Written in Red (20 page)

Thinking of the Drowned City, Monty shivered. “Yes, Mr. Sanguinati, they have.” When silence was the only response, Monty took a step back. “I’ll leave you to your work. I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me.”

Vlad took a step forward and held out his hand. “Anytime, Lieutenant.”

Not daring to give offense, Monty took the vampire’s hand—and instantly felt a prickling that was gone a moment later. And in that same moment, he felt the odd sensation of Vlad’s strong grip being less substantial.

“You can go out through A Little Bite,” Vlad said, releasing Monty’s hand and turning back to the display of books.

Glad to leave, Monty went to the lattice door. As he reached out to open it, he noticed the pinpricks of blood on his palm.

He swayed as understanding replaced puzzlement. He didn’t dare turn around and look at the vampire.

How much blood had Vlad taken from him in the few seconds their hands had touched? Was that a feeding, a warning, or a threat?

He hurried into the coffee shop and turned toward the door, wanting to escape. But Tess’s voice saying, “Don’t forget your coffee,” made him turn back.

The threads of black were gone, but the hair was still unnaturally curly.

She handed him some paper napkins first—and smiled.

It took effort not to run, but he walked out of A Little Bite and joined Kowalski, who was leaning against the patrol car, watching the roofs of the buildings.

“They sure are keeping close watch,” Kowalski said as Monty handed him one of the coffees. “A dozen Crows and a couple of Hawks have come and gone while you were inside. You all right, Lieutenant?”

“Let’s get in the car,” Monty replied.

When they were inside and partially sheltered from feathered observers, Monty pulled the napkins away from his hand.

“Gods above and below,” Kowalski said, whistling softly. “What happened?”

“I shook hands with Vladimir Sanguinati.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t have a good alternative, and considering the conversation prior to it, it didn’t seem smart to insult him.”

Kowalski paled. “They can take blood just by touching you?”

“Apparently. You had mentioned there was some evidence that they could take blood without biting a person. Looks like we’ve just been given a demonstration of what that other method is.”

Monty raised the cup to his lips, then lowered it without drinking. “Let’s get out of here, Karl. I need something to eat, and I need to get away from the Courtyard for a while.”

Kowalski secured his cup in a holder and drove out of the parking lot.

Warning signs everywhere,
Monty thought. The mayor wanted the dangerous criminal caught and the stolen property returned to its rightful owner. Except the property wasn’t a thing; it was a person. Meg Corbyn had stolen her own body, had run away from someone’s “benevolent ownership.”

Considering what the
cassandra sangues
could do, how much of that benevolence was about profit?

Monty closed his eyes, letting Kowalski choose the place for a light meal.

Now that Vladimir Sanguinati had put the thought on the table, Monty wasn’t sure that, in this case,
benevolence
wasn’t another word for “slavery.” He also wasn’t sure if leaving a blood prophet on her own wasn’t a passive form of murder.

But he
was
sure that any intervention with regard to Meg Corbyn and her addiction to cutting would have to come from Simon Wolfgard now and not him.

The phone rang as Meg was pulling on her coat. “Hello?”

“Meg? It’s Jester. Listen, old Hurricane is coming up with the other ponies. He’s retired now—that’s why he’s living at Lakeside—but it would be good for him to feel useful. Could you give him the mail for the Owlgard or the Pony Barn?”

“Sure. How will I know which one he is?”

“White mane and tail, and a gray coat with a hint of blue. Can’t mistake him for any of the others.”

“Have to go,” Meg said when she heard the chorus of neighs.

She opened the delivery door and then stared.

There were twelve ponies waiting for her. Meg didn’t recognize four of them, but she figured out which one was Hurricane based on the description Jester gave her. Instead of forming their usual line, the ponies were all jostling for first position at the door, pushing and crowding until Thunder stamped a foot.

The
boom
shook the building and had Meg grabbing for the doorway to keep her balance.

She looked at the pony.
Oh, he couldn’t have . . .

Suddenly a voice yelled, “Blessed Thaisia! What is going on?”

