Tamiko and the Two Janitors (Amaranthine Saga Book 3)

by Forthright

  Easing up a rung, he sat on the top of his stepladder. “That’s idealistic.”

  “I’ll admit, I went into this hoping to upgrade our classrooms and add programs, but I don’t think Spokesperson Twineshaft is that shortsighted. We have a chance to make a difference on the national level. Maybe even worldwide.” Tami’s resolve took shape even as she spoke the words. “I want peace. Let’s give it a place to take root. That way, it can grow.”

  “Twineshaft will back you.” He cocked his head to one side. “But have you considered the consequences of letting him use this place?”

  She straightened in her chair, responding to his stern expression. “In which area?”

  “The most important one—the kids.” He spread his hands wide. “Do you have a contingency plan for the reporters, the camera crews, the curiosity seekers, the paparazzi, the protestors? There are plenty of people who want to throw obstacles in front of your ideals. Are you ready for bomb scares and vandals and every fanatic eager to make headlines?”

  Doubts spun queasily in her stomach. Tami didn’t want to think that the worst could happen, but it was her responsibility to plan for it. “This needs to be a safe environment for our teachers, for the children. But I’m not sure it’s sending the right message to immediately put up a fence.”

  “Agreed. But I’m not thinking about chain link or barbed wire.” He rested his chin on folded hands. “Betweeners know how to be subtle. Get some of their reavers in here to ward the grounds.”

  “They can do that?”

  “Cinch.”

  “And it would do the same job as a fence?”

  He fingered a band of leather at his wrist. “Barriers aren’t showy, but they get the job done. People won’t fuss, but the kids will be safe.”

  Tami was impressed. “How do you know all this stuff?”

  He missed a beat. “Television.”

  She supposed that was possible. Plenty of people were as fascinated as Grandad in all things Amaranthine. “Reavers and wards. I suppose I could contact the county offices.”

  Nodding toward her desk, he asked, “The papers that herald brought … did they include a contact person? Might be quicker to work through them.”

  “You’re right!” Tami was already riffling through stacks, searching for the reaver assigned to work with her, the other two principals, and Dr. Bellamy. “I should bring this up to the others, too. They may need to take similar measures.”

  “There you go.” He stood and descended, quickly collapsing his ladder. “You’re all set.”

  “Wait!” Tami hurried around her desk and offered her hand. “I’m Tami.”

  “You’re Principal Reaverson.”

  Resisting the urge to peek at his nametag, she asked, “And you are?”

  He hesitated, as if trying to remember his name. “I go by Ash.”

  “I go by Tami.”

  Ash ignored her hand. “If you insist.”

  “And you’re on my committee.”

  One side of his lips tilted upward. “Are you insisting on that, too?”

  “Adamantly!” She wriggled her fingers, further insisting on the handshake.

  His hand was lean, deeply tanned, and work-hardened, but gentle. When his loose clasp slipped sideways. Tami thought for a moment he was going to lift her hand to his lips, but he just stood there, eyes averted as he supported her hand with his palm.

  “I’m not much for meetings,” he grumbled.

  Tami wondered if anyone truly liked meetings. “You can be on a special advisory committee. We’ll have informal sessions, on an as-needed basis, perhaps in your office?”

  “You want to meet in our closet?”

  She frowned. “You don’t have an office?”

  “We do,” said Ash. “In one corner of the Janitorial Closet.”

  “Is there room for a meeting?”

  “I suppose. If you keep your special advisory committee small.”

  Tami liked the shine in his eyes, the barest hint of a smile touching his lips, the steadiness of the hand under hers. “Three members?”

  “Sounds about right.” He withdrew his hand and eased backward, snagging his ladder as he made for the door. “I’ll tell Kip.”

  “Thank you, Ash.”

  “No big deal.” Just before the door pulled all the way closed behind him, he quietly added, “Tami.”

  SEVEN

  Janitorial Closet

  “Did you see the new principal?” Ash asked.

