Tamiko and the Two Janitors (Amaranthine Saga Book 3)

by Forthright

  “I’m an unregistered reaver. Ash is a crosser who’s been passing himself off as human. He’s been courting me in secret, but we think our story could make a difference for Amaranthine in America.” So many hopes, so few words. Would they have any impact? All they could do was offer. “We are willing to make our courtship public if the Amaranthine Council will appoint a go-between.”

  Tsumiko spoke softly in Japanese. Gingko answered her questions in an undertone.

  Ash leaned in to murmur, “Even if they don’t need us, I need you.”

  Grateful for the reminder, Tami rested her head on his shoulder. He kissed her hair.

  Across the world, Tsumiko giggled and called them cute.

  Jacques said something in French that caused Gingko to roll his eyes. But then he leaned away from the microphone and hollered, “Hey, Dad. Got a sec?”

  He was there? Tami had assumed Lord Mettlebright was away. Her calm evaporated.

  Several seconds passed, and Tsumiko called, “Argent?”

  And just like that, there was another person on screen. Arms closed around Tsumiko, and from over her shoulder, a pair of keen blue eyes studied them critically.

  Gingko tossed up his hands. “Oh, sure. Her you’ll answer.”

  “Tsk.” Without breaking eye contact with his virtual audience, Argent reached over to gently tug his son’s ear. “Explain yourself, Jiminy.”

  He shrugged and said, “The Miyabe-Starmark courtship is the best thing to happen to the In-between since the Five. With careful management, the Reaverson-Sunfletch courtship could mean the world for America.”

  Argent flicked a finger at the screen. “Crosser?”

  Ash flexed his wings in an involuntary display. “Half Native American. Crow clan. Like most Amaranthine in the States, I pass myself off as human.”

  “And you?” Argent’s gaze switched to Tami.

  “Elementary school principal, recently selected by the Twineshaft Initiative. Unregistered reaver. Co-founder of the Red Gate Farm enclave. And ….” Leaning closer, quietly added, “And tree-kin.”

  The fox’s brow arched.

  Tami nodded sympathetically. “It’s complicated.”

  Melissa spoke up. “We have as much to hide as we do to share.”

  “We’ll understand if it’s too much for you to handle,” Jiminy added breezily.

  Gingko chuckled.

  “I do not require baiting,” Argent blandly assured. Looking off to the side, he called, “Twineshaft, do you have a moment to spare?”

  Tami covered her mouth with her hand, holding back the sudden urge to sob … or scream.

  Ash made a soft, birdlike sound in her ear. Comforting.

  “How are you so calm?” she whispered.

  His eyes creased at the corners. “I already have everything I need.”

  When Tami glanced back at the screen, Argent was watching them closely. But then Hisoka Twineshaft strolled into view, a sleeping baby tucked into the crook of his arm. He was closely followed by a man with blond curls and an easygoing smile.

  “Kourogi-kun,” the man greeted warmly. “Oh, hello! Is that Melissa? I’m Michael. How are things?”

  Jiminy made a frantic gesture.

  “No? Ah.” Michael sounded disappointed.

  “Yes, I’m Melissa.” She awkwardly added, “Thank you for your letter.”

  Tami stole a look at Jiminy, who seemed to have stopped breathing.

  Ash surprised them all by curving his wings around them, effectively hiding Jiminy and Melissa behind a curtain of black feathers. In an even, almost amused tone, he said, “They’ll be fine. We’re the ones seeking council.”

  Gingko, who seemed to have surrendered half his chair to Jacques, said, “If no one else wants it, I’ll be his go-between.”

  Hisoka’s eyebrows lifted, and he inclined his head. “Principal Tamiko Reaverson, Landmark Elementary. I didn’t realize we share an acquaintance.”

  “It’s a long story.” Tami wasn’t even sure where to begin, so she simply said, “It has a happy ending.”

