by Patrick Ness
She froze when she saw him there, catching his eyes once and watching as he continued to drink. She immediately noticed his new smell. Or rather his lack of one. She inhaled deeply. The sick sweetness had disappeared. So had the normal rankness that was his usual accompaniment. Instead, a smell that was almost clean drifted lightly from him. She inhaled again to make sure she had scented right. He made no move towards her or any of the other members of the herd as they made their way knee-deep into the pond. Instead, he simply carried on drinking. She could hear the slurping of his mouth on the water, could actually smell the satisfaction flooding through his body.
He had left and returned somehow different. He still made no move as the rest of the herd finally crowded their way in, churning up dirt and debris, turning the water brown with motion. She waited until the thin creature had fully satiated himself, watching him sit back quietly. Slowly, she took her gaze away from him and began to drink. The conflict of the thin creature rose in her head once more, his sudden presence confusing her feelings as much as his sudden absence had. He was different somehow, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t endanger them again. She welcomed his return, especially given the new smells and the calm she could sense in him, but actually seeing him in the flesh, she knew he would have to be watched. Welcome or not, another attack and she wouldn’t turn her head.
Maggerty leaned against a tree near the water’s edge. He felt the sun hot and clear on his face and the coolness of the water still swishing around his feet. He decided that he truly must be happy, because he couldn’t imagine feeling any better. It was all so new. There were so many things he would have to get used to, so many new thoughts that seemed to keep popping up. He felt something strange on his face, a weird pull of muscle. He leaned forward to try to catch his reflection in the water.
He was smiling.
69. Want.
Look at him there. Just who does he think he is?
Mistrust was natural, of course. How could someone who had, appeared out of nowhere with an offer too good to be true ever be considered trustworthy for anything? Thomas was no fool, as he had proven on occasion after occasion, particularly in creative ways to those who had considered him such, and he wasn’t taking any chances with Jon Noth, no sir. Jon was being very helpful in the campaign, had footed a surprisingly large amount of cash, and had unexpectedly turned out to be a wizard at building an office from scratch, seemingly pulling volunteers out of thin air. He continually insisted that his only desire was the defeat of Cora Larsson and that since Thomas was the man to do it, Thomas was the man he would help. This lack of pretense to be Thomas’ friend was reassuring, but still, Thomas eyeballed Jon’s every move. He would have been a fool not to.
Right? Thomas watched him across the room, cajoling a plump female volunteer to inject a little more enthusiasm into her scripted phone pitch. He certainly had, was it charisma? The word felt right. He was handsome enough, had certainly kept himself well-groomed for his age. He was the kind of man that young college girls fell for: older, intelligent, experienced, attentive. In unpleasant, unguarded moments, Thomas himself felt flattered by Jon’s attentions, but he usually spat the feeling away and lit up a cigarillo. He had to admit, though, this man had something. He watched the plump volunteer’s face positively beam when Jon spoke to her, watched her whole body language change pleasurably when Jon put a hand on her back. When he stepped away from her, she picked up her phone and in under a minute had pulled in a thousand-dollar donation from a cold call. Jon squeezed her shoulder and walked away while she was already on to the next unsuspecting voter.
The search into Jon’s background had proven interesting yet inconclusive. No apparent family. A degree in history from Mansfield, of all places, that he seemed to have disregarded the second he left school. Went overseas towards the Leeward Side to an as yet undetermined land for nearly eight years. Arrived back in the Fifty Shores under the name Aaron Sevillian, an alias he dropped six years later with as little explanation as that which had accompanied it. Founded a shipping business between the Fifty Shores and Chamberlin that thrived and thrived and thrived until he abruptly sold everything nearly fifteen years ago. And for that fifteen years, there was exactly zip to be found on him. He might as well have sailed off the edge of the world but for his sudden reappearance in Hennington. There were some faint whisperings of a religious conversion that happened, was abandoned, then refound, but nothing more than that. There was also a vague if nonsensical story that he had wandered the Leeward Coast for that time as some kind of vagabond. Thomas was running low on reconnaissance manpower, though, what with the concurrent investigations for Jacki Strell and now Luther. He’d had to pull back while still being without a concrete picture of this stranger who was now exhorting the young girls folding leaflets to fold even faster.
From all available information, it also seemed that Jon Noth was almost immeasurably rich, perhaps even more so than Thomas’ own father, but both men, as with all the wealthiest of the wealthy, had secreted most of it away in differently named corporations and God only knew where else. When Archie finally died, Thomas expected to spend at least a decade tracking down all of the family wealth, even more so now that it looked like Luther had been murdered. Or disappeared. Or whatever the fuck had happened. Which of course was now yet another headache to add to the list, along with just where in this Piece-of-Shitville Jacki was hiding. How could one woman, seemingly alone, though Thomas had his doubts about that, keep evading his men? And again, why did he even care? Fuck her. If she had quit Forum – and it seemed she had, all the dealers could only comment on her absence – then she was worthless now anyway. Ex-Forumheads were notoriously members of life’s rubbish heap. And why was he even bothering to think about this now?