  “Tami? Sure.” Kip sashayed around the cramped maintenance room with a mop. “We’ve already had our first waltz!”

  He couldn’t keep the disbelief from his voice. “What were you doing, dancing with the principal?”

  His best friend shrugged. “Seemed like a good idea at the time. If it makes you feel any better, I enjoyed a brisk polka with Flootie, and Harrison has had lessons in ballroom dancing. The only thing lacking from our tango was the rose.”

  “You tangoed with Harrison?”

  “Lured him into a foxtrot, too.” Kip waggled his eyebrows. “The kids were impressed.”

  “You shouldn’t tease him so much.”

  “We were just messing around. He’s definitely warming to me.”

  Ash had his doubts, but let it go. “All clear?”

  “Yep! Full lock-down. We have the place to ourselves.”

  “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  Kip replaced the mop and leaned against the back wall. “Hey, if you’re feeling talkative, I don’t want to interrupt the flow.”

  “I asked one thing.”

  “And revealed the deepest inner workings of your heart and soul.” The redhead folded his arms over his chest. “So much better than your usual range of grunts and monosyllables.”

  “I talk,” protested Ash.

  “Not at any great length.” Kip raised a hand. “That’s probably my fault, though, not letting you get a word in.”

  Ash cracked a smile. “You even talk in your sleep.”

  “You would know!”

  “Shut up and get comfortable.”

  “Gladly.” Kip dropped onto an olive green camp chair that had been a fixture in the room for eighty years at least. Bending down, he unlaced a boot and eased his foot from its confines. Kip stretched and flexed, wriggling his toes. “Oh, that’s good.”

  Ash merely grunted. This was part of the daily routine.

  Kip’s feet were long and large, covered in thick red fur, with pink pads and surprisingly sharp claws.

  Next, he tackled the snaps and zips of his coveralls. The moment his arms were free, he was hissing and grunting as he unwound a mass of matted fur wrapped three times around his middle. He always looked so pudgy in his uniform, but there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. Shocking, considering how much Kip could eat.

  His tail unwound, Kip shed the coveralls entirely and bounced on the balls of his feet. He bent forward, hands pressed to the floor. Straightening, he took advantage of their room’s high ceiling to leap into a backward somersault, landing in a crouch. Then a quick tuck-and-roll, followed by three smart shakes, which was all it took to put the puff back into a tail that would be the envy of any squirrel.

  Kip was furred from the waist down and freckled everywhere else. When he scratched up under his T-shirt, he partially exposed the blaze on his belly. “So what’s all this about Tami?”

  Ash summed up her quandary and their committee.

  Kip chuckled. “She hasn’t changed much. Always leading the charge.”

  “Huh?”

  “Tami. I remember her.”

  Ash could only repeat, “Huh?”

  “She never paid us much attention. Of course, we were a couple of old codgers back then.” He helpfully added, “You were always closer to her twin brother. You know the one—sweet and shy.”

  Twins rang a bell, and Ash covered his eyes. “She’s Joe’s sister? I can’t believe I …. I feel like I owe her an apology.”

  Kip bounded to
his side, grinning rakishly. “Is she your type?”

  “No!”

  “I didn’t know you had a type.”

  “I said no.” Ash hid his misery against a ready shoulder. “That would be horribly wrong.”

  Kip’s claws raked through his hair, catching on the ponytail tie and removing it. With long, slow strokes, he spoke softly. “You do realize that people like us—if we don’t choose people like us—can’t avoid the whole age difference issue.”

  “But she was one of our kids.” Ash hated himself for even thinking their new principal was interesting.

  “And …?”

  “They don’t usually come back.”

  His friend wrapped his arms around him and chirred soothingly. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. She grew up. You’re allowed to appreciate the person she’s become.”

  Ash muttered, “I never said anything about appreciation.”

  “Who do you think I am?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “I’ve seen plenty of nothing. Trust me, this is something.”

  “Doesn’t have to be something,” insisted Ash.

  Kip hummed and kept right on petting. “Tell me something anyhow.”

