Changer's Daughter (52 page)

“You remind me of your father when you look like that. Sleep well.”

She doesn’t, though. Her dreams are full of ice storms and fields filled with orange flowers with black centers that smell of sleep. Ice covers her, imprisoning her in glassy walls so thick that neither sound nor scent can penetrate them, and the little light that does refracts crazily among the crystals.

In her dream, she tries to dig her way out, but the ice is tight around her limbs, encasing not just legs and paws, but each hair in an unbreakable insinuating hold.

If Wayne had not stumbled across her when he opened the door, Shahrazad doubts that she would have heard him leave.

When she feels the thud of his foot against her flank, her eyes fly open. Vision momentarily confuses her, for she had thought her eyes already open. By the time she has resolved this, Wayne has recovered his balance, stepped over her, and turned down the corridor toward the central wing of the house.

Shahrazad’s muscles do not seem to know that they are no longer asleep. Though she struggles to rise, she cannot get her legs to obey. Only by concentrating on one limb at a time, raising her hindquarters first, then her front legs, then her head and neck, and finally her tail does she come free of the dream’s hold.

The ranch house is unnaturally silent. Normally there are many small sounds, the snores, wheezes, snorts, and snuffles of dozens of sleeping animals. Gone, too, are the sounds of those animals who do not sleep through the night but instead come and go about their business through windows and door flaps left open for that purpose.

Tonight, the only sound is the faint jingle of keys and a single set of footsteps padding down the carpeted hall.

Shahrazad moves toward those sounds, carefully keeping to the carpet so her toenails won’t click against the wood or tile. If she can sneak up on Wayne, she can knock him down again. She doesn’t care if she leaves teeth marks on his neck.

Somehow, she knows she cannot awaken Frank quickly enough for him to help her. By the time he peels the ice from his limbs, Wayne would be gone.

Shahrazad arrives in the central portion of the house in time to see Wayne emerging from the room whose door is normally kept locked. There is a small white creature in his left hand: pale white with a pink nose that wiggles nervously as the mouse sniffs the air.

Moving as if asleep himself, Wayne goes to the end of the hallway and opens the door to the outside that Frank locks at night. Frustrated, Shahrazad barks sharply, knowing that Wayne has too great a head start for her to catch him by stealth alone.

The air around her swallows the sound, chasing it back upon itself, deadening it, as a blanket or pillow does. The mouse hears, however, and Shahrazad cringes nearly to the floor when a translucent figure manifests around it.

It is a woman, slim and fair, with hair like ice and blue eyes like winter cold. The delicate lines of her features hold no mirth, no merriment. A human would recognize her as beautiful. To Shahrazad, who has known only pain and cruelty from that woman, she is more terrible than any monster.

“You,” Louhi says, and her voice is like a whisper of a memory of a voice, heard inside the mind, not with the ears. “You, little bitch. I’m leaving now. You can do nothing to stop me. If I could keep my hold on this man and get you... but, by the time you rouse anyone, I will be gone.”

Wayne appears to have seen the woman, for his sleepy expression turns to one of appreciation and awe.

“Come along, dear,” he says. “Let me take you home.”

The woman vanishes, and there is only a mouse, but Wayne doesn’t seem to know this. He carries her outside. A few minutes later, while Shahrazad is still trying to escape the fear that had crippled her at the sight of Louhi, she hears the sound of an automobile engine.

That mundane sound breaks the fear and she runs down the corridor, barking warning and threat, but, as Louhi had promised, she is too late. The red glow of taillights receding down the driveway is Shahrazad’s only reward.

The young coyote is still wondering what to do when a large shape, dark against the dark sky, lands nearly soundlessly beside her. From the curious mixed scent of bird and cat, Shahrazad knows the griffin. The eagle-puma screeches inquiry at her and Shahrazad barks that everyone is asleep, though no one should sleep.