He glanced down to the papers in front of him. He had lost his place again. Oh, yes, a speech. Another fucking speech. About agriculture. Who gave a shit about agriculture?
—Hey, Jon?
—Yes?
—Who gives a shit about agriculture? This is a city. All the farmlands are outside city borders.
—Half the members of Hennington Hills give a shit about agriculture. Agriculture is how they pay their substantial membership fees. Don’t be bullheaded, Thomas. You know that.
—Of course I know that, but what I also know is that money from Hennington Hills members is not something I have to be too worried about collecting.
—But you’ll get twice as much if you show an interest.
—I know these people a lot better than you do.
—True enough, but I know people. Trust me on this one. It’s not hard, just a bunch of general statistics that’ll make it look like you care. You’ll thank me for it. Hell, they’ll thank you for it. With a large check.
—All right, fine. Another thing. When are we going to move to a campaign headquarters where I can have my own office? This communal we’re-all-in-this-together thing isn’t working for me.
—Well, make it work for you. It’s how campaigns are run. People vote for you because you’re one of them, not because you’re their boss.
—People will vote for me because I’m the only one running.
—So far.
—I’ll win regardless.
—Are you familiar with the lowland hound?
—Pardon?
—The lowland hound. A wild dog that hunts in the desert.
—What does that have to do with—
—The lowland hound is a brilliant hunter. The only known wild dog that doesn’t hunt in a pack, and that’s because it doesn’t need to. It can reach speeds up to seventy-five kilometers an hour and has a jaw that can literally crush a steel pipe. They’ve been known to decapitate desert antelope so thoroughly and quickly that the poor antelope’s body still runs another fifty meters before falling.
—I don’t believe that.
—Doesn’t matter. I bring it up because the lowland hound is also one of the most spectacularly lazy animals on the planet. They
only hunt when pushed to the brink of starvation. Their prey don’t fear them because they know they can’t outrun the hound if it wants to hunt, but that they probably won’t need to because it probably won’t want to hunt. Herds of antelope will sleep within sight of a lowland hound without concern.
—But he can eat whenever he wants to.
—I’m not yet to my point.
—Well, hurry it along. I’m busy.
—The lowland hound is also noteworthy in that it does one intensely stupid thing that has caused much amazement in the zoological world.
—This would be the point, then.
—The lowland hound never starves to death in times of famine because obviously conditions will drive it to use its hunting prowess for survival.
—But?
—Quit interrupting, please. The lowland hound never starves in times of famine, but it quite regularly starves in times of excessive plenty. Surrounded by prey that it could easily catch, the lowland hound will wait to hunt because it knows it could get food any time it wanted. It will wait more and more, until it has nearly collapsed from starvation. Then, seeing all the prey within easy reach, and this is the important part, Thomas, it will wait still. When the hunger has finally gotten so intense that it can barely move, only then will the lowland hound rouse itself to hunt. But, of course, by then it hasn’t the energy to hunt. The antelopes can easily outrun it. No heads go flying off bodies in mid-stride. The lowland hound whimpers along behind, unable to catch up. Surrounded by plenty, it lies down and starves to death.
—And yet somehow, the lowland hound survives.
—That’s not the point.
—Sounds like the point to me.
—Don’t be obstinate. The species may live, but the individual dies.
—You still haven’t quite grasped the balance of power around here, have you? This is my campaign, not yours. Your help is appreciated. Your illustrative anecdotes are not.
Jon waved his hand dismissively.
—I don’t have time for this. I’m working too hard to get you elected, despite your best efforts. Learn the goddamn agriculture speech or don’t. All I’m telling you is that you’ll double your contributions from rich farmers if you do. If you need me, and you will, I’ll be at my own office.
He turned on his heel and walked off before Thomas could say another word. Thomas pondered calling after him, almost did, but then thought better of it. He frowned, breathing heavily out of his nostrils. In his mind, he very loudly thought of the angriest songs he knew, sustaining some extremely ferocious guitar solos before finally reaching into his pocket for a TB’s Special Blend. Some relaxation was definitely called for. He lit up and drew a long, silky cloud into his lungs before slowly, grudgingly turning his eyes back to the speech. He kept reading even when the smoke made his eyes water with deliciously narcotic tears, finally drawing a languorous smile that seemed suspiciously large and lengthy for someone reading a factsheet on local agriculture.