  Ash mumbled, “She has blue eyes.”

  “That she does. Unusual, but understandable, given her mixed heritage. Jiro and Tamiko—their mom’s Japanese.”

  Ash relaxed into Kip, who’d been his best friend forever. “Her father probably has blue eyes.”

  “He does. I remember him, too. Abel and his apple fritters.” The squirrel’s belly rumbled, and he asked, “What do you want for supper?”

  “Not hungry.”

  “Classic symptom of a heart in peril. Are your sort known for love at first sight?”

  “How should I know?” he grumbled.

  Kip lifted his face and kissed his nose. “I’ll talk to Tyrone. He’s about our age. Or Cyril, if you’d rather.”

  “I’m not in love!” Ash bit his lip. “Why are you trying to make this a thing?”

  “Because you’re an idiot, and I love you. But I won’t say another word about the state of your heart where Miss Reaverson is concerned. On one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Pizza for dinner.”

  Ash grunted and hoped he could move on half so easily.

  EIGHT

  Not Enough to Go Around

  Roonta-kiv Nightspangle was a rangy she-wolf whose beauty was somewhat marred by an expression of pure boredom. She looked Melissa over, then sniffed. “Yet another starry-eyed whelp who wants a pet to ride.”

  Melissa’s cheeks flamed, but she took the standard receptive stance, showing her new mentor that she was willing to learn.

  “Not many prove themselves worth the effort it takes to train them.” Roonta-kiv took Melissa’s wrist and pushed up the sleeve. “Well, well.”

  The cuff covering half her forearm had been a graduation gift from Mom. Supple leather enforced by metal plates, it could stop an arrow or turn a blade, and a clever sheath had been worked into the underside. The slim dagger within was meant to be Melissa’s last line of defense, but Roonta-kiv’s attention had been caught by Magda’s addition.

  Three sigil-etched stones gleamed softly in their fittings. Personal wards.

  “Armstrong, was it?”

  “Yes.”

  The she-wolf lost the affectation of disinterest, but the regret in her tone wasn’t any more encouraging. “More than half our Kith are currently overseas, adding to the strength of other packs, safe from the predation of fear. And the ratio of hopefuls to whelps is five-to-one.”

  A warning she should have taken more to heart.

  Reality bit deep as a blade.

  Enrollment at Bellwether hadn’t put Melissa on the fast-track to a Kith partnership. Her informal apprenticeship to Roonta-kiv was shared by sixteen other students, all as eager as she to distinguish themselves. And Melissa was late to the game. To the chubby, gamboling cubs from this season’s litter, she was an outsider. By the time she won the trust she craved, they would already be paired off with one of her classmates.

  Her first day wasn’t all bad. She brushed the shelter’s alpha pair by way of introduction. But her training menu involved freshening the bedding in a long line of unoccupied niches. She suspected the older students of creating busywork for the new rookie. By the end of the morning, she’d spent more time with a pen of visiting goats than with any Nightspangle wolves.

  Disheartened, she left the Kith shelter and dragged her way toward the distant commuter lot. If she was going to stick it out in hopes of a match, she needed a long-range plan. Staying with Uncle Abel and Aunt Hiro kept her expenses low, but by mid-winter, Melissa would have to pay another sizable fine.

  Maybe she should look for work.

  Melissa had already memorized the roads and alleys, more out of habit than anything, but now she turned her attention to the businesses. Overwhelmed by the array, she reviewed her options and reluctantly selected the most efficient path to success.

  She called her father.

  Twenty minutes later, Melissa stood at the corner of Fourth and Founders, staring up at an imposing three-story building. Built from brick and old-fashioned stonework, it took up the entire block. Her father had given her the name and address of the simplest entrance into the urban enclave. Belatedly, she thought she could have found the place on her own. The building’s ornamentation was surprisingly revealing.

  Scrollwork and oak leaves shaded clusters of acorns, and carved squirrels scampered along ledges or clung to eaves. Pheasants swooped over windows, and wolves crouched in niches. The only thing keeping it from betraying its residents was the fact that all the buildings this close to the campus boasted similar decorations.

