I made it to the top of the stairs without touching the icky handrail. By the time I reached the top, I was shivering. The day’s heat had been nice, but the chill of early evening was blowing in on the river breeze, following the course of the Tennessee like the breath of the world. My clothes were soaked and bloodstained, making me colder. Occam was behind me, carrying the egg that nearly cost me my life.
We reached the truck with no interruptions, even from the security types. There was a wreath on the front door and dozens of cars up and down the road and parked in the yard. People wearing black walked from the cars to the front door, looking away from us, the way they might if we were homeless, not wanting to engage. Official word had been released that the senator was dead and his wife was still missing and presumed dead. The crows were flocking in.
What a tragedy, assuming the burned-up senator and his shot-up wife and his charred sister-in-law were really dead. But if some of them were shape-shifters, maybe they weren’t dead at all. What if they had each traded off with some dead body and burned it? How did we even find out? DNA, fingerprints, dental records. All had been falsified before, altered, replaced.
Occam opened the passenger door and I climbed in the truck, not too tired to drive, but not wanting to drive anyway. He got in the driver’s seat and I found my keys in a pocket of my jacket, slightly damp and sand encrusted. Occam placed the egg in my lap and started the Chevy. Pea clawed out of the gobag and onto my lap with the egg. I cradled them both and sent a quick report to HQ before I laid back my head and closed my eyes.
I must have dozed off because suddenly we were back at HQ and my eyelids were stuck together, forcing me to rub them open. I had gotten insufficient sleep for days and the catnap did me good. I chuckled quietly at the thought. Catnap. The movement of my laughter caused a reek of rotten fish to waft into the air. My clothes were ruined. There was no way I could get the stink out of them. “What’s so funny, Nell, sugar?”
“I was attacked by . . . salamanders? I was saved by a cat. I took a catnap. I smell like rotten fish. I’m growing leaves. I have to laugh or I might cry.”
Occam smiled and opened the door for Pea to scamper out and away. Occam leaned over. Closer. His voice the low rumble of a cat, he said, “I’m gonna kiss your cheek, Nell.”
I held very still. “Even though I stink?”
“My cat likes the way you smell.” He put his nose and mouth against my jaw and rubbed along it. Like a cat. Scent-marking me. There was something that felt . . . safe in his touch. I burbled a laugh that sounded almost real, almost free. His lips touched my cheek, held for a moment, and then withdrew a fraction of an inch. He was still so close that I could feel his breath on my face as he said, “My cat likes you just as much as I do. Let’s get you inside so you can clip and shower.”
“Occam? You talk about your cat as if it isn’t you. But then so do I. Is that strange?”
He hadn’t moved away, his breath still on my cheek. The leaves in my hairline moved with each exhalation. “It is and it isn’t,” he said. “Cats don’t have brains that work or reason the same as humans. Limited frontal lobes. Greater vision, faster reflexes, quicker aggression instincts. So I’m me and not me when I shift.”
“I thank you both for saving me.”
Occam kissed my cheek again. “Don’t forget that improper kiss I got planned.”
“I don’t think I can forget that improper kiss. Occam. I ain’t—I never had an improper kiss.”
“Must remedy that. Soonest.”
I shoved the egg at him. Grabbed up my gear bags and got out of the truck. Aware that my color was high and I was overwhelmed with sensations, images, improper thoughts. Occam behind me. I let us into the stairway and climbed to the second floor. And walked alone into the locker room. I stepped fully clothed under scalding water and let the shower wash away the stench and gore and the river water. And my blood. I stripped, then wrung out and bagged my clothing. Then started in on grooming myself. Or landscaping myself.
It wasn’t funny. Not at all. But I was laughing quietly as I started clipping. I used the mindless landscaping tasks to let my brain go free to ponder and ruminate and reason, trying to see how all the unmatching pieces might fit together. They didn’t. Not yet.
