“I’m not stupid, you know,” she said.
Ellen blinked. “I never said—Monica, I never thought you were—”
“I’m not crazy either. I know she hurts me, really hurts me, and that’s going to happen sometimes. Whenever she feels like it. I just . . . I’ve decided to accept that. She cares for me in her way, but she needs to hurt. The Shadowspawn aren’t like us; they’re like cats and we’re mice. I was born a mouse, I just didn’t know there were such things as cats. OK, I’m a mouse, and I’m lucky my cat wants to play with me and not finish me off.”
“Do cats enjoy hurting mice?”
“Yes, they do,” she said flatly. “Adrienne told me. She can read their minds . . . well, their feelings.”
“Oh.”
Damn. I always hoped they didn’t.
“So I can take that, it’s not all the time. I’m not going to let it spoil my whole life. My life was over when I came here. I was going to end up homeless . . . I was homeless. I just didn’t know where to go or what to do or how to take care of my babies. Mom’s sister couldn’t have put us up, not for more than a few days. Things . . . things worse than anything that’s happened to me here could, would, have happened. And bad things are going to happen to the whole world. There are good parts to this, lots of good parts, and my children and I are safe. So there!”
“I’m not judging you, Monica. You’re doing what you have to do to survive, and this is my second time ’round. At least this time it isn’t someone I should have been able to trust absolutely.”
“Oh,” Monica said, then: “Oh.”
She put a hand on Ellen’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.” A hesitation: “Does Adrienne know? Because . . . well, you know how it is about trying not to think of something . . .”
Ellen shrugged. “I’m pretty sure she does. She did that memory-searching thing on me the day after I got here, and I had flashes of things right back to when I was about four. It . . . started a long time after that.”
Monica put her fingers by her own temples and wiggled them. “Doesn’t that reading your memories thing make you itch inside your head?”
“Yes, it does . . . Monica, you’ve been very good to me. I think you were right that first day: we are going to be friends. Let’s get this stuff out and have a good time at the barbecue, shall we?”
Adrienne looked up and tossed aside her copy of Architectural Digest as the door opened. A nude Shadowspawn woman walked through onto the terrace, her face and forearms and breasts dotted with blood. Beside her sprawled and slithered a ten-foot Komodo dragon, three hundred pounds of reptilian predator with red-running serrated teeth.
“Bonsoir, Maman, Papa,” she said, embracing the woman and kissing her on both cheeks.
There was a faint tang of blood from the drops there—cooling, but still savory, like a slightly overripe banana.
“Bonsoir, Adrienne . . .” the woman said.
Then she looked down at the reptile, her tone becoming exasperated:
“Oh, for the love of God, Jules, I know it’s your favorite new toy, but really! It smells!”
It did, of carrion and death. The great predatory lizard reared; there was a blurring, and it was a man on one knee with a hand touching the ground. He rose and returned Adrienne’s embrace gracefully; then the pair both stood while servants cleaned them with hot, scented damp towels and dropped loose robes like Adrienne’s over their heads. They and she had a family resemblance; the pair were a little below medium height, dark-haired and olive-skinned, with a look of vital, well-preserved early middle age.
Their eyes were hot gold, like pools of molten metal with darker flecks crawling through them in slow motion.
“Our baggage and servants should be here momentarily, Adrienne,” Julianne Brézé said. “But it is great fun to fly in to the tower on one’s own wings. And the refreshments were lovely! I was always partial to blonds.”
“So am I,” Adrienne said. “I have an absolutely wonderful new one you must meet. She has the most interesting mind.”
“We heard,” her father said. “Stealing Adrian’s lucy! Not that the boy doesn’t deserve it, with some of the things he’s done. He always was a strange one.”
“He’ll come ’round eventually,” Julianne said. “He’s our boy at heart.”
She smiled, blood crimson on her teeth before she licked them clean.
“Those two were absolutely delicious . . . They were really very thoughtful of you, ma fille douce. And it was so sweet; the man kept trying to protect her, and she kept calling his name. Marvelous!”
