by Forthright
Nobody home.
Wasting no time, he crossed to the desk and turned on Jiminy’s computer. It whirred to life. Mercifully, there were no passwords to stymie him further. And the icon Kip needed was right on the desktop, helpfully labeled FIRST-SENSEI.
He clicked.
It connected.
Two faces appeared on the screen, but neither was looking at him. Kip felt as if he’d stepped into the middle of an argument.
“Papka won’t mind!”
“Au contraire.”
Kip’s heart sank. This wasn’t the person—or persons—he’d been hoping to contact. Should he back out now? His cursor hovered over the button that promised a quick exit.
The teenage girl’s attention switched to her screen. “Oh! You’re not Mr. Foster.” Her eyebrows lifted in an interested way. “Who are you, please?”
“I’m Kip.”
“Is Mr. Foster there?”
“Not at the moment.”
She folded her hands on the desk and calmly asked, “Why are you in Mr. Foster’s room?”
“I needed some advice, and I thought maybe ….” Kip hesitated. This was ridiculous. She was just a kid. Leaning forward, he asked, “Who are you, please?”
“Isla Ward of Stately House. This is Uncle Jackie, our butler.”
“Jacques Smythe.” The young man, who knew how to gussy, offered a sultry smile. “You haven’t answered Isla, pretty boy. Why are you in Jimsy’s room? Are your intentions honorable?”
Kip got the distinct impression that Jacques hoped they weren’t.
Isla must have agreed, since she rolled her eyes and batted the butler’s arm. “Behave.”
“He looks decidedly roguish,” countered Jacques. “I’m only thinking of dear, sweet Jimsy. Isn’t he meant to be a possible suitor for you?”
“No,” the girl said firmly, but she was blushing.
Kip propped his chin on his hand, enjoying the unfolding drama in spite of his disappointment. Before the Emergence, when technology was off-limits, Jiminy had been so isolated. Clearly, he’d made friends.
Isla said, “I would be pleased to advise you, Kip.”
Cute kid. Kip smiled and shrugged. “I don’t think you can ….”
Isla’s chin tipped up, and she crisply announced, “I am quite knowledgeable on a variety of topics and sympathetic to the wants and worries of every clan. What is the nature of your inquiry?”
Kip was already shaking his head, partly in amazement. He tried to match her formality. “It’s a matter of some delicacy.”
“My favorite,” murmured Jacques.
What a flirt. Kip had half a mind to mess with him. But the butler’s expression underwent a sudden shift. His eyes lit up like Christmas had come, though he quickly schooled his features into an unconvincing air of disinterest.
Another voice carried through, blandly amused. “Why have the two of you commandeered Michael’s desk?”
“Language lessons,” Isla said primly. “We have permission.”
“Oh? And is your virtual companion conversant in Japanese?”
Another face loomed into view, both amused and accusing.
“Nope.” Kip figured he was in about as much trouble as he could be. Leaning heavily on the manners his mother had harped on ever since he’d found his feet, he gave a little wave. “Good evening, Lord Mossberne.”
A bejeweled hand planted itself on the desk, and sapphire eyes narrowed.
He smiled and let his tail flick into view. May as well be memorable.
“And you are …?”
“Kip.”
The spokesperson for the dragon clans hummed. “Are you a Woodacre? You look like a Woodacre.”
“Yes.”
Isla piped up. “Lapis, he says he needs advice on a delicate matter.”
The dragon turned away, and dark blue hair swayed across most of the screen. “Whose advice?” he inquired.
“Naturally, I assumed Papka.”
“If Kip was in need of a ward, young Mr. Foster could surely accommodate him.” Turning back to the screen, Lapis anticipated his answer by stating, “Argent is unavailable.”
“Gotcha. Sorry to interrupt. I should probably be ….”
Lapis held up a finger. “Isla, my dear girl, yield your place to me. Kip and I need a few minutes alone. Jacques, if you would be so kind?”
