Wild Ways

by Tanya Huff

  “He’s my cousin.”

  “He is also . . .”

  “I know. But he’s my cousin.”

  “And that cancels out the rest, does it?”

  Charlie shrugged and slung an arm around Jack’s shoulders. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, given how much taller he’d gotten, but she didn’t want anyone, especially Jack, coming to the wrong conclusion. She felt him begin to relax under her touch. “Trumps the rest, at any rate. He’s family. He’s a Gale.”

  “Your Auntie Catherine is family and a Gale.”

  “Never said the family didn’t disagree.”

  “And if His Highness decides to disagree?”

  “Like I said, he’s a Gale. That makes it our business, not yours.”

  “This is not the UnderRealm. He does not rule here. He does not feed where he wishes.”

  “He knows that.”

  “He’s not deaf,” Jack muttered. “Look, there’s lots to eat here that’s not going to get bent out of shape about it, right? So get a grip. I’m just spending the summer with Charlie and carrying amps and stuff.”

  “And yet you remain who you are.”

  He sighed, only smoking a little. “And I’m a Gale, like Charlie says.”

  “We shall see. Tanis.”

  Tanis blinked, the tears finally rolling down her face as Eineen took her arm.

  “I think tonight you had best come home. Tomorrow morning, we hold the press conference to discuss the shallow water well.” Her gaze swept over Jack before it came to rest on Charlie. “The press conference you suggested. I sincerely hope you know what you are doing.”

  “I do.” She did. Sort of. “You hold a press conference; I speak to Amelia Carlson while she’s lulled into a false sense of security and find out where the skins are.”

  “And a false sense of security is your plan to gain access?”

  “Please.” Apparently, Selkies didn’t recognize that as a dismissal. Fine, if she needed a plan . . . “Grinneal is taking part in a major festival. Majorish,” she amended, “and if I have to talk my way past a secretary or something, I can say I’m there asking for a corporate sponsorship.”

  Eineen’s eyes narrowed and her lips thinned.

  “It’s a lie to get in the door,” Charlie reminded her. “It’s not like we’ll actually use her evil oil money.”

  “So you say.” Arm around Tanis’ shoulder, much as Charlie’s was still around Jack’s, Eineen led the younger Selkie off toward the water.

  “Hey!” Charlie took a step away from Jack then stopped. She wasn’t going to go running after them. “Did you fix the mirrors?”

  Eineen paused at edge of shadow. “We have passed on the message.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re welcome,” Charlie muttered as they disappeared.

  “What the hell just happened?” Bo demanded.

  “You heard her,” Charlie told him. “Press conference tomorrow morning.”

  “Charlotte!” Eineen’s voice came out of the darkness. Followed by Charlie’s phone.

  Jack snatched it out of the air.

  Bo continued to look confused. “Okay, so Tanis is spending the night with Eineen, right? I have no idea what’s happening anymore.” He peered at Jack, and Charlie realized that of the people involved in the confrontation, only Bo couldn’t see in the dark. “You’re a prince?”

  Jack shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  “I find it helps to concentrate on the music,” Charlie told him, waving Jack off when he tried to hand her the phone.

  The lines in Bo’s forehead smoothed out. “The music, yeah, I guess that’s the smart thing to do. So, I think I’ll start by helping Shelly pack her gear up and move straight to beer after that.”

  “Sorry about messing things up with you and Eineen,” Jack muttered when they were alone.

  “How do you know . . . ?”

  “No contractions.” He snorted. “Like that doesn’t give everything away.”

  “Well, since there wasn’t anything actually between me and Eineen, no harm no foul. Also, no snacking.”

  “I got that the first seven million times.”

  “Bears repeating.”

  “It really doesn’t.”

  Charlie had a sudden memory of her mother going on and on and on at her about her hair falling out if she dyed it again. “You’re right. You’re fourteen, not four. Go help Bo and Shelly load the car.”

  “Where are you going to be?”