  Argent Mettlebright waved lazily at them. “These Americans appear to be what my lady would call … an answer to prayer.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  Disarming

  Melissa found the next few days anticlimactic. Everyone else had grandness to scheme and destinies to fulfill, leaving her to fill drink orders and pull double shifts. Doon-wen hovered with enough menace to keep Jiminy at bay, and Rook confined himself to sympathetic looks and fleeting touches. They seemed to be giving her space, but she didn’t care for the isolation.

  Restless and dissatisfied, she reviewed her options and reluctantly selected the most efficient path to enlightenment.

  She called her father.

  Twenty minutes later, Melissa knocked on the door to Jiminy’s den.

  From within, he called, “It’s open!”

  She closed the door quietly behind her and waited.

  “Be with you in just a sec.”

  Jiminy stood with eyes closed, hands upraised, as if directing the sigils slowly wheeling around him. While she watched, the intricate patterns aligned, locking over each other in a series of concentric rings, then rapidly diminishing in size. With a gentle tap, he pushed the sigil against the face of a polished stone that had been shaped like an egg. The luminous tracery shimmered on its dark green surface for a few moments, before cooling to shadows.

  “I’ve been finessing this ward for days. Third time’s the charm!” He gave it a cursory glance, then offered it to her. “Think it’ll hold up?”

  Melissa didn’t see wards like these very often. Power hummed under her fingertips, almost musical in its cadences. “Etching would triple the strength.”

  Jiminy unrolled a leather carrier, revealing a full set of delicate tools. “We’ll go all out.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “Ash asked for it.” His tone was as careful as his glance. “Tami is being courted with tokens and baubles. It’s the avian way.”

  Melissa accepted the opening. “What about wolves?”

  His posture remained studiously neutral. “Traditions vary by clan.”

  She couldn’t believe it. This was exactly how her father had described it—verbal sniffing. Firming her stance, she asked, “How does a Nightspangle wolf pursue his bondmate?”

  Jiminy set aside his tools.

  Melissa returned the masterful egg. He was very careful not to touch her.

  “Are you asking how I would go about it?” he asked softly.

  “Yes.”

  “I’d probably be wracking my brain, searching for ways to regain the trust I lost before I ever knew her name.” His fingers drummed lightly on the worktable. “Are you angry with me?”

  She shook her head. “Why did you send me a standard nuptial packet?”

  “Full disclosure.” Jiminy spread his hands wide. “It’s the reaver way.”

  “I thought you were a wolf.”

  He blinked. He blinked again. “I am.”

  Melissa folded her arms over her chest and lifted her chin. “And how does a wolf address himself to the one he admires?”

  Jiminy eased closer. “I’d probably find any and every excuse to be near you, to talk with you, to run with you. And if you wanted it, I would pursue you, with the intention of bringing you into my den.”

  “I’m already in your den.”

  “Well ….” He gestured vaguely at the room. “Bringing in is used euphemistically to refer to … to ….”

  He trailed off when she withdrew the dagger hidden in a sheath at the small of her back. Startled and silent, he watched her retrieve another blade from the holster in her new boots. When she placed both on the table, his eyes widened.

  Another blade at her hip. The fourth in a clever pocket at her thigh.

  She laid them beside the others.

  Jiminy whispered, “What are you doing?”

  Melissa didn’t answer as she slid the final blade from her
armguard. He probably knew what she was doing better than she did herself. But her father had assured her that any wolf—even a practicing wolf who was reaver by birth—would find meaning in the shedding of weapons. And barriers.

  Turning her wrist, she unbuckled the armguard with its trio of wardstones.

  Next, her ear cuffs. She absolutely hated that her hands were shaking.

  By the time the ankle chain lay on the table, she was barefoot and very much afraid that she was glaring.

  Jiminy didn’t seem to mind. He slowly straightened, taking a more dominant posture.

  She didn’t back down, but neither did she contradict him. And when she judged him thoroughly fixed on her every breath, she subtly shifted, adopting a receptive attitude.

  And he smiled.

  Her biological father officially rocked.

  “Did you know,” said Jiminy, “that there’s a whole language to kisses?”

  “Anyone who’s been following Kimiko Miyabe’s courtship knows that the placement of a kiss can have special meaning.”