“Chivalry is not dead,” Jules said. “Not Californians, from the accents?”
“No, my renfields picked them up for you . . . tourists at San Simeon, in fact. I’ve had them combing the possibilities, with the party in mind.”
“Ah.” Jules sighed. “The Enchanted Hill was such a pleasant place in its prime. A shame to think of it being overrun with gawkers.”
“There were some fabulous parties there when we were a newlywed couple,” Julianne agreed, and then laughed softly: “Particularly the parts that our host didn’t allow into the papers.”
Jules nodded. “What a pity William didn’t transition successfully. Still, he was genetically marginal—a tragedy more common in his generation.”
An attendant set out wine, bread, olive oil, a selection of cheeses and dried fruits and nuts. It would have been chilly for humans, but the Shadowspawn reclined comfortably around the table, nibbling and sipping, enjoying the jeweled arch of the heavens and the new moon. Wood burned in iron cages at the corners of the terrace, reflecting on the water of the pool below.
“So, what is this of Hajime invited to the estate?” Jules said. “Speaking of the party.”
“Oh, Jules,” Julianne said. “You’re not still angry with the man for killing us?”
“It was grossly offensive,” Adrienne’s father replied.
Adrienne smiled. “And you’ve been very good about living in a reclusive way down in La Jolla since then,” she said. “With me as public head of this branch of the family, the Tōkairins felt . . . easy and un-threatened. But now . . . now I think it’s once more time for the Brézés to spread their wings here in California, a little.”
The molten eyes turned to Adrienne. “Oh, my darling girl, whatever could you mean?” her mother said. “We were simply taking our time adjusting to the postcorporeal state.”
White teeth gleamed in the night, and all three laughed. A servant’s hand shook a little as she poured more of the wine. A few red drops spilled on Adrienne’s wrist; she considered them and then slowly licked them up.
“We should talk. And then, if you have a taste for midnight flight, perhaps we could do some hunting together. There’s a little loose end you could really get your teeth into.”
“Let me give you a hand!” Peter said.
He took the big ceramic bowl of potato salad out of Ellen’s arms and put it on one of the picnic tables. Others jumped to take the rest of the precariously-piled loads from the two women. People were milling around the walled rear yard, and into the house through the sliding-glass doors. Japanese lanterns bobbed overhead, casting shifting light.
More than half of the attendees were apparently the Villegas clan, but a substantial number of Monica’s tennis and library-volunteer friends were there too, and their spouses and children. Fiona Duggan was attending, with a Chinese man a little younger than she. Most families seemed to have brought a dish, including enough cakes and trifles and empanadas to make her feel guilty just looking. The sheltered walled garden was comfortable if you had a jacket, but there was a constant traffic of laden plates into the house and empty ones coming out. Children ranged from teenagers—the male ones giving her wistful looks—to a small fair-haired baby being dandled and admired.
Oh. That’s where the . . . little girl from San Simeon went.
She was too young to cry much, though she looked around dubiously.
She’ll
forget. She’s really too young to know her mother’s gone. And growing up a renfield . . . well, better that than some things.
The big brick barbecue pit smoked over the oakwood coals at the edge of a flagstone patio, with Jose presiding—or attempting to, as his father and uncles crowded around offering advice with bottles of beer in their hands. A long spike over one end held a yard of carne al pastor, thin-sliced pork loin dripping with little sputters and spurts of flame. Smells pungent and meaty and spicy drifted on the air.
Jose flourished a knife as long as his forearm and sliced off an edge from top to bottom onto a plate of tortillas. More of the flat wheat-breads warmed on a comal, a flatiron, supervised by Jose’s rather stout mother and a doe-eyed, strikingly pretty girl who was probably his sister from the way they teased each other. Chicken thighs and breasts and drumsticks sizzled, and some hamburgers and bratwurst, and steaks that smelled as if they’d been marinated in lime and garlic and pepper . . .
“The brats I brought, they’re one of Minnesota’s national dishes,” Peter said. “These things always turn into an amoeba party when Jose’s putting it on.”