Twenty minutes later, my longer, straggly hair still wet, but my leaves and vines all clipped away, I joined the rest of the team in the break room: Occam, Rick, T. Laine, Soul, JoJo, Tandy, and me. The egg was in the small sink and they were discussing what to do with it. I stepped into the room and spotted a box of donuts on the table. The Krispy Kreme jelly-filled pastries looked almost fresh. I took one and stuffed half of it into my mouth. It was raspberry flavored and so good and so sweet that my mouth ached as the filling squished into it. I might have moaned, just a little, because Occam whipped his head my way.
He was dressed in clean blue jeans, field boots, and a T-shirt the same color gold as his eyes. His hair was dry, but too long, and his beard was scruffy, telltale signs of a shift to his cat. His expression was severe, stark, and he was staring at me with eyes that carried the faint golden glow of his cat, reminding me that we were very close to the full moon. Rick was looking at Occam, and his gaze swung to me, his nostrils widening as he scented, probably taking in the smell of my blood, tadpole blood, the stinking water, and the egg. His eyes too were glowing, that green that signified the coming phase of the moon. Pea was sitting in a corner, cleaning her nether regions, just like a cat. Not something I needed to watch. Occam passed me a metal travel mug of coffee, pale with cream and smelling of sugar. It was prepared the way a cat might like coffee. I drank half the mug empty. It was delicious. Someone passed around a platter of cold hoagies; Occam took three, and started eating like a starving cat.
“If the egg is still viable,” T. Laine said, breaking the silence as we ate, “then cracking it might kill the creature. If it’s sentient, that’s murder.”
JoJo added, “It would be handy to have it alive, whatever it is, to study.”
“That’s keeping a sentient creature against its will,” Soul said. It didn’t sound like disagreement, but more like information added to the discussion. “Civil rights and protections of paranormals haven’t yet been addressed by Congress or the Supreme Court or the UN and are not protected by the Geneva Conventions.”
“Special Agent Ingram,” Occam said, his voice slow and growly. I whipped my eyes to him and saw his dimple appear and deepen. “What do you think?”
“’Bout wha’?” I said through the sweetness.
“About the viability of the egg.”
“It’s not alive. The creature inside’s dead.”
Soul leaned in so she could see me around the others. She reached up and coiled her hair, which she did when she was deliberating. “And you know this how?” Her tone was arch, as if she might be ticked off. Or doubting me.
I shrugged. I was pretty sure I’d said all this to someone once before. “I know it. I knew it when I touched it the first time.” I scowled at her and then at the others. “You people really can’t tell when something’s alive or dead when you touch it?”
“No,” Soul and T. Laine said together. Soul asked, “Are you always correct in your evaluation? Your judgment?”
I shrugged and stuffed the rest of the donut in, chewed, and eventually swallowed. The others were all looking at me, waiting. I drank more coffee, thinking back. “I don’t remember being wrong, but then I don’t remember always proving it to myself that I was right either. So I guess I coulda been wrong and not known it.” I licked my fingers to get the last of the sugar. “I knew when Leah died. I was out of her room and I felt her going. I ran in and she was mostly gone. I shouted for John and we were both there when her pulse stopped. Same with John.” I shrugged. “But that was on Soulwood.” I took a second donut. I sipped more coffee. “Tandy, you agree?”
“I do,” he said softly. “But I must admit that my lack of familiarity with the egg species and your conviction may be overriding my judgment.”
Occam freshened my cup and adjusted the creamer and sugar. I pretended not to notice him serving me, but the room was awfully silent. “Thank you,” I said. He gave me a dimpled smile, one that felt warmer than it should have.
“So we open the shell,” Soul said, “and see what we have.”
“What about PsyCSI?” JoJo asked. “They’re supposed to do all necropsies on paranormal creatures.”
“On my authority,” Soul said. “I want to see this thing now. This thing”—she glared at me—“that is most assuredly not a salamander.”
The words were laced with venom and that brought my head up fast. Mostly because I’d sent in the report that we might have found a salamander egg. “Why not a salamander?” I licked my sugary fingers again.
“I know of a certainty, for three reasons.” She held up one finger. “Their eggs were said to be white, with a pearly iridescence and small brownish spots. This one is dull and gray with white and brown spots.” She uncurled a second finger. “Salamanders were killed off to the last egg, in the year 4000 BCE.” And a third finger. “Because arcenciels killed them.”