70. The Worm, Aching to Turn.
Cora sat in the underlit reception area, angrily pondering its opulence. An office conjured seemingly from nowhere in a building she knew for a fact had no new rental space available. Yet here it was, all white marble and shadow, hard lines diffused by the organic curves and greens of tall plants emerging from recessed vases. It was beautiful, if too damn dark, much nicer than her own office, and irritatingly improbable. The receptionist, a dark, handsome boy of about twenty, had shown her where to sit, pressed a single button which was allegedly a summons to Jon, then went back to talking to his equally dark, handsome girlfriend, who was slouching forward over the front of the reception desk, her face close to his, her ass roundly up in the air like a new planet. They bantered back and forth in an irritating chatter too soft to be understood but too loud not to be heard, smiling deeply into each other’s eyes with the velvet intimacy of those who seem to be just marking time between sexual encounters. Cora stared at them unabashedly, for there was nothing else in the waiting room to look at, not even a magazine. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. They were so oblivious she could have danced a striptease and been left to finish it unobserved.
Gradually, she noticed that her first impression had been slightly off. The boy was a little less handsome than at first sight. Acne scars dotted his face here and there. His hair, though obviously expensively cut, had not been further attended to by hands that knew what to do with an expensive haircut. The girl, too, was slightly girthful in the legs, and Cora noticed the reddish eczema of a worker’s fingers when the girl caressed the boy’s face. A certain amazement also accompanied the movements of both, as if neither of them could believe that the life that was happening to them hadn’t been delivered by mistake. The easy intimacy seemed to also include a measure of huddling, as if separating, even for a moment, might be irreversible. Cora felt herself soften towards the two young lovers, even saying a silent blessing, wishing them well.
Jon strode into the room through a door that had opened soundlessly. Cora stood. The boy and girl didn’t bother to look up.
—Cora. What an expected non-surprise.
—We need to talk.
—Perhaps, though I warn you now might not be the best time.
—No. Now.
—Then if you insist.
He ushered her into his office with a mysterious grin. He motioned her to a seat. When she remained standing, he shrugged and took the chair behind a lavishly understated wooden desk.
—What are you doing?
—What could you possibly mean?
—Don’t fuss me about, Jon. Thomas Banyon for Mayor? You think you can swoop into Hennington out of nowhere, install the worst Mayor possible and that this will all somehow result in wooing me?
—Cora, Cora, Cora. Why would I want to discuss anything at all with you after the way you’ve treated me? Why should I even entertain this visit?
—Because someone needs to get through to you that you’re off your rocker.
—Compliments like that do so much to keep up my good graces.
—It’s never going to happen, Jon. Understand this. It’s never going to happen.
—Have you grown so calcified that you actually believe you have power over ‘never'? Even your anger has grown old, Cora.
A misstep. A slight one, but a misstep nonetheless. Cora blinked. Was that it? After all this hullabaloo, was that really it? Had it really been that ordinary this whole time? She regretted that it had taken her this long to understand that Albert was right, that ‘petty’ was the right word, regretted, for a moment, that now they weren’t even going to be able to have a proper row.
—You don’t really want anything, do you?
Jon looked surprised.
—I beg your pardon?
—You don’t want me back.
—But of course I do.
—No. No, you don’t. You want to hurt me, that’s all.
—Cora, my darling, my love, that’s exactly what I don’t want to do. I would stop all this right now with a single word from you. All of this, I’m doing for you.
—Wrong. You ask me for the impossible and now you’re using my refusal as the justification for your real aim. You want to hurt me, to hurt Albert, to satisfy some wound that you’ve been nursing for all this time that the rest of us have forgotten about, one that any sane, rational person would have forgotten about. That’s it. That’s the beginning and end of your agenda. You want to demonstrate how powerful you are. You don’t want me. That was just a pretense. You knew all along that I would never say yes to you. It’s actually kind of disappointing in a way. It’s so usual.
—It most certainly—
—It is, whether you can admit it to yourself now that you’ve come this far or not. Fortunately, that makes things a good deal easier for me now.
—Meaning what exactly?
—Here I thought you were some ghost from my past come to haunt me with insane claims of ownership, throwing the world into chaos to get
your way. It was almost mythological. But you’re just a small, petty man, nursing a small, petty grudge, another schoolboy who’s managed the appearance of adulthood without ever assuming the mantle.
—Oh, but you’re wrong, my love. You couldn’t be more wrong.
—I don’t think so.
—I’m on a mission—
—You’re not. You’re throwing a tantrum.
—Funny, but that’s how powerful women always try to de-fang powerful men. By calling them boys.
—I should have said yes to you on that first day in my office just to watch you scramble.
—You’re making an enormous mistake in underestimating me, Cora.
—Ah, now you’re just flailing.
—I suppose we’ll have to see who’s right.
—And the predictable threat of ominous, yet un-named future recrimination. Good grief, Jon, I’ve been a lawyer and a politician for my entire adult life. Do you honestly think you can hold any surprise for me now that I know what you are?
—You’ll be very sorry for this, Cora. It hurts me, this course of action you’re forcing—
—Blah blah blah. Your next line should be a threat for me to ‘leave this office at once!'. I’m stunned that I didn’t see it before. Stunned. You’re nothing special at all, are you? You’re merely a man. Nothing more, nothing less.
—Is this all somehow supposed to send me home with my tail between my legs? Now that you’ve made this alleged grand discovery, I’m supposed to just run screaming into the night?