The butler murmured something in French, blew Kip a kiss, and strolled off screen. Isla took a little longer, needing to gather up her books and papers. She smiled brightly and offered a gesture that was pure wolvish—I’m glad our paths crossed.
Kip grinned and answered in kind.
Then it was only Lapis, who took the time to arrange himself before the camera. The dragon lord’s hands flashed through a series of sigils that Kip recognized. He was securing additional privacy on his end. Grateful for the courtesy, Kip mirrored his actions.
Lapis dipped his head approvingly … and waited.
Not the audience he’d been hoping for, but Lord Mossberne was one of the Five. He probably knew stuff. Kip blurted, “How can I bind my life to a human’s?”
Delight suffused the dragon’s face. He leaned forward. “You have found a lady to love?”
“W-well ….”
“And she returns your affection?”
“We’ve come to an understanding. Of sorts,” Kip hedged.
Lapis tilted his head, as if trying to hear what was left unspoken. Gently, he asked, “Is she a reaver?”
Gesturing surrender, Kip admitted, “He’s unregistered.”
Rather than off-put, the dragon seemed intrigued. And his gaze drifted out of focus. Finally, he flicked his fingers. “Any other fascinating little complications I should be aware of?”
With a weak laugh, he confirmed Lapis’ suspicion. “I’m Kith-kin.”
THIRTY-FIVE
Keeper
Promptly at seven fifty-five, Tami nudged Joe and whispered, “Will you keep Biddie with you for a while?”
“Something up?” he asked.
“A friend promised to stop by.”
Her brother’s eyes drifted out of focus for just a moment or two. Nodding once, he sat up a little straighter, kissed the top of her head, and murmured, “He’s a keeper.”
“He told you?”
Joe gently disentangled Biddie, who draped against Tami like a sleepy kitten. “That he’s a keeper? Nope. That’s just what I think.”
“That he’s a crosser.”
“So that’s it.”
“You didn’t know?” Tami was sure Joe had known. Why else would he insist on that first meeting in the haymow?
Her brother shrugged.
“Joey-boy,” Biddie murmured, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing his cheek.
He gently touched the little girl’s leafy crown. “We’ll be fine. I’ll keep Biddie with me. Or walk her home if that’s what she wants.”
Tami hesitated, quite sure that her brother was holding out on her.
“He’s waiting for you.” Emotion flickered through his eyes, and he softly added, “Probably has been for a long while. You know?”
She did. And that thought hastened her steps.
Leaves crunched underfoot when she cut across the yard. The moon lit her way, and she mightn’t have given it a second glance if not for the sound of wolves howling in an eerily beautiful chorus. Nightspangles in the oak glen, singing the moon into the sky. She paused to consider its rising. A few days from full, the waxing moon was ringed by bands of hazy color. What her grandmother used to call a moondoggie night.
Letting herself through the door, she blinked and waited for her eyes to adjust. “I’m here,” she called softly.
“Here I am,” he answered. By the sound of it, he’d been waiting at the base of the ladder.
Still blind, she moved forward, hands outstretched. “Did you see the moon?”
“Yes.” He caught her wrists and folded her in his arms. Feathers brushed close, and he aske
d, “Are you warm enough?”
Murmuring hasty reassurances, she asked, “Did you really fly here?”
“No. I can’t actually fly. Too much body mass. But I can jump pretty high, and I’ve learned to use my wings to get the most out of any airtime. I’m not exactly graceful, but I can keep up with ….”
“With Kip?” she guessed.
Ash simply nodded and guided her to the ladder. “Up you go.”
She needed to corner Kip, get his side of the story. By the time she reached the top, she had a plan. “We should have dinner together tomorrow, just the three of us. Then Kip can tattle on himself, and we’ll be past the awkward stage.”
“That’d be good.”
It was brighter in the loft, where bands of moonlight stole through shutters that Ash must have opened earlier. He took her hands and drew her along, backing directly into the slanting beams. Their light made it possible to make out what could only be called a nest.
“Did you do this?”