  He nodded once. “Where is important. How is important. There are nuances that anyone can correctly interpret, given the chance.”

  Melissa saw no reason not to be direct. “Are you offering me that chance?”

  “I’m asking for a chance.”

  She lifted her empty hands and said the words he needed to hear. “I trust you.”

  At his sides, Jiminy curled his hands into fists. “May I touch you?”

  “I’m not armed.”

  His smile was rueful. “And I’m still no match.”

  Melissa may have smirked.

  “This is how a Nightspangle wolf pursues his bondmate.” Jiminy brought his hands under hers in a supportive hold. “Instead of claiming with kisses, we cross boundaries. Touch is the first.”

  “How many boundaries are there?”

  Jiminy hummed. “I suppose we could count them up as we go along.”

  Melissa tweaked his little finger. “You’ve strayed off topic, Fourth of Wards.”

  “Where was I?”

  “The language of kisses.”

  “Right. Yes. So.” To her surprise, Jiminy released her hands and took a step back. “Wolves place greater importance on non-verbal sounds, gestures, postures, and scents than they do on words. Touch is trust, as basic as breathing. And the most meaningful of touches is the kiss.”

  She hadn’t expected a lecture, but she wasn’t about to complain. This definitely wasn’t covered in the standard reaver curriculum.

  “A single kiss to the center of the forehead can be a show of affection. But it could also be a pledge of protection, an apology, a farewell, a sign of approval, a mark of ownership, or even gentle refusal.”

  That was a wide range of meaning, and only for the center of the forehead. “How do you know what kind of kiss it is?”

  “Context, I suppose. Everything a wolf does involves a combination of all those sounds, gestures, and expressions.” He asked, “May I demonstrate?”

  She offered her hands again, silently repeating the show of trust.

  All Jiminy did was rise up on his toes to press his lips lightly to her forehead. “What do you think that meant?”

  Melissa frowned. “Nothing much. That was sort of … perfunctory.”

  “Kisses never mean nothing. A simple kiss can mean simple things. I like you. I’m here. I’m glad you’re here.” Jiminy had returned to a polite distance. “This time, I’ll do it a little differently.”

  Stepping forward, he took her by the shoulders, gave them a small squeeze, then kissed her forehead with more warmth than the last time.

  “Well?”

  This was familiar territory. She’d received this sort of kiss from Rook. “That was more like … good job, you did well, congratulations.”

  “See? You’re catching on.” Jiminy asked, “Ready for another?”

  Melissa waited to see what he would do.

  But when Jiminy’s gaze softened, the lesson veered out of academic territory. He trailed his fingertips over her cheek and gently caressed her mess of curls, like he’d always wondered about them, and he liked what he found. Jiminy was smiling when his lips touched her forehead, and he lingered just long enough to put her cheeks to flame.

  Leaning back to search her face, he offered a small hum of approval. “There now,” he murmured. “It’s not all that complicated.”

  She asked, “My turn?”

  Jiminy blinked.

  Melissa wondered if the wolves had also documented a language of winks and wide eyes and fluttering lashes. She really did like the advantage that came with underestimation. “Is the next boundary taste?”

  Jiminy’s eyes slammed shut, but he was too late. Melissa had already seen all the things he had not planned to say.

  “May I kiss you?” she asked.

  He swayed into her, and his lips brushed the corner of her mouth. Inviting. Entreating.

  Melissa swept in with a fearless assault that reduced her wolf to words. Ones she’d needed to hear. Ones she gladly returned. For they added up to mutual trust, lifelong loyalty, and unwavering devotion.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Stake Out

  Kip’s mind was on nothing more urgent than his current craving for nut tarts, nut pies, and nut loaves when he sauntered through the front door of Tough Nut Bakery, toting a burlap sack that rattled pleasantly with the promise of all the above.

  His midnight forage through his fifteen-acre nut grove in Nocking, where he and Ash shared a cabin, would make Mom happy. And when Mom was happy, everyone was happy. Especially when she pretended not to notice when a little of this or that went missing from the bakery case or the cooling racks.