Surprisingly, the griffin understands her, miming sleep by tucking her head beneath her wing and pulling it out again, then shaking her head after the fashion of humans. Relieved to have someone understand her, Shahrazad indicates the open door of the ranch house, Wayne’s scent trail on the cold ground, the missing pickup truck.

The griffin becomes greatly agitated. Apparently she dislikes Louhi as much as Shahrazad does. Then she does something very strange. As she had when she carried the female werewolf to the ranch house, the griffin hunkers low to the ground. Looking at Shahrazad, she makes soft crooning sounds in her throat.

Shahrazad has watched humans ride horses and unicorns, but has never contemplated a similar mode of travel for herself. The idea entices her. They could chase down the truck with Louhi and Wayne, learn where they are going, perhaps stop them. The griffin is quite formidable, and Shahrazad has a fine belief in her own abilities. After all, didn’t Louhi get in the state she is in because of Shahrazad?

Nothing loath, the coyote leaps onto the griffin’s back. Immediately, she slides to the ground.

“Go without me,” she whines.

“No. I can’t let anyone see me,” the griffin replies in perfect but accented (mostly because of the shape of its ears) dog sounds. “Hold on with your teeth.”

Shahrazad tries, but the eagle feathers tickle her nose and make her sneeze. The lion hindquarters are not sufficiently long for her to straddle.

If only I had hands!
she thinks in desperation. As once before in her life, she feels the anger, fear, and frustration within her flow into a part of her she had nearly forgotten existed until this moment.

When Shahrazad looks down at herself, she sees that while her head and torso are still those of a coyote, her arms and legs have shifted to something closer to those of a human. Her feet remain like coyote feet, though somewhat longer, and her front paws have become hairy, but fully usable hands.

Gleefully, she spins before the griffin, displaying her new form.

“Come, Changer’s Daughter,” the other screeches. “We must fly before they go too far, before light comes and I must hide or fly very high indeed.”

Shahrazad climbs onto the griffin’s back, straddling as she had seen the werewolf do. She is even smaller, hardly larger than a toddling human child, and the griffin makes a satisfied noise as she launches into the air.

“Sharp eyes below, little one,” she screeches. “We shall have them yet.”

Shahrazad grins a coyote grin and, lifting her muzzle to the thin sliver of the moon, howls.

“Those of us on the inside,” Anson had reminded them just moments before, “must do four things. We must get Katsuhiro. We must get Teresa. We must get Taiwo. Finally, if we can, we must get Katsuhiro’s sword. Your job on the outside is to give us time to do these things.”

Their plan for entry had been cast with the simplicity born of desperation. When Anson had returned hours earlier from his nightly trip to Regis’s compound, he had brought news of the Japanese’s defense of Teresa and what it meant for his situation.

Since Katsuhiro was presumably no longer able to roam at liberty, and since Teresa with him in his room, that very night seems the best time to act.

Thus, in the post-midnight hours, when the guards on the midnight-to-seven shift should be growing bored and tired, Anson would cross into the compound in monkey form. He would bring another gun, ammunition, and a knife for Teresa. It had been decided, given what Katsuhiro reported of her state of mind, not to trust her with a gun.

Meanwhile, Eddie, Dakar, and Oya would be waiting below. There was no way that even such a talented duo as Anson and Katsuhiro could expect to simply walk out of the compound. Therefore, the strike team outside was prepared to create distractions and, if necessary, to break into the compound to get them out.

Neat. Tidy. Full of room for improvisation.

It is amazing how quickly this simple plan goes to hell.

Teresa starts the problems. She recognizes Anson when he swings in through the open window, only raises an eyebrow at his nudity and hands him, without being asked, a pair of Katsuhiro’s undershorts.

“A good thing he wears boxers,” she says. “When Mr. Oba warned me that we were breaking out tonight and that there would be help from the outside, I thought he might mean you.”

Anson, stepping into the shorts, bows acknowledgment. “I am sorry about Adam’s death. Had I known what had happened to you both, I would have tried to rescue you sooner.”

