Changer's Daughter (21 page)

“I don’t know, maybe Jesus give me the strength, maybe Ogun, but I get so mad that I forget I’m all beaten up. I go at him, even with the chair tied to my backside and my arms all bound. I hit him in the belly with my head and he falls and I fall on top of him. I try to bite him or crush him. Then the guards pull me off.

“The boss man he stands up w’ the gun and I tink he gonna shoot me but he jus’ hit me in the face w’ it. That’s the last I see. His face in a snarl like the devil incarnate. Then I not see nothing anymore, nothing but dese lights in my head.”

Katsuhiro offers Adam more water and while Adam drinks he says:

“I promise that man will die if I make it out of here.”

Adam smiles and shakes his head. “You no get out.”

“Maybe.” Katsuhiro will not share more of his budding plans with the broken man beside him.

“You tink Teresa still alive?”

Katsuhiro considers whether or not to tell Adam the truth. If Adam learns that she is alive, his captors have a hold over him, yet ignorance is its own torture. Regis had made certain that Katsuhiro saw the girl... why?

Adam speaks again. “If she is alive, she’s in hell. I tink dey might make her whore by threatening to hurt me more.”

Katsuhiro grunts noncommittally.

“The preacher say dat it wrong to kill yourself, dat you go to hell, but if you livin’ is hurting somebody else, den is it so bad to kill yourself?”

“In my country,” Katsuhiro says, “it is not wrong to kill yourself if you do so from honor, not from fear.”

Adam sighs. “I been tinkin’ I know who you mus’ be. You talk English w’ an accent like I been hearing in the movies. Tell me, Oba, is you Anson’s friend, the Japanese businessman?”

“Yes.”

“Den you mus’ hate me, ‘cause I why the boss man know you comin’.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Thanks.”

They sit in silence for a long while, long enough that Katsuhiro decides that Adam must have fallen asleep. He occupies himself thinking of revenge, counting the booted feet that pass the narrow window above, trying to estimate his chances for escape. Then Adam’s voice breaks the silence.

“I not know if I could kill myself. I have nothing to do it w’. Maybe I jus’ starve. Dey not feed me for so long.”

“Maybe.” Katsuhiro is well aware how long it has been since he has eaten. His dreams the night before were haunted by that ham and cheese sandwich—and he doesn’t even like cheese.

“I not tink I could not eat if they give me even a yam full of worms.” Adam sighs. “Or stale bread w’ mold. My stomach forget what hungry is, but my brain won’t stop.”

“Yeah,” Katsuhiro pats him. “I know.”

“Oba,” Adam’s tone is solemn now, “I want to ask you a favor.”

“Ask.”

“Kill me.”

“The trouble is,” the Changer says to Frank MacDonald as they sit over dinner the day after Shahrazad’s encounter with the wolves, “Shahrazad expects me to be there to rescue her.”

The coyote puppy, sides rounded from her own dinner, thumps her tail sleepily from where she drowses on a rag rug in front of a blazing fire. She has learned not to mind that she must share the space with assorted cats, dogs, and jackalopes, or that the perpetually miserable clouded leopard gets the cushion closest to the blaze where he can dream of the warm rain forests that were once his home.

“Yes.” Frank twirls some fettucini around his fork. “Her faith in you in unshaken, despite the fact that you haven’t been the one to rescue her from her last two escapades.”

“I was lucky,” the Changer says, “that I found the griffin the first time or I might have had to intervene. The second time, Hip and Hop had already warned the unicorns where Shahrazad was heading.”

“Would you have interfered if they hadn’t shown up in time?”

“I’m afraid so,” the Changer admits.

“Then Shahrazad is right to count on you.”

“I’ve wondered if somehow she knows when I am near, even if I haven’t given any indication.”

“Some of the animals, the dogs in particular,” Frank says, “claim that you have a distinctive scent that underlies whatever form you take. Could Shahrazad be scenting that?”

“Possibly, though I have taken care to be downwind of her whenever possible.”

“More fettucini?”

“Please.” The Changer heaps his plate high, then adds extra cheese sauce from a tureen that stands warming over a small candle. “How long have you had wolves here?”

“Since I founded the ranch. They have real problems, problems on a par with those faced by creatures like the griffin or unicorns.”

“Worse in a way,” the Changer says. “Humans fear them—even the humans who claim to love them—and they know wolves exist.”

“Right.” Frank sips red wine. “Ranchers are smart to fear wolf predation, don’t get me wrong. A wolf pack coordinates in killing its prey, making it a threat to creatures far larger than any one wolf.”

“I,” the Changer says reminiscently, “have been a wolf.”

“Yes, I’m certain you have,” Frank says. “You have been most things. My wolf pack has special problems.”

“I smelled them,” the Changer says. “Man-wolves.”

“Yes,” Frank sighs. “Werewolves. They aren’t very effective shapechangers. Their human form is primitive: bipedal but so heavily furred and with such a gross distortion of the facial features that a satyr has an easier time blending into modern society.”

“I don’t recall,” the Changer says mildly, “a time when werewolves ever blended very easily.”