I went quite still, only my eyes flitting around the room. Everyone looked as surprised as I felt but for different reasons. The information about an arcenciel/salamander war was not in the databanks. And Soul hadn’t yet released the intel that she wasn’t human to the group at large, so not everyone knew. She was skirting the truth about her species, and releasing that information could change the dynamics within our unit.
Drawing the same conclusions I had, Rick asked softly, “Arcenciels and salamanders? At war?”
Soul dropped her fingers. “It was six thousand years ago. Long before my time,” she said wryly, as if inferring a human age. “There are no arcenciels on Earth who lived then, but the oral accounts and tales persist and the songs continue to be sung. This is not a salamander egg.”
Interspecies war and genocide, I thought. And what was I supposed to do about it? For all of two seconds I considered texting my mentor at Spook School for advice, but the thought died.
“Ingram, is it rotten?” Occam asked me, breaking a silence that was fraught with potential, none of it good.
I frowned, thinking. “Sorta. A little bit. It won’t stink too bad. Not near as bad as the dead fish did.”
Occam held up a bit of grayish shell, pulled from a pocket with finger and thumb. “Shell’s this thick. Maybe use an icepick to chip it open.”
Soul took the shell and worked it in her fingers. “Brittle but stronger and tougher than a chicken egg. More like ostrich egg.”
T. Laine pulled open drawers in the small cabinet, slamming them one by one. She came up with a bottle opener. “This is the only metal thing I see.” She handed it to Occam.
“What?” he asked. “Because I’m a man you expect me to do all the dirty work?”
“Because you handled the shell,” Soul said, “and are familiar with it.”
“And because you got all those big strong man muscles,” T. Laine added, putting her hands over her heart and batting her eyes.
JoJo faked gagging.
T. Laine added, “And because I do not want to get rotten egg all over my nice office clothes.” She exhibited herself by moving a demonstrative hand up and down her form. “You, on the other hand? I don’t care if you stink.”
I could tell by Tandy’s expression that the tension in the room had lessened.
Occam shook his head. “Uh-huh. It’s fine for the dumb cat to get slimed, if Nell’s wrong about the extent of the rot. I’ll remember this.” However, he elbowed the others away from the sink and put the sharp tip of the bottle opener on the shell.
“Wait,” I said. I looked at Soul and asked, “And if it is a salamander?” Because I had seen them underwater. I had a feeling Soul was very, terribly wrong.
Soul glowered at me and said, “Dyson or Jones, record this for the records, please.” But she didn’t answer my question.
JoJo punched and swiped her cell and balanced it on a chair back for stability. She gave the date and time and named all of us in the room.
“Go ahead,” Soul said to Occam.
He brought his palm down on the metal bottle opener three times. It tap-tap-tapped, and the egg cracked. Occam moved the point to the side about four inches and repeated the tapping. This time it took four taps and the cracks both spread but didn’t meet. He repositioned the tip at a triangle point, tapped again, and this time a chip broke free. A sour fishy smell filled the room as Occam pulled the shell shard away. A long line of goo followed the fragment out and dripped down into the sink. The others leaned in. Studied the exposed part of the creature. It was a clawed hand, of sorts, three odd-shaped fingers curled in a tight fist. Mottled gray-brown skin. Spots on the wrist that seemed to grow larger as they rose up the arm.
At the sight of the flesh, Soul stopped dead, a look of dread on her face. For an instant her body seemed to flicker with light. Bells clanged softly, clear and ringing, but the tones dissonant. Then the light and bells stopped, and Soul stood again, but in the hallway. I had seen her shift into her dragon, and the light was all the shades of color, but the off-key tones—that was new. And the expression on her face was new. Fear.
Tandy’s eyes went wide and shocked. He had seen her move and felt her terror. This egg had struck a chord in her and Soul was not as cautious as she should have been.
His eyes on the assistant director, Rick asked quietly, “So, tell me. What is a salamander?” And I realized his voice was soothing and soft, so as not to startle a wild creature. Soul.