Teresa shrugs. “What is is. There is no changing it. Now, tie me to that chair, good and tight. I will say I was overwhelmed. Since we have refocused the security camera—not that I think Regis has time for watching tonight—there will be no one to gainsay me.”

She sits in the indicated chair and the two men exchange helpless glances.

“Teresa,” Anson says sternly, “you are leaving with us. There is nothing further you can do here. If you stay, you may be killed.”

“I am already dead,” she says, frighteningly matter-of-fact, “and so do not fear death. I will not leave until I am certain that Regis’s heart no longer beats and the good air is no longer fouled in his lungs. I cannot say ‘until he is dead’ for as I have told Mr. Oba, Regis is already as dead as I am.”

“Others have already sworn to kill him,” Anson says soothingly. “There is no need for you to be further sullied. Come!”

Her reply is to lean back against the chair and close her eyes. Katsuhiro tears a strip from his bed linen.

“A gag is a good first step,” he says, “then her hands.”

In ancient Mycenaean, he adds, “We could leave her, but I prefer not to do so. Since she will not cooperate, she can be our hostage. At least some of the guards will hesitate before shooting Regis’s woman.”

Anson nods agreement and begins belting Katsuhiro’s boxers around his own much smaller waist.

“These don’t have pockets,” he says in English, “but I’ll use my fanny pack to carry ammunition.”

“Good,” Katsuhiro replies. “I’ll need to leave most of my luggage. Regis’s minions have taken my money and identification, but the latter can be replaced.” To Teresa he adds, “Open your mouth, you stubborn woman.”

She does so, placid but fierce, and he stuffs in a gag and ties it firmly into place. Anson twists her hands behind her and holds them while Katsuhiro binds her wrists. Only when the samurai hobbles her ankles, then wrenches her to her feet, does Teresa realize that they are not leaving her behind.

Immediately, she begins to struggle. Anson, who is far stronger than his skinny body would seem to indicate, holds her easily with one arm.

“Keep struggling, my friend,” he tells her cheerfully. “It will make our charade seem all the better.

She cannot curse him as the low growls in her throat seem to indicate she would wish, but her eyes are hot with hate.

Katsuhiro appropriates the knife meant for Teresa, checks his gun for readiness, and grins at Anson.

“I am so looking forward to a fight,” he says.

“Then let me brief you,” Anson says. “Our reinforcements are prepared to cause a distraction when needed. Moreover, the door nearest to the garage will be open and covered. Our job is to get out after finishing our scavenger hunt.”

Katsuhiro’s grin does not fade. “We have Teresa. Taiwo is being held in his own quarters one floor below this one. The staircase at the right end of the corridor outside will take us almost to his door.”

In Mycenaean, Anson says, “I had planned to shift again and go down to his room so we would have someone with him, but Teresa’s behavior makes that impossible.”

“We will adapt,” Katsuhiro answers in the same language. “By the way, I saved you some candy. It’s disgustingly sweet, but should help you keep your strength up.”

Anson takes the offered candy with the hand that is not gripping Teresa.

“Cloying,” he says, switching to English, “but not disgusting. And a great help. Are you ready to go?”

“Ready.” Katsuhiro says. “You first with Teresa. I’ll slip out behind and take out the guard on the right. From there...”

“We improvise, eh?”

“
Hai!”

Anson takes a deep breath, then opens the door. Even before it swings fully open, he is jabbering nonsense in rapid-fire English.

“Mary had a little lamb, her fleece was black as night...”

He’s in the corridor now, kicking out almost as if performing a dance step. His bare foot hits the guard on the left of the door solidly in a khaki-trousered knee.

“And everywhere that Mary goes, tha’ lamb, she take a fright!”

Anson grins, making certain the two guards closest to him (there are four in all, one on either side of the door, two leaning against the wall across the corridor) see that he holds a gun in addition to Teresa. Behind him, he hears an “ooff” and thud as Katsuhiro takes out the guard to the right of the door.