“Probably,” Burke agreed. “We’ll just deal with one problem at a time.”
“Sir? How do you know all this?” It didn’t surprise him that Burke knew. He just wondered how the man had found out before anyone else.
“I stopped at the Courtyard, intending to give you a lift home and get your report. But you were on your way to Ferryman’s Landing, so I had a brief chat with Elliot Wolfgard. I think he was so forthcoming because he wanted to see how humans might react to the news. The next few weeks should be interesting.”
I could do with a little less interesting for a while, Monty thought as he pushed out of the chair. “I’m not sure Dr. Lorenzo is going to keep his office in the Market Square. Realizing the Others don’t let you pick and choose how you help them . . . I’m not sure he’s going to get past what he saw in that compound.”
“Are you?” Burke asked.
He didn’t know, so he said, “Good night, sir.”
“Have someone drive you home, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir.” Monty called MacDonald and Debany since they were on duty and arranged for the ride home. Then he sat at his desk to wait for them to return to the station.
He looked at the book about Thaisia’s history that Simon had given to him and wondered how much the Others’ version of recent events would differ from the human account. Then he pulled an envelope out of his pocket and opened it. Simon had given it to him when they got off the train.
The single sentence read: “Unlike humans, the terra indigene do not harm the sweet blood.”
He suddenly understood the task the Midwest Wolves and Sanguinati had undertaken. They wouldn’t leave the girls in that compound. Not that one. No, they would scatter those girls among the small human settlements under their control, most likely the Intuit villages. The Others would give the girls a chance to live—or allow them to die if they were too wounded in mind and heart to survive. Not all of them would have Meg Corbyn’s strength and will to live, but he hoped enough of them would.
Monty folded the paper, put it back in the envelope, and tucked it in his desk drawer. Then he opened the history book and began to read while he waited for Debany and MacDonald.
You couldn’t choose to step away once you got entangled with the Others. He just hoped that humans would gain something from the bloodshed that was coming.
• • •
Simon looked at the windows of his dark, empty apartment and wanted to howl with loneliness. He wanted company, companionship, but not . . . Wolves. Yes, he wanted them too, but being around his own kind wouldn’t take away this particular feeling of lonely.
He wanted his friend. His Meg. Her phone message had meant something. Hadn’t it?
He’d found her cell in the compound, the place those humans had kept her for all those years. It still held her scent and looked untouched, as if they’d been waiting to lock her back in that place. That had horrified him in a way the slaughter of the adult humans in the compound never could.
Even with the Sanguinati on the inside to open the doors for the rest of them, the Others hadn’t been able to save all the girls. The Controller and his people had seen to that. But that wasn’t something Lieutenant Montgomery or Dr. Lorenzo had needed to know then or now. It was enough that they had seen what the terra indigene could do. Now he would wait and see what they did with that knowledge.
“If you keep standing there, you won’t find the note I left for you.” Meg’s voice came out of the darkness, a light that banished the shadows of lonely.
He walked over to the stairs that led to her porch. “What note?”
“The one that said to drop off your carryall and come up for dinner.”
“Oh.” He climbed the stairs, bringing the carryall with him. “You have food?”
She smiled at him, a glee that invited him to play. “I made spaghetti.”
That didn’t sound right, but he’d caught the scent of something tasty, so he followed her to the kitchen, leaving his carryall by the door.
“Merri Lee taught me,” Meg said as she lifted the lid on a pot and carefully stirred. “The sauce has ground beef and some vegetables. The beef was thoroughly sniffed before Boone Hawkgard ground it fresh for me, so it’s fine. And the pasta is almost ready.”
He felt like his paws weren’t on firm ground, and he didn’t know how to move. The food scents were too strong, so he couldn’t tell if she’d cut herself recently. “How did you know when to . . . ?” He trailed off, certain he would spoil things if he asked.
The look in her clear gray eyes was equal parts annoyed and amused. “Blair promised to call when he dropped you off so that I would know when to put the pasta in, and he did.”
“Oh.” He yelped in surprise when the timer buzzed, and that made her laugh.
“Here.” She shut off the heat and handed him two potholders. “Pour the pasta into the colander in the sink. Be careful. It’s boiling water and the pot is heavy.”
It was boiling and it was heavy, and he realized that was the reason she let him do this—to protect her skin. While he followed her directions and transferred the spaghetti to a plate, Meg ladled some of the sauce out of the other pot.
“You’re supposed to have bread and salad and other things with it,” Meg said. “At least that’s how it’s served at the Saucy Plate, but this was all I could do today.”
“It’s a lot,” he said, and meant it. A train ride with five young girls who couldn’t cope with even the smallest personal experience and a severely damaged Jean had shown him how much effort it took for Meg to do simple things without being overwhelmed by the images and stimulation of doing.
He was hungry and wanted to gulp the food, but he ate slowly, appreciating the tastes and the effort. And . . .
He was sure now that she hadn’t cut herself, but there was a little bit of her flavor woven through the rest of the scents. She had touched the food, and that contact had retained a hint of her. He enjoyed the meal even more because of it.
When they’d eaten enough, they stored the rest of the food and did the dishes together. He worried for a moment that he was acting too human, but he liked the closeness, the company, the companionship.
She didn’t ask about the girls or the compound or Jean until they were sitting on the sofa in her living room. That’s when he gave her the letter Jean had written on the train.
“You got her out,” Meg said, turning the envelope over and over. “You saved her.”
He wasn’t sure of that. He wasn’t sure anyone that scarred and battered could be saved.
“She’s living on Great Island, so you can visit her,” he said. “But not yet. She’s . . . damaged, Meg, and doesn’t want to see you for a while. That’s why she gave me this letter.”
“She needs to settle into a routine before coping with something else that’s new.” Meg turned the letter over and over. “But I could write to her. I could buy stationery at the Three Ps and send her a letter telling her about my life in the Courtyard. Receiving a letter could be part of the routine.”
“Yes, it could. Meg? I’d really like to get out of this skin.”
“Okay. I picked up a movie to watch tonight. You can watch it with me if you like. It’s a chick movie. Merri Lee said that means girls like it, not that there are small birds in it.”
Since watching a movie about small birds didn’t appeal to him either, he had no objections to a movie without them. While Meg put the movie in the player, he went into her bedroom to strip and shift. He gave himself a good shake—and then wondered if he should offer to vacuum the carpet.
Maybe in the morning.
He returned to the living room and climbed onto the sofa with her.
Either she didn’t find the story interesting or the past few days had exhausted her, because she fell asleep halfway through the movie.
He wasn’t
quite sure how she managed to end up halfway on top of him, but he didn’t mind feeling the weight of her or her breath ruffling his fur or being surrounded by the comforting scent of her skin. He didn’t mind it at all.
Anne Bishop, Murder of Crows
(Series: The Others # 2)
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