She’d never heard that voice before, but she was willing to bet it was Elliot Wolfgard yelling out a window in the consulate.

In the absolute silence that followed, she heard a window slam shut.

“You’re going to get me in trouble,” she told Thunder in a loud whisper.

The pony wouldn’t look at her, which confirmed he had been responsible for that roll of thunder.

“Now,” she said firmly. “Lakeside mail carriers are good-mannered ponies. Anyone who can’t behave will have to go home.”

She couldn’t actually make them go back to the Pony Barn if they weren’t good mannered, but she just stood in the doorway of the sorting room. The ponies stared at her as if trying to decide if she was bluffing. Then they sorted themselves out in a neat line, with Thunder in his usual first position.

“Thank you.” Giddily triumphant, Meg went to the table and picked up the stacks of mail for Thunder’s baskets. As each pony shifted in the line, she filled baskets for Lightning, Tornado, Earthshaker, and Fog. Going back to the table for the last three batches of mail, she wondered about the ponies’ names. If Thunder could make so much sound by stamping his foot, what could Tornado and Earthshaker do if they pitched a fit?

Couldn’t think about that. Just like she
wouldn’t
think about having Wolves and vampires living in the same apartment complex that she did—or why she felt safer being around them than the humans she had lived with in the compound.

Just like she wouldn’t admit to being curious about seeing a Wolf in Wolf form. She didn’t have a training image of a
terra indigene
Wolf, just images of the animal. Even her Controller, with all the money he acquired from the use of his property, hadn’t been able to buy a photograph of a Wolf to use as reference.

Shaking off those thoughts, Meg fetched the treat bowl and held out two carrot chunks for Thunder.

He looked at her, looked at the carrots, and shook his head.

“Carrots,” Meg said. “You liked carrots last week.”

Another head shake. Thunder lifted a hoof, looked toward the consulate, and put the hoof down carefully.

Meg studied the ponies and felt her stomach flutter.
Oh no.

Retreating—and becoming aware of just how cold the room was because she’d already had the door open too long—she hustled into the front room, grabbed the calendar and a marker, then hustled back to the ponies.

“Look.” She made a big S on Moonsday, then turned the calendar around for the ponies to see. Not that she thought they could read, but they seemed to understand words. “We had sugar lumps on Moonsday as a special treat. We don’t get sugar lumps again as a treat until
next
Moonsday, which is here.” She made another S on the calendar. “
Today
we have carrots as our treat.”

She put the calendar and marker down, picked up the treat bowl, and returned to the doorway. “Carrots today.” She held out two carrot chunks.

Managing to convey disappointment and resignation, Thunder ate his carrot chunks and headed out to deliver his mail.

All the ponies ate their carrots, including the ones who must have shown up today because they expected sugar.

Meg closed the outside door, checked the front room to make sure no delivery trucks were pulling in, then went into the back room to make herself a cup of peppermint tea. If they were going to have a treat discussion every day, she was going to put on her boots and stand outside from now on. At least that way she could warm up afterward.

Simon hung up the office phone and sat back in his chair. That was the third West Coast Courtyard leader to call him this morning, asking if there had been any peculiar attacks in the Lakeside Courtyard’s territory.

Something new had found its way among the humans. Something that was absorbed by the
terra indigene
when they ate the meat. Humans were turning savagely aggressive, and not just among their own kind. They were
attacking
some of the Others. Mostly Crows were being attacked, were being ripped apart in both forms, by packs of humans that were so aggressive, they had no survival instincts. The top predators in those Courtyards had taken down the monkeys, then began to fight among themselves soon after consuming the meat.

Just as disturbing were the Wolves and Grizzlies and Cats that were suddenly so passive, they couldn’t defend themselves against an attack by a gang of humans.

The bodywalkers, the healers among the
terra indigene
, could find no evidence of poison or drugs, but
something
was making humans behave strangely and was also affecting the Others.

More humans in the bigger cities took drugs that not only damaged their lives but also spoiled them as meat. But none of the incidents being reported were in the big cities. This new danger was happening in small farming hamlets or industrial centers that had a few hundred citizens. The kinds of places where the Others had minimal contact with humans and wouldn’t know there could be reasons not to eat a kill.