Just as quietly, JoJo, reading from her tablet, told us, “Other than the lizard-shaped thing that likes rain and lives near water, reports allude to their ability to turn their bodies so cold they can extinguish fire. They have both medicinal and poisonous properties and excrete toxic, psychologically and physiologically active substances.” Her eyes flicked to Soul and back to her tablet. I was sure she too had seen Soul flicker and reappear in a different place. There was no hiding Soul’s nonhumanness now. “The Talmud says salamanders are creatures born in fire and anyone who is smeared with salamander blood becomes immune to fire. Muhammad said salamanders are ‘mischief doers’ and ‘should be killed.’ Other myths say they are hatched and live in volcanoes.”
“Mythologists have some of it right,” Soul said, her voice too lyrical and ringing, again giving too much away. She seemed to glide across the room and sat at her accustomed place, her gauzy skirts buoyant on the air, her silver hair lifting and floating. T. Laine was watching her too closely, one of the handheld psy-meters in her hand, reading Soul’s magical signature.
“Fire salamanders came through to this dimension from inside active volcanoes. They were evil, twisted things, shape-shifters who could take on human forms, who could take the place of kings and moguls, and, if they chose, could take to the air, as winged dragons.”
I thought about Jane Yellowrock, the Cherokee skinwalker who could take the shape of animals if she had enough DNA to work with. “They absorb or use the genetics of the beings they want to replace?” I asked. “Including arcenciels?”
“Salamanders,” she said, her lips curling in a snarl, “do not have genetics as humans understand them.”
Which wasn’t an answer. Did that mean that they were like light dragons? Like Soul? But no. The look on her face suggested that they were very different and had indeed been mortal enemies. Her expression said the war had been horrific.
Tandy closed his eyes and I could feel the gentle calm the empath was sending out. As if to encourage what should have been a normal debrief, Occam broke off more shell pieces. I ate another donut and drank coffee. JoJo was updating something on her laptop, oblivious. I’d seen enough of the slimy ugly critters underwater.
Rick watched Soul the way a cat might a snake crawling nearby—cautious, concerned, and warily respectful. “What else can you tell us? Habitat requirements? Life span? Reproduction?”
Soul reached up and pulled down her floating platinum hair, twisting it into its long spiral, her fingers threading through as she coiled it tighter. “They were said to reproduce like lizards, living in harems of four females to each male, with the primary leader being the eldest wife. That female chose the other wives first, and then selected a mate strong enough to protect the harem. They were said to mate within families, with no regard for lineage or blood ties. They did not—do not, as the tales of their demise seem to have been grossly exaggerated—bear live young but lay a clutch of eggs in fresh running water, with the hatchlings unable to breathe air. They live the first five years in the water, tailed, like a tadpole, but with arms and hands with one clawed finger and two clawed opposable thumbs.” Soul looked down at her hands twisting her hair and stopped the motion. “They were—are—amphibians, not reptiles. According to the histories, there was one that lived over five hundred years. But then, the shells were supposed to be beautiful. Much of what I think I know may be wrong.”
“Shakespeare’s historical plays prove that history is written by the victors,” I said. “Churchill said so too.” I pulled my tablet to me and began to add all her comments to my bullet point file. “It’s been six thousand years. Some things might have been forgotten or changed in that time span.”
JoJo said, “I’ll need those histories to update our arcenciel file.”
While we had been speaking, Occam had tapped and removed shards of shell, placing them in a small pile to the side of the sink. The tapping and removal of shell went faster now, bigger pieces set to the side, revealing the creature within.
“Salamander,” Soul whispered, her face blank.
T. Laine cleaned off the break room table and opened out the ad section from the Knoxville News Sentinel across the top, covering the surface. I scooted my chair into a corner just as Occam carried a lump of slimy blue flesh to the table and placed it in the center. “We shoulda thought about scales for weighing it and devices for measurement,” he said.
“All we want is to get a feel for it and then overnight it to PsyCSI in Richmond,” Soul said.
As she spoke, a long line of goo slid across the papers and dripped to the floor.