  “Right here.” She took the phone from his hand. It rang. “Reminding Allie what Wild means.”

  The Two Seventy-five N press conference took place in Halifax, in one of the Halifax Film Company studios. The room was surprisingly full; Charlie saw cameras from CBC, CTV, and Global as well as all two dozen of the province’s newspapers from the daily Chronicle-Herald to the monthly Tata-magouche Light. Standing at the back of the room, watching the male members of the press swarm around Tanis, Eineen, and one of Tanis’ sisters like moths to a flame, she wondered how many of them had already been burned. That whole seal-wife thing might place the Selkies among the more passive aggressive of the Under Realm immigrants, but all the Fey played hard with their toys.

  Of the four men at the front of the room, two were fiddlers, Kevin and Ian Markham who played together in The Brothers Markham Mayhem—usually referred to as Mayhem—the other two Charlie didn’t know but assumed they were representing the fishermen who wanted an oil spill as little as the Selkies did.

  As the press corps settled, Eineen smiled and said, “Thank you all for coming.”

  Charlie mimed a rim shot, although she was probably the only one who got the joke, then turned and slipped out the door. As much as she’d like to stay and watch very pretty people do what she’d told them to—and honestly, who wouldn’t?—she had plans of her own.

  Attendance at press conferences given by local environmental groups opposed to a Carlson Oil project was not generally a part of Paul’s job description as Amelia Carlson’s executive assistant. Under normal circumstances, any one of the summer interns cluttering up the place would be sent along as a place holder.

  None of the circumstances surrounding this latest project even came close to resembling normal.

  Seated on the outside aisle about halfway up the room where he could either make himself noticed for a sound bite or slip away unseen, Paul watched the press milling around the seven members of Two Seventy-five N in attendance and had to admit that for whacked-out environmental activists, they were a good-looking bunch. The price of every single article of clothing they wore all added together probably cost less than Paul’s linen jacket, but they wore their tatty shirts and faded jeans and plastic sandals with more confidence than he’d been able to pay for. Paul had never been a both sides of the street kind of guy, so he didn’t have much of an opinion on the men, but something about the women drew his attention and kept it.

  They had a similarity about them that suggested family—not just matching dark hair and dark eyes but the way they moved and smiled. As it happened, he’d run identity checks on everyone connected with the group and most of the unmarried women shared a surname: Seulaich. It was an old Cape Breton family—the name went back as far as the records did—and the odds were good that these three were cousins if not sisters.

  As they took their seats, the tallest of the women swept her gaze around the room gathering everyone’s attention, and said, “Thank you all for coming. We’ll begin with a prepared statement concerning Carlson Oil’s proposed shallow water well just off Hay Island and then take questions.”

  She didn’t read the statement, one of the other women did, but Paul continued to watch her as he listened. She barely moved, sitting composed and still, the lights painting highlights across her hair and faint shadows below the dark fringe of her eyelashes. He barely registered the contents of the statement, distracted by the smooth curve of her arm at the edge of her sleeve.

  When she announced they’d take questions, he coul
dn’t take his eyes off the movement of her mouth.

  “You say that upon consideration you’re supporting Carlson Oil’s bid for drilling permits; what exactly are those considerations?” Lisa Dixon from CTV.com asked aggressively. Paul knew from experience that Ms. Dixon asked everything aggressively, as the website tried to prove itself separate from the network.

  The big blond guy at the end of the table smiled before he answered and from the coquettish change in posture, Paul was willing to bet Ms. Dixon wasn’t going to argue with a word of his response. And the response was . . .

  Dark eyes met his.

  It was like looking off the side of his father’s boat into deep water, feeling himself falling even while his boots remained on the deck and his fingers stayed clamped tight around the rails.

  He was holding a copy of Two Seventy-five N’s prepared statement. Print reporters were milling about, cameras were being packed up, web reporters were already filing. He’d missed . . .

  There hadn’t been . . .

  He was having a little trouble remembering.

  “Hello.”

  She was even more beautiful up close, nearly as tall as he was, and . . . was that fiddle music?