“No,” Frank agrees. “They don’t really. They’re not a whole lot smarter than your average wolf, and in human form they’re rather short-tempered. They do make extraordinarily good wolves, though. The extra intelligence helps there. That’s why some of them survived the Middle Ages.”

“There was an aboriginal werewolf population in North America, wasn’t there?”

“Yes. Unfortunately, even their athanor resistance to disease didn’t stop them from falling to the same illnesses that devastated the Native Americans. And not even an athanor can resist a bullet to the heart or a cut throat.”

“So your pack here?”

“Is part-European, part-American. I’ve heard that there is another community in Alaska. There may be another in Siberia. I’m not certain.”

“Are they cross-fertile with wolves?”

“Varies from werewolf to werewolf, much as with most athanor. Lupé, the pack leader—the one who was ready to kill Shahrazad—does better than most, but most of his pups are just wolves.”

“Athanor wolves?”

“Not many. Not for several years.”

“Still his get has added to Harmony.”

“Yes.”

They finish the fettucini in silence, then Frank goes to the kitchen and returns with a pecan pie and a carafe of coffee.

“Dessert?”

“Of course. You know how shapeshifters are.” The Changer smiles, and Frank colors.

“Yes, that I do.”

He cuts them both large wedges of pie, tastes his, then continues:

“I rely on the werewolves to help me with many of the chores around here. They can’t feed the horses or muck out stalls—the horses get too scared. But they can build fences or do repair work on the buildings. Just for safety’s sake, I don’t pasture any of the horses near the wolves’ hunting grounds. The werewolves have a pretty good idea of what they should and should not hunt.”

“And they have lots of experience hiding their tracks,” the Changer says. “So they protect the normal wolves.”

“Right. The deal has worked so far, but the wolf pack has grown larger than I like. I need to keep the athanor here, but I’m trying to find somewhere I can export some of the spares.”

“Alaska?”

“Probably. The yeti would help them while they acclimated. The trouble is, a biologist would realize that they weren’t from the local strain. That might raise some awkward questions. I might try Siberia instead. The former Soviet Union is such a mess that no one is going to be studying wolves for a while.”

“A great, wide world,” the Changer says, “and yet it keeps getting smaller.”

“I know. Where are you thinking of going next?”

“Can Shahrazad stay here?”

“If she does, I’ll do my best to protect her, but if she doesn’t learn to stay away from werewolves and hydra, there isn’t much I can do.”

“She wants friends,” the Changer says. “You don’t have coyotes on OTQ grounds, though, do you?”

“Not many, not for long.” Frank shrugs. “Wolves don’t like coyotes and most coyotes have the sense to stay away from wolves.”

“Shahrazad is still a bit of a snob when it comes to cats and dogs,” the Changer admits, “and, though she won’t say so, she’s scared of the unicorns.”

Frank nods. “That shows intelligence. There are some foxes who might play with her. Maybe I can get her to realize that even grass-eaters can be interesting.”

“If anyone can do it,” the Changer says, again with a smile that says more than his words, “I think it will be you.”

Frank ignores the innuendo. “So where will you go? Back to Arthur’s?”

“I don’t think so. From what you have told me, he is facing another crisis. Besides, I’m not one for cities.”

Frank frowns. “I’d prefer if you were somewhere I could contact you if Shahrazad did get into trouble, not out in virgin wilderness.”

“Why don’t I go visit my brother?”

“Duppy Jonah? That’s not a bad idea. He’s had telephone for quite a while. I think that Vera has been working on some way to get him and Amphitrite on-line.”

“I can fly to the Gulf and swim from there,” the Changer says. “Atlantis is being constructed in warmer waters.”

“That would work then,” Frank agrees. “You couldn’t get here immediately, but I could reach you if I needed an opinion.”

The Changer glances over to where Shahrazad is sound asleep, apparently unaware of the black-and-white long-haired cat that has curled up beside her.

“I’ll explain things to her in the morning,” he says. “She must understand that I will not be here to save her from herself.”

Frank nods. “You’re not going to enjoy that, are you?”

“No, but it must be done.”

8

We are in bondage to the law in order that we might be free.

—Cicero

P
repared by Eddie’s message to treat their employer as if he is part-temperamental two-year-old and part-mad dog, Chris and Bill are surprised by how courteously Arthur summons them to his office a few hours after they receive Eddie’s message.

Entering the chief executive’s office with barely concealed trepidation, they expect anything from a lecture on how useless they are or a diatribe about Eddie’s disloyalty. Instead, Arthur stands politely when they enter and gestures to the good chairs he keeps for guests.

“Please,” he says, his British accent courtly, “have a seat. May I offer you some refreshments?”

“Water,” Bill manages, “would be nice.”

Chris nods agreement.

Once they are settled with tall crystal goblets of iced water, Arthur resumes his seat behind his desk and clears his throat. It’s about then that both humans realize that they are neither about to be fired nor lectured.

“You both are aware,” Arthur says, “of the difficulty that has arisen regarding Tommy Thunderburst’s plan to use fauns and satyrs in his stage show.”