I had seen enough of the salamander, and I hadn’t slept enough in the last few days. I needed a nap. I made another trip to the locker room for my clean blanket and pillow, found the room with the mattresses, fell on one that looked unused, and was asleep about the same moment I got the pillow in place.
It was fully dark outside when I woke, starving and smelling something with a strong protein base. Beef maybe. Hopefully not roasted salamander. I got up, checked for leaves and vines—none—and pulled on my boots. I had kicked them off at some point. Stumbling to the locker room, I folded the blanket, stuffed my linens back into the locker I had chosen, and staggered into the break room.
They had finished with the autopsy and cleaned up the goo. Now there were paper cartons and bowls all over the table, with packets of soy and duck sauce, and chopsticks, which I had not learned how to use. If I hadn’t been so hungry I might have felt icky about sitting at the recently disgusting table. As it was, I accepted a bowl and let JoJo ladle Chinese soup into it. The broth was thin and clear and had lumpy things in it that I was unfamiliar with, but it smelled and tasted wonderful, of onions and herbs I didn’t recognize.
“This is fabulous,” I said, slurping it down, drinking it straight from the bowl.
“Yeah, yeah. Eat up,” JoJo said. “Soul wants you and Occam back at the senator’s mansion to talk with the guests—Occam to get a good smell of Justin and any other Tollivers and Jeffersons he can find, and you to shake Justin Tolliver’s hand and get a feel for him. Human or not human? That is the question.”
“Hamlet,” I said, checking my cell for the time. “It’ll be after eight before we can get there.”
“Good enough. Occam will be driving. You two okay together?”
She had a strange tone, one I’d heard in the church, when a new pairing was being considered. You’un thinking about becoming Obadiah’s second wife? Or, You’un and Luke thinking ’bout marrying in a new wife? It’s always harder the first time. Or, You’un and Zebadiah really marrying Isolde? She’s got a temper on her. The tone was kind but nosy.
I slurped again and, without looking up, asked back in a similar tone, though maybe a little more provoking, “You okay with Tandy?”
JoJo flinched, visible in my peripheral vision. “I’m not . . . How did . . . How did you know?”
“I got eyes in my head. And yeah, I’m fine with Occam. We’re working through a lot of things.”
“He saved your life today. It’s in the report.”
I smiled. “Yeah. He did. And I gotta tell you. When you’re used to fighting for your own life, it’s nice to have a man help out. Or a leopard.” I shrugged.
Occam flew into the break room like a cat with his tail on fire. “I smell Chinese. Fried rice? Beef with broccoli? Oh yeah. Feed me, Mama.”
“I ain’t your mama, white boy.” JoJo swatted the back of his head. Occam laughed and filled a plate. The others who were still in HQ filed in and joined us.
I tried three different Chinese dishes I had never heard of: lo mein noodles with shrimp, beef with broccoli, which seemed to be everyone’s favorite, and chicken with cashews. It was all good, the sauces thickened with cornstarch and as gooey as the slime from the salamander egg. I tried not to think about that comparison as I ate.
The traffic at Senator Tolliver’s home was not as bad as I expected, though there were a lot of cars. Many of the vehicles had DC plates, marking the occupants as Washington bigwigs. Occam and I sat in his fancy car and drank coffee as the moon rose and the crowds thinned more. Occam’s eyes glowed too bright, and Pea (who had not been in the car when we set out, I could almost swear, not that I ever swore—that was one church teaching I hadn’t left behind) was mworing and chittering and exploring every square inch of the interior, moving and sounding like a kitten. Only her neon green coat and the rare glimpse of her ridiculously long steel claws gave her away.
Occam said, “We never did identify the shooter. Or recover his weapon.”
“No, we didn’t.”
“Search and rescue teams never did recover Clarisse Tolliver’s body.”
“No.”
“We still got no DNA on Sonya or Abrams.”
“No. But we know Abrams isn’t human.”
“So two women salamanders, three if we count the nanny, may be on-site.”
“Could be,” I agreed.
“We could get shot tonight.” When I didn’t reply he added, “And I still ain’t given you that improper kiss.”