  “Eineen Seulaich.”

  “What?”

  “It’s my name. I thought that since you spent the entire press conference staring at me, you might have missed a few things and we should probably talk.”

  “Talk?” He could feel the sea surging through his veins, his pulse the crash of the waves on the shore.

  Her smile made it difficult to breathe. “You’re going to need something to file besides my description.”

  “File?” Confusion helped him focus. “No, I’m not a reporter. I work for Amelia Carlson, of Carlson Oil.”

  The disappearance of her smile made it even harder to breathe. “Do you now? Well, then . . .” Her fingers were cool against his cheek. “ . . . you’ll have to work a little harder for me.”

  “I don’t . . .”

  “Yes, you do.” She fell in beside the others as they passed.

  Frozen in place, Paul watched the doors close behind them and found himself alone in the room with a few reporters and the certain knowledge that his life had just changed.

  Or was about to change.

  Or would change, if he could just figure out how.

  It hadn’t been difficult to find Carlson Oil’s Sydney office: the address was on their website.

  It wasn’t the sort of business where people walked in off the street—if a person was in the building, that person had a reason to be in the building. Charlie probably would have remained unquestioned as she checked out the first floor even if she hadn’t been hiding behind the pleasant little melody she was strumming.

  The most interesting thing on the first floor was a big room filled with maps and rocks and a table covered in a model of the drilling rig off Hay Island and the proposed refinery on Scatarie. The water of the painted sea was a uniform and unrealistic blue everywhere but under the model of the rig where it was a purplish/greenish/black, like a bruise, the edges feathering out into the blue as though both colors of paint were still wet. Although they weren’t. Why would an oil company paint in an oil spill under their own rig? Either it was a weirdly artistic bit of corporate sabotage, or one of Amelia Carlson’s employees had a warped sense of humor.

  Other than the model, the first floor held only a few worker bees in worker bee cubicles. The queen would be on the second floor.

  A glance left at the top of the stairs showed nothing but a hallway and doors. To the right, behind a set of open glass doors, an office that smelled faintly of fresh paint. On the far wall, another solid door, slightly ajar.

  This was where Charlie’d planned to use the corporate sponsor story, fast talking her way past the assistant who should have been guarding the door. Looked like she could save the story for another day.

  Hands by the strings but not actually playing, she crossed the office, paused, and slowly pushed open the inner door. The woman behind the desk looked up, obviously expected to see someone else, and clearly would have frowned had her forehead been capable of movement. Amelia Carlson’s attempt to remain at her media-inspired peak was a lot more obvious in the flesh. Charlie’d never seen anyone dig their artificial fingernails so desperately into their youth, although, she silently admitted, she didn’t travel in the kind of circles where it might be a common behavior. Gale girls knew where the real power lay.

  “Amelia Carlson?”

  The woman behind the desk ignored the question which, Charlie figured, answered the question. “And who are you?”

  “I’m working for some people whose property you’ve taken.”

  “I own the land in Pictou County free and clear. Now get out.”

  “Not that property.”

  “Oh, for . . . I gave Brandt a fair price for that warehouse. If you want to discuss it further, make an appointment with my assistant.”

  She clearly hadn’t been acting out of character when she’d paid Auntie Catherine to steal from the Selkies. “Not that property either.”

  “Then what . . . ?” Her lip curled, enough disdain to move the collagen. “You’re not a lawyer.”

  Charlie glanced down at her guitar. “No, I’m not.”

  Eyes narrowed, Amelia Carlson looked past Charlie to the door.

  Considering how little of her face moved, Charlie had to guess what she was thinking. If I tell you to go, you won’t. As I can’t make you, that would weaken my position. In order to remain in control, I must control the conversation and that means I issue the definitive statements, not you.

  Of course, it was equally likely she was thinking: Oh, good, the half a dozen burly miners I employ to kick ass are on their way down the hall.

  All right, maybe not as likely, but possible.