“Amoeba party?”
“Multiplication by division. He has a lot of relatives,” Peter said. “Beer or wine? The Rhône de Robles is good, but . . .”
“Beer, thanks. More cooling!”
He fetched her one, a light pale ale from the Rancho Sangre brewery.
“Maria’s—Jose’s mother’s—adobo chicken mole is just great,” he went on. “And Frank Milson, he’s the husband of one of Monica’s tennis buddies, makes this amazing cowboy beans and bacon thing.”
She loaded her plate with everything he’d recommended, and a red chili tamale with shredded pork and an ear of roast corn, and circulated. That was prolonged by Monica dragging her off for a complete rundown on her hours at Jean-Charles’ establishment to an admiring and envious group. Evidently an outfit from him was a rare and coveted reward in female renfield circles, much less a complete wardrobe.
Then she returned to sit beside Peter and the doctor at the end of one of the outdoor tables, a folding model that was a little unstable on the clipped grass.
“Hello, Dr.—”
“I’ve been in America a generation now, Ellen. Fiona will do,” she said.
Then she grinned. “I’ve not brought any haggis, honest. Though it would have to be certified organic haggis here. You’ll find few towns this size with healthier populations.”
“I’ve noticed,” Ellen said. “Why . . . oh, of course . . . Fiona.” She nodded, with an odd smile.
It’s a show ranch, she thought. But a people show ranch. We’re the palomino horses and certified Angus cattle. Or . . . well, considering all those jokes they tell about sheep and shepherds, maybe we’re the cute bouncy waggle-tailed big-eyed fleecy flock of pedigree ewes and rams.
She concentrated on eating for a while; everything was good, and she’d gotten used to spicy in Santa Fe, where even the chocolates could have red chili.
From here a big pepper tree shut out most of the stars . . . and the lights of the casa grande over the wall and on its hill. There was a pleasant burble of voices, mostly talking in English but liberally flavored with Spanish words, sentences, inflections and occasional conversations. Ellen ate and let the ambience flow into her. It was more relaxed than she would have expected, and for a long moment she closed her eyes and imagined she was anywhere else.
What Peter was saying brought her back to reality: “. . . and I think I’ve got a handle on a really rigorous mathematical description of why the Power can’t affect some materials—”
“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Fiona said softly.
Peter blinked at her. “Why not? That’s what I’m supposed to do.”
“Indeed you are,” Adrienne said, and reached around Ellen for a forkful of the potato salad on her plate.
Eeeeek!
Ellen fought not to spill her food for an instant. The talk didn’t die at the Doña’s presence, though it did drop several octaves. Ellen noticed a number of older people glance nervously at their teenage or young-adult children. Some of those were giving Adrienne the sort of glances usually reserved for the extremely cool; others looked a little apprehensive themselves. The Shadowspawn was wearing a loose caftan-like robe; it looked comfortable but not the sort of wear for stealth.
How did she sneak up on me like that? Did she—
“No Wreaking needed. I just move very quietly when I want to, and you humans have the most terrible hearing,” Adrienne said to her.
I wonder how far away she can read thoughts?
“That’s for me to know and you to worry about, chérie.”
And now I’ll never be sure if she’s standing behind me!
“No, you won’t. Ah, that was a very nice shiver up the spine you had just then; it gave me this almost irresistible impulse to pounce on you. You’re such a flirt, Ellen!”
“Not intentional,” Ellen said tightly.
“As if that mattered, you teasing minx!” Adrienne snapped teeth at her playfully, then went on to Peter:
“Though the good doctor has a point too. It’s occurred to me from time to time that my enthusiasm for things modern may be misleading me. That understanding the Power could have disadvantages. After all, we don’t really need to understand it to use it, and if other people understood it better than we did . . . that could be unfortunate.”
“Ummm . . .” Peter frowned. “Well, you could use it better if you could understand it.”