  The few enclaves she’d visited before had built a way of life around farming, mining, or an assortment of artisan crafts—pottery, carving, weaving, glass-blowing. Urban enclaves were more daring, interacting to a greater degree with the surrounding human community. One enclave had become world-famous as chocolatiers, and she knew of a group of Dimityblest designers whose line of specialty papers could be found in any craft store.

  She never would have expected Amaranthine to run a coffee shop.

  Pushing through wide, brass-fitted front doors, Melissa paused to marvel at the spaciousness of Founders Coffee Shop. From what she could see, it took up more than half of the building’s first floor. Booths, tables, a long bar fitted with charging stations. Along one interior wall, glass doors allowed peeks into private rooms for study groups and tutoring sessions. Dark wood, antique brass, and beveled glass—everything about the décor belonged in a previous century.

  It was busy, with the buzz of conversation, the hiss of steam, and the cheerful call of names as orders were filled. Of course, the best feature of any coffee shop had to be the pervasive fragrance.

  Melissa found the ambiance at once relaxing and invigorating.

  Countertops were marble, and glass display cases featured a tempting array of baked goods. Deep shelves lined the wall behind the front register, where stacks of white ceramic cups encouraged customers to sit and stay, not grab and go. Students had flocked to generously wide tables. The sound of turning pages and tapping keys came from every side. Founders was clearly set up to encourage gathering and study, like an unofficial student center.

  One with a secret.

  She could feel the wards, and she knew on an instinctual level that there were Amaranthine close by. What surprised her was that all the customers were from the general populace. They had no idea that the so-called werewolves they feared might well be serving their shots of espresso.

  Behind the counter, a black gentleman in a crisp white shirt and dark vest added a swirl of cream to a glass of iced coffee. His co-worker, a much younger man with the same bowtie and name badge, was dusting the foaming tops of three deep-bowled cups with powder.

  Melissa queued up behind three girls who whispered, gi
ggled, and called out to the younger man. He cheerily returned their greetings, and he knew all their names. Quite the personal touch.

  When her turn came, the young barista slowly straightened, as if to prove his superior height—a scant inch or so. This was the sort of posturing adolescent wolves were known to use when meeting. Did that mean he was a member of the Nightspangle pack? If so, the illusion protecting his identity was perfect.

  “Well, hello there.” His ancestry was Asian, but his accent was all-American. The name engraved on his golden badge was Jiminy. “Pardon me.” Planting one hand on the counter, he reached for her hair. Even as she pulled back, he retreated, a piece of straw between thumb and forefinger. He took a conspiratorial tone. “Somebody’s been behind wards today!”

  She made a discreet hand sign, confirming what was apparently obvious. To him. Much to Melissa’s consternation, she couldn’t tell if Jiminy was a reaver or an Amaranthine. But at least she knew she was dealing with another Betweener.

  “May I ask you a personal question?” His tone was soft and light, his smile reassuring. “Your hand.”

  Melissa belatedly offered her palms, thinking he wanted a formal greeting.

  “Just this one.” Jiminy took her by the wrist and pulled her closer. His thumb slid over her pulse point, and he leaned in. The light brown fringe of his bangs fell into his eyes, and he shook them aside. “How many ways are you warded? Let me guess—blue, green, and … feels pink.”

  “What?”

  Another gentle tug, and he was pointing to her forearm or, more specifically, to the cuff hidden by her sleeve. “You’re packing crystals. Can I have a peek?”

  He crossed a line by slipping his fingers under the cloth, questing upward. A moment later, she had the offending hand twisted and pinned to cold stone. The angle forced him down, and she reinforced her objection by pushing his head until his cheek met marble.

  “Ow.”

  Melissa’s face flushed, and she checked to see if anyone had noticed her manhandling the barista. Both Mom and Magda had been thorough and creative in teaching her ways to dissuade unwanted masculine attention.