“I’ll put it back if it’s a problem.”
Ash had pulled away several straw bales, leaving a hollow in the stack, around which he’d formed a low wall. Inside he’d mounded loose straw and a couple of blankets. Tami thought they might have been the ones from the back of Kip’s jeep.
“Nobody is going to notice, let alone mind,” she promised. “We don’t come up here very often.”
He guided her into the niche and made her sit on the outspread blanket. Using the other to cover her legs, he asked, “Can you see all right?”
“Well enough.” Tami glanced between him, the moonbeams, and the floor. “Your wings don’t even cast shadows.”
“Yeah. The sigilcraft is pretty complicated. Kip knows his stuff.” Kneeling in front of her, Ash pulled something from an inner pocket of his denim jacket. “Is it all right if I skip the formal parts and just explain? Or would you feel slighted?”
Tami settled back. “Explain as we go, please. Then I’m free to ask questions.”
“Okay, good. Because I’m not sure I can pull off all the grand gestures Cyril demonstrated.” His grip tightened around the bundle in his hands. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not serious.”
She smiled and asked, “Where do we start?”
“Here.” Ash extended both hands. “With this.”
At first, Tami thought it was a gift in clumsy wrappings. But as her fingers explored the soft folds, she quickly revised her assessment. It was a pouch that fit easily into the palm of one hand. The material was supple, like fine leather, and she could feel patterned stitches and beadwork. Braided cords created a drawstring closure. It was empty.
Holding it up so the moonlight brought out some of the shine to the beads, she asked, “What should I do with it?”
“Keep it. And bring it with you when I visit.” Ash rearranged himself, sitting cross-legged. “Courting traditions vary between the different avian clans. Crows are collectors. The gist is … every evening, I bring a gift, and if it pleases you, you add it to the bag before sending me on my way.”
“What happens once the bag is full?”
Ash plucked at the edge of her blanket. “You don’t send me away.”
Straightforward. Tami fingered the knot. “What kinds of gifts can the keeper of the pouch expect from her generous suitor?”
“Items with special meaning. I brought one.” He huffed softly. “Before I show you, can I ask for one of those hard-to-explain things?”
Tami’s heart leapt. This was nothing like the pageantry that accompanied the Miyabe-Starmark courtship, yet she was on the edge of her seat. Because this was her courtship. And Ash was her suitor. “Tell me what to do.”
“It’s driving me crazy that I’m not touching you.” He waved his hands and muttered, “That sounded worse than it needed to.”
“They covered this at the educators’ conference I attended. Amaranthine are tactile.”
“Yeah. Any contact is fine, but holding you would be … really nice. And I apologize in advance if I start preening you.”
She pushed up onto her knees. “Where to you want me?”
He settled her in front of him so she could lean back into his chest. There was much shifting and tucking and the faint rustle of settling feathers before he was satisfied.
Tami asked, “How does preening work?”
“Usually, it’s fussing with hair or fur of feathers. I find it calming.” Ash’s fingers were back in her hair, gently tugging until her head rested against his shoulder. He kissed her temple and added, “When an avian is preening someone, it’s a sign of affection. Or even devotion.”
“Does Cyril preen you?”
“Yes.” Ash’s arms settled around her waist. “My first gift is about him. I thought you’d like to know how he came to be my father.”
“Perfect,” she said, relaxing into him. “I’d love to know that story.”
“First, this.” He let go long enough to fumble in a pocket, bringing out something that swung from a chain.
She caught it, exploring the shapes. It seemed to be a necklace with a heavy pendant.
“Hang on.” Ash brought out a pen light, which cast a dim circle upon the necklace in her hands. The chain was silver, from which was suspended a speckled egg—pale green with brown mottling.
“Is this a real egg?”
“Yes.” With one fingertip, he traced a hairline crack. “A much smaller crow than me hatched from this egg. They managed it neatly, and so my father had this shell set it in silver. See the catch?”
Tami gently twisted the clasp. The top portion of the egg swung upward on a miniscule hinge, revealing a heart of silver. Inside was single twig, gray and brittle with age.