“Yes, but . . . you’re thinking about your work right now, aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
“And it might as well be in Swahili. I can read your thoughts but they’re meaningless to me, even the bits of what’s apparently English interspersed, and . . . is that some sort of graphic notation? Worse, because I could learn Swahili in a couple of weeks without particular effort. I couldn’t follow the mathematics and theory in your head without years of very hard work. It’s odd. I can decipher computer code easily enough.”
“I think that’s a different order of representation,” Peter said judiciously. “It’s not just knowing a language, it’s knowing a lot of facts in the language and understanding their relationships. Knowing English doesn’t make you an expert on Shakespeare. You could do physics, with enough time and work, I think. You pick up concepts well.”
“But the number of Shadowspawn who could is quite limited, while we can all use the Power. It’s the difference between being able to walk and being able to learn ballet.”
“Why . . . oh, yes, limited talent pool,” Peter said. “Bell curves.”
“You get the most fascinating spike of intellectual pleasure when you realize something, Peter. It’s part of what makes you interesting. Like one of those minimalist-cuisine dishes, with a little dab of ahi and a single artfully arranged French bean and a thin calligraphic drizzle of some sharp-tasting sauce. Ascetic, but a pleasure nonetheless.”
Ellen looked between them, puzzled. She’s not the only one listening to a strange language.
Adrienne turned to her for a second: “It doesn’t matter if only one human in ten thousand has a natural talent for physics. That’s still millions in total. For us one in ten thousand means one or two individuals in the entire race.”
“Oh,” Ellen said. She smiled. “Guess that shows why I’m cuisine bourgeois and not minimalist.”
“You’re very good of your kind, my sweet. Just as Monica and Jose are two varieties of honest American comfort food, like this potato salad or the carne al pastor.”
Peter nodded enthusiastically, sticking to the original thread: “And science requires a community of trained minds. Which is why I’ve been so slow here.”
Ellen winced; even on short acquaintance she’d noticed how he would follow a line of argument anywhere, once he had his teeth in it. And looking at Adrienne’s smile . . .
That’s an unfortunate metaphor.
The Sha
dowspawn nodded. “The last time we did anything like that was back in the nineteenth century, when Brézé adepts researched how to bring back Mhabrogast from the fragments we had.”
“How?” Duggan said, obviously taking mental notes.
“Using reconstructive philology boosted by the Power . . . If you cut the possible answers down to a reasonable number, then the Power can tell which is most likely right, which gives you more information for the next deduction. That was scholarship, not real science, though.”
“Do you want me to stop the work?” Peter said anxiously.
“No,” Adrienne said slowly. “Not for now. It’s all in your head, after all.”
Then she smiled. “We can talk later, but I had some other topics in mind. Ellen has given me some interesting ideas on how we could pass the time agreeably. Drop by the casa in an hour or so and don’t plan anything but rest tomorrow. Dr. Duggan, a word with you. There’s a bit of an extra load for your clinic coming up, I’m afraid.”
The two moved off into a corner of the yard; Adrienne ate a tortilla wrapped around some of the pork loin as they spoke with their heads close together.
“Interesting ideas?” Peter said, looking at Ellen with his eyebrows raised.
What . . . Oh, God!
“Ah . . . Peter, it’s not my fault—it’s really not my fault. I’m sorry!”
“What isn’t your fault, Ellen?”
She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and then opened them again despite the heat she felt in her cheeks.
“Ah . . . OK, there’s no way to say this without being embarrassed, at least not for me. I’m . . . well, I sort of like some kink stuff, some of the time. Fairly often. Nothing extreme! Not edgeplay.”
“Like?” he said curiously, and took a swig of his beer. “Really, it’s all right, Ellen. I’m not easily shocked either.”
“Ah . . . I’m a bottom. Ropes and chains. I like being tied up. Tied up and beaten with whips. Symbolic whips! Well, partly symbolic, they sting, but . . . It’s a game, Peter. All consensual, safe-words, that sort of thing. When Adrienne found my . . . my gear in my apartment, she thought it was hilarious. She ordered a duplicate set in San Francisco. God, we went in this shop and . . . I got all mine on the Internet before. I thought she was just going to use it on me, Peter. As a joke.”
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