  Caught up in his contemplations of filberts and filching and familial affection, he didn’t pay any attention to the customers in the little line of booths along the wall. Not until one of them stood and stepped into his path.

  Kip didn’t know him—at least, he didn’t know his scent—but there was something about his smile. He scrambled for some clue to the nagging certainty that he’d seen the young man before.

  He was quite … picturesque.

  Tyrone would probably have raved about the silk count in his suit, the exotic origin of every dye used in his artfully selected accessories, and the audacity required to carry it all off. Giuseppe would likely go on another Regency kick. Faisal would probably steal his pants, if only to get at whatever was on the end of his watchchain. Cyril would—quite predictably—adore and adopt him on sight. And then it occurred to Kip where he’d seen the new poster boy for Find Me.

  In Jiminy’s room.

  Or more accurately, on Jiminy’s direct line to Stately House.

  The French butler’s smile was triumphant. “Found you!”

  Kip hadn’t asked to be found. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Japan?”

  “His lordship fancied a trip.”

  At the front counter, Uncle Denny was on alert for trouble. And eavesdropping shamelessly. Kip made a covert sign—this goes no further.

  His uncle acquiesced with ill-concealed curiosity and a single demand—leave the nuts. But it was the sympathy in his gaze that set Kip’s hairs on end. This must be how Tami had felt when Lady Mettlebright showed up at school—caught, trapped, and traitorous.

  Abandoning his harvest, Kip steered the butler out the door and into the alley. “Why is Lord Mossberne here?”

  “He isn’t. Which is why I’m here. I can identify you.”

  Kip’s dread mounted. “Who’s looking for me?”

  “Silly question. I am Lord Mettlebright’s man.” He linked arms and leaned in. “I’m Jacques, by the way.”

  “Why is Argent Mettlebright looking for me?”

  “Who can say? He did not.” Jacques was all soulful eyes and soft pout. “His silences are a burden I must bear.”

  Kip couldn’t sense a threat, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. Foxes could mess you up. If he was going to
get a clue to his lordship’s intentions, it would have to come from Jacques. “You work for Argent?”

  “When at home, I am the family butler. When traveling, I am Lord Mettlebright’s valet.” With obvious pride, he added, “I keep him presentable.”

  That was surprising. And kind of funny. “He can’t keep himself presentable?”

  “Mon dieu, you have no idea.” Jacques rolled his eyes. “He is hopeless.”

  With little else to go on, Kip was studying scents and impressions. The man was pleased with life, proud of himself, and overflowing with ardor for the fox lord. His flirting had a teasing, almost self-mocking quality, utterly lacking in intent. Something else was missing, too. “You’re not a reaver.”

  “You’re not wrong.” His hand hooked one of Kip’s beltloops. “Where do you keep your tail?”

  He chuckled. “You’re very comfortable with closeness.”

  “Naturellement. Stately House is overrun with crossers, and I am the little beasts’ favorite uncle.” Jacques exasperation was heavily laced with fondness. “We have a squirrel, you know. Little hellion.”

  “A crosser?”

  “He’s not a red. Did you know gray squirrels have gray freckles?”

  “Yep.” Kip was tempted to drag Jacques to school with him. Ash was missing out.

  “Still in nappies, and into everything. We should foist him on you. If you’re half as much trouble, you probably deserve each other.”

  Kip went very still.

  Jacques brightened. “You like children?”

  Cheese and crackers.

  “His name is Jarrah, and he sucks his thumb. Free to a good home, I say. He could probably be crated and shipped by weekend next, but Argent prefers to place our orphans personally.” Jacques’s gaze strayed to a point just behind Kip. “Isn’t that right, my lord?”

  Instinct kicked in.

  Kip bolted.

  Running was really a very stupid thing to do. Argent Mettlebright was a fox of superior skill and intelligence, and Kip really was just a very little squirrel. So when a hand closed around his hind leg and pulled him scrabbling from his near-escape through one of the enclave’s attic windows, he went limp.