  “Fine.” She sounded bored. “Why are you here?”

  So much for the burly miners, Charlie thought a little sadly. She’d have known how to deal with those. “I want the sealskins back.”

  Leaning back in a chair that looked like it should be on an episode of Star Trek, Carlson steepled her fingers and looked intrigued. “I assumed you’d be older.”

  “What?”

  “You’re the one working for them, aren’t you? You’re like her.”

  “Her?” Oh. Auntie Catherine. “I’m not like her.”

  “Please.” Carlson waved the protest off with a manicure that probably cost more than Charlie made in a week playing with Grinneal. “She already told us you were like her.”

  “She’s wrong.”

  “You’re very young.”

  “I’m almost thirty.”

  “Really?” A slow sweep took in Charlie’s flip flops, shorts, and Disneyland 2011 T-shirt.

  Teeth closed on a verbal response, Charlie exhaled slowly and then ghosted her fingers over the strings.

  Carlson shuddered and leaned a little farther away although she tried to make it look like she hadn’t. “All right. Fine. I don’t know what they’re paying you, but I can pay you more.”

  “I don’t want your money, I want the sealskins. You must have seen the press conference; you don’t need them anymore. You’ve won.”

  “Do I look stupid?” Relaxing back to her previous position, Carlson’s lip curled again. Something had clearly changed, but Charlie didn’t know what. “When they say public opinion changes like the tides,” Carlson continued, “they literally mean that twelve hours is the length of time people will hold an opinion without reinforcement. If I give you the pelts, I have no leverage. Next thing I know, that little environmental group is back at it and we go through it all again. So no, you can’t have the pelts. You’ll have to go to the police. Oh, wait, you can’t go to the police. It’s all up to you.” Her lip curled higher into a nasty smile. She spread her hands. “All right, then, smite me.”

  “Say what?”

  “Torture me for their location. Threaten me with retributio
n.” To Charlie’s surprise, she laughed. “You don’t have it in you.You showed me what you were, but not what you could do. You’re right. You’re not like her. The one of whatever you are that I have, she could smite and torture and threaten, but that’s not you. I’ve looked across my desk at politicians and the competition and my own board members and, in order to survive, I’ve had to know what I’m looking at. Do you know what I see when I look at you? I see someone who likes to hang out with her friends, have a few beers, play a few tunes. You have a good relationship with your family, but you don’t take their concerns seriously. I believe the word is: slacker. Play me a protest song, if you want, but you’re not getting those pelts.”

  Charlie pressed the fingers of her left hand down on the strings so hard she felt the wire dig into the bone, as though the calluses weren’t even there. She could read her audience as well and right now she knew she could play the pain the Selkies felt and Amelia Carlson would feel it, but she wouldn’t care. She’d consider it evidence her blackmail was succeeding.

  If making her feel wouldn’t work . . .

  Grabbing her, taking her through the Wood, and abandoning her—Give me the sealskins or I’ll leave you here—would only piss her off.

  The charms Charlie used most were to ease her way, some specially so she didn’t die in a fiery car crash, but usually just to make the world a more convenient place. She didn’t know how to say, “Do what I want you to do,” and mean it.

  “You’ve got nothing, do you?” Carlson smiled. “Get out.”

  The important thing to remember about slackers wasn’t that they spent their time lounging about doing nothing. If lounging was all they were capable of, they wouldn’t be slacking. No, the thing to remember about slackers was that, by definition, they weren’t living up to their potential. Amelia liked to think she had a good eye for potential. It was why she’d hired Paul. He’d wanted away from his working class background so badly that he’d accomplish the impossible to do it.

  She’d seen potential in the woman with the guitar; the seeds of the same certainty that made Catherine Gale so terrifying. Catherine Gale had shown up in her office and announced she had a way of getting the worst of the environmental groups to back off, allowing the government to issue permits for the well off Hay Island with a clear conscience. At that point, with the news of the well about to break in the media, Amelia would have listened to a dwarf announcing he could spin straw into government influence.