said, “Do you know anything about ponies?”
Monty blinked. “Ponies? Not particularly. But I rode horses when I was young. Used to bring chunks of carrot or apple with me. The horses weren’t much interested in being saddled, but they would come up to the fence for the carrots.”
“Maybe that will help,” Meg muttered.
“Well, then. I have been of service today.”
She laughed as if she didn’t quite know how, as if it wasn’t a familiar sound. It bothered him that laughter was an unfamiliar sound.
That wasn’t the only thing about her that bothered him.
He wished her luck on getting through the rest of her first day, and she wished him the same. Satisfied, he walked out of the office—and noticed Kowalski’s tight face and unwavering attention. Looking toward the left corner of the building, he saw the big man dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, holding a chisel and mallet. Must be the sculptor.
“Good morning,” Monty said, continuing to the car.
The man didn’t reply. Just watched him.
“Sir?” Kowalski said as soon as Monty got in the car.
“We’ve met enough residents of the Courtyard for one day,” Monty replied. “Give me a tour of the district.”
“Glad to.”
“What qualities do you think a Liaison normally has?” he asked when they drove away from the Courtyard.
“Moxie. Savvy,” Kowalski replied without hesitation.
“Innocence?”
Kowalski gave Monty a startled look before turning his attention back to the road. “That’s not a label I would give to anyone who works for the Others.”
“I got the impression Ms. Corbyn lacks the maturity of her physical age. If I hadn’t seen her, I would have placed her at half her age.”
Kowalski gave him another look. “The Simple Life folk sometimes give that impression because they live without most of the technology that the rest of us use. You think she left the community on Great Island and took the job here?”
He’d never met any of the Simple Life folk, so he couldn’t offer an opinion, but he said, “It’s worth checking out.”
“Thing is, Lieutenant, the Others control everything on that island except the land they leased to the Simple Life community and a couple dozen families who live along the southern shore and make a living fishing, running the ferry, or working in the stores and shops that supply goods and services. A girl from that community would be used to seeing Others and might find it less scary to deal with them than be alone in the big city.”
The explanation might be as simple as that, Monty thought. But he still wondered if being in the Courtyard was the reason Meg Corbyn was so nervous, or if she had another reason to be afraid.
* * *
Asia swore under her breath. The damn Crows were paying too much attention to the Liaison’s Office, and if she kept driving past, one of them was going to realize they kept seeing the same car. Seeing the police car in the parking lot earlier had been reason enough to go on by. Her looks were memorable, and she didn’t want cops taking any notice of her. But she did want to get a look at the new liaison Simon had hired instead of her. By the time she had done the slide and spin on some of the side streets—where were the freaking plows?—and gotten back to the street entrance, the damn cops were pulled up in front of the Liaison’s Office!
She thought her luck had changed when she saw them drive away, but the earth native who sold sculptures and other artsy crap was going into the office, and there was something about him besides his size that made her uneasy.
Try again tomorrow, she thought.
As she flicked off the blinker, she realized the white van in front of her had done the same thing moments before.
“I guess I’m not the only one who is curious,” she muttered to herself. She smiled as she followed the van long enough to memorize the license plate. Then she pulled in to the first cleared parking area and wrote down the numbers. This was so
mething she could tell Bigwig. He kept saying information was a valuable commodity. Knowing that someone was interested in the new Liaison was the kind of information he and the other backers might find profitable.
CHAPTER 4
The experiment with the coffeemaker was an unqualified disaster, so Meg settled for a bowl of cereal and an apple—and promised herself a ten-minute break to run over to A Little Bite and get a large cup of coffee as soon as the shop opened.
Wearing the blue sweater and jeans again so the black outfit would still be clean, she made a second promise to stop at the clothing store in the Market Square and buy enough clothes to get her through the work days, or as many clothes as she could afford right now. How did the Others do laundry? Simon Wolfgard’s clothes hadn’t smelled, so the Others must have a way to wash clothes. She just had to find out where and how.
So many things to learn. So many things she knew only as images or snips of action. How was she going to find out what she needed to know without revealing how little she knew?
Those were thoughts for later. Now she had to finish getting ready for work.
Taking three carrots out of the refrigerator, she washed them, patted them dry, and set them on the cutting board. She pushed up the sleeves of her turtleneck and sweater, then pulled the large knife out of the cutting block.
Flesh and steel. Such an intimate dance.
Every cut brings you closer to the cut that kills you, Jean had said. If you keep using the razor once you’re free of this place, then you become your own killer.
The knife clattered on the counter. Meg stepped back, staring at the shiny blade as she rubbed her left forearm to relieve the pins-and-needles feeling under her skin. She got that feeling sometimes just before it was time for the next cut. If the cut was delayed, the sensation got so bad it felt like buzzing or, even worse, like something trying to chew its way out of her skin.
Just a small cut, she thought as she pulled the folding razor out of the pocket of her jeans. Just a small cut to see if the carrots will work, if the ponies will like me.