Ash said, “In the oldest of avian traditions, parents would keep a piece of the eggshell from which their child hatched. These keepsakes were made into ornaments, to be used as tokens for courtship. All avian clans recognize the significance of a gift that includes an eggshell.”
“Amaranthine hatch?” She couldn’t help the skepticism that crept into her tone.
“Avians do if they find their way into this world while in truest form.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Cyril had this made for you?”
“For himself. At least, at first. He wore it constantly—as proof that I’m his son—until last week, when he approved my choice.” Ash closed the egg, then closed her fingers around it. “He has been good to me. I don’t think I would have survived without him.”
“How did you come to be his?” she asked.
Ash rested his cheek against her hair and began, “I’m half Native-American, but I don’t remember my mother. I’m half Amaranthine, but I don’t know my father’s name or his clan. My earliest memories are of fear and running and hunger and pain, but those are half-remembered impressions and make a poor story. Better by far—at least in hindsight—is the tale of a wretched boy who was caught by a wolf.”
Tami turned into Ash, her ear pressed over his heart, her hand tucked under her chin.
“I am told that when she found me, I was a mess of scrapes and bruises, and I’d been pulling out my own feathers. The scent of my blood was in the air, and she ran me to ground. I remember being sure that the big, black wolf would gobble me up, but she didn’t.”
“Was she a Nightspangle?”
“Yes. A Kith named True.” Ash’s voice warmed. “She trapped me, but she kept me warm, and when the other wolves came, she snapped and snarled, keeping them away. Then one of the wolves changed into a man with a tail. He tried to talk to me, but I was quite wild, unable to speak.”
“How old were you?”
“They guessed I was four, maybe five.”
“Too young to be alone.”
He hummed his agreement. “The pack camped around me and True, and I was sure they were waiting for me to stray from her protection. I didn’t realize that these predators were the only reason I didn’t fall prey to other beasts. Or that they were waiting for reinforcements.�
�
“Cyril.”
“Yes.”
That one syllable was packed with love and gratitude, and Tami’s estimation of Dr. Bellamy soared higher.
Ash said, “He sashayed into the clearing, dressed all in gold and draped in a cloak of feathers, shining and proud and fearless. When he spoke to me, it wasn’t with words, but with sounds—trills and coos and clucks. And they made sense to me.”
“Like a bird language?”
“More like … skipping all the words and expressing feelings instead.”
“So you trusted him because he was a bird?”
Ash chuckled. “I’m not sure it was as sensible as that. I went to him because he was the most beautiful person I’d ever seen.”
“Then it’s fortunate for you that Cyril is so very good.”
“I’ve since learned that it’s an avian quirk. We can be slow to trust, yet quickly swayed by a strong first impression. Like love at first sight.”
Tami caught the change in his tone and tried to search his face. “You seem more sensible than that.”
“I have a sensible side.” Dark eyes glittered in the moonlight. “But it mostly picks up the pieces after the rest of me has gone and done something impulsive.”
“Like love at first sight?”
“Maybe I’ll tell you about that tomorrow.” He kissed her lightly. “Will you accept my first gift, Tamiko?”
Few people knew her full first name, and even fewer used it. She’d been Tami for so long, it was strange to hear Ash draw out the whole of it, lightly touching each syllable, speaking with sounds that had become feelings.
An intimacy. Another gift.
So she did her best to pack a single syllable with all the hope and delight and desire that were brimming in her heart. “Yes.”
THIRTY-SIX
Litter
Doon-wen’s growl stopped Melissa in her tracks, and she backed up so fast, she bumped into Jiminy. “That was for me,” he murmured, taking a blatantly submissive stance. “And it wasn’t personal. More of a formality. Another male in the den, and all that.”
“Why are we here?” she whispered.
Jiminy nudged her toward a seat to one side of the door. “When a reaver runs with a pack, it’s traditional for them to attend the births of Kith and Kindred alike.”