The kinds of places that, if the Others felt threatened and decided to eliminate those humans, the number that were killed would be howled at as tragic on the television or in the newspapers, but in truth would be no more than an inconvenience. Another group of humans would be selected to work the farms or run the machines, would scrub off the blood and move into the houses—if the Others didn’t get there first and simply reclaim the land and property for themselves.

Didn’t humans understand how expendable they were? The
terra indigene
were as old as the world, as old as the land and the seas. They learned from the top predators and became
more
than those predators. Always adapting, always changing as Namid changed.
They
would be forever.

The
terra indigene
in Thaisia didn’t need humans anymore in order to have the material things they wanted. If the monkeys became a real threat, they no longer had enough to offer to make their presence endurable. If that day came, humans would follow the same path as other creatures before them and become an extinct meat.

Meg wasn’t surprised when Jester showed up an hour after the ponies trotted off. She put down the stack of mail she’d been sorting and held out the treat bowl. “Have a carrot.”

Jester leaned over the bowl, sniffed, then leaned back. “I prefer meat.”

“Set a good example,” Meg growled. “Eat a carrot.”

Jester took a step back and eyed her. “You’re sounding rather Wolfish
.
Was there a problem with the ponies this morning?”

Meg set the bowl on the table. “Only that they didn’t get sugar lumps today, but sugar is a special treat and isn’t something they should have every day, so today the treat was carrots, and Thunder . . . thundered . . . which upset Elliot Wolfgard, who sent some stuffy Owl to remind me that the consulate dealt with human government and shouldn’t be embarrassed by the Courtyard help’s shenanigans!”

She hadn’t realized how much the reprimand had upset her. After all, she hadn’t done anything to deserve it.

No. She wasn’t upset. She was
mad.

It felt good to be mad. It felt invigorating to be able to feel emotions without fearing punishment. It felt
alive.

She stared at Jester.

“You gave sugar to the ponies?” he asked.

“So what? An occasional lump of sugar won’t hurt them.”

“No. Of course it won’t.” He took another step away from the table. “I’d tuck my tail between my legs, but it’s very uncomfortable growing one while wearing trousers, and I think we’d both prefer that I remain dressed.”

She picked up the bowl and held it out. “Eat a carrot instead. It won’t hurt you either.”

Sighing, he took a carrot chunk and nibbled on it. “Will there be sugar again?”

The calendar was now sitting next to the music player. She held it up and tapped the big black S. “Moonsday is sugar day.”

“Right. I’ll explain it to them.”

Her anger fizzled out. “I’m not upset with you, Jester. It’s just that I want to do a good job. I really do. But I haven’t been here a week yet, and I keep getting into trouble.”

Smiling, Jester held thumb and forefinger close together. “A little bit of trouble, which is amply compensated for by the entertainment you’ve been providing.”

“Thanks a lot.” She hesitated. She didn’t know much about anything, but she didn’t have to know much to figure out she was going to have time on her hands. “Jester? When they were caught up with their work, what did the other Liaisons do while they waited for deliveries?”

He looked around the room. “You cleared out all the old mail and packages?”

“Yes.”

He looked a little bewildered. “I don’t know, Meg. I don’t remember seeing this room so clean. Maybe . . . read books?”

“Is there something else I could do to be helpful?”

“What do you want to do?”

Good question. One that deserved some thought.

“Your suggestion about reading is a good one. I’ll start with that.” She could study anything she wanted, could read about a subject from beginning to end if she wanted. She could learn how to do things instead of having a head full of disconnected images.

“Good,” Jester said. “Fine. I’ll talk to the ponies. From now on, they’ll be happy with whatever treats you give them.”

Then he was gone, slipping out the door so fast she almost wondered if he’d been there at all.

Meg shook her head. She wasn’t sure humans could—or should—understand how the Others thought. But Jester’s suggestion was a good one, so during her lunch break she would pick up a book to study and a book to read for fun, and ponder what else she could do to earn her keep.