I blushed in the dark and dropped my mouth to the sealed lid of my travel mug to hide my smile. “Drink your coffee,” I said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
We sat, not talking, spending the minutes catching up reading reports and files from the interagency investigation. When there were only two visitor cars left, we got out and spoke with the private security types who were trailing around the property. They were packing up gear and writing reports themselves, having been informed by their boss, P. Simon—Peter—that their services would no longer be needed. Which seemed a tad strange to me. Simon was there, in charge, sending his men away, staring out over the house and grounds. His body language seemed particularly angry, tense, and something else. Something odd, like, maybe possessive. I touched Occam’s arm and nodded toward Simon.
Occam made a rumbling noise in his chest, a catty sound of interest.
Inside, we spotted Justin in a formal dining room, talking to two Washington types, one younger, one older. The older, gray-headed man said, “Whenever you’re up to it, we’d like to begin substantive talks on the possibility of your taking over the office and then, next year, your run.”
“Your family name would be a strong bonus in any campaign,” the younger man said. “We know it isn’t something you had ever considered, and it’s far too soon, but the feelers we’ve put out suggest that the seat is yours if you want it. But don’t wait too long to decide. People forget too soon.”
Occam and I eased away, into the living room. He leaned down and put his mouth to my ear, murmuring, “Motive? Kill your brother—who isn’t really your brother—and your wife—who wasn’t human and maybe you just figured it out—and your brother’s wife—who might be offered the Senate seat—and take over his high-powered political position?”
I said softly, “Stretching a lot. Why kill them now? We don’t have an instigating event for that line of reasoning to fit the parameters of the crimes.”
Occam reared back and gave me a look that said he hadn’t expected me to talk cop-speak. Which was mildly insulting. I scowled at him and he grinned and shrugged. “Sorry, Nell, sugar.”
“We need to get a look at all the Tollivers’ wills. Double-check who might have seen a divorce lawyer. Go over the financials again.”
“I’ll text HQ,” he said, pulling out his cell and tapping with his thumbs.
The grieving Tolliver showed out his last two guests. We approached Justin, offered IDs, and shook hands. I could see Occam sniffing the man out—literally—and I held Justin’s hand a moment too long, feeling for the metallic, sour scent and feel of blue blood, now that I knew what it felt like.
Justin Tolliver felt human. I could tell from Occam’s body language that he still smelled human too, maybe more human, now that his salamander wife was no longer in the picture, sharing her scent with him. We offered condolences, asked the proper grief-talk questions, and said the appropriate small-talk things. Then Occam asked if we could talk to Devin.
“I’d rather not,” Justin said. “The children are all in bed. Devin’s a little boy and he’s been through some horrible things.” He looked at us more closely. “May I ask why PsyLED wants to talk to him?”
Occam lied smoothly, his Texas accent stronger than usual, as if he deliberately brought it out to put people at ease, the way I sometimes did with my church-speak. “Our boss at PsyLED feels there might be a paranormal angle to the method of his parents’ deaths and we want to see if he remembers anything new about his aunt’s death. Witnesses, especially children, tend to recall things later, after traumatic events.”
Justin’s eyes went bigger. “I thought that was a gas tank explosion or something mechanical. You mean it was a magic? Why didn’t someone tell me?”
I said, “The car is still in forensics, Mr. Tolliver. Our greatest concern is to catch the killer and to protect little Devin.”
“Wait,” Justin said. “You think Devin is in danger too? At the recommendation of Peter Simon of ALT Security, I’m sending the crew home at midnight. He didn’t think we would need them again.”
“We’re not sure about anything,” I said. “We’re just covering all the bases.” I realized that I had just lied, without lying but with obfuscation and prevarication, speaking a truth but in such a way as to hide the real truth behind the words. In other words, I had lied. Lied well. I frowned.
Thomas Jefferson’s quote about the truth came to mind, as it often did when I was working. He had said, He who permits himself to tell a lie once, finds it much easier to do it a second and third time, till at length it becomes habitual; he tells lies without attending to it, and truths without the world’s believing him. This falsehood of the tongue leads to that of the heart, and in time depraves all its good dispositions. Last time I thought about that quote it had been in regard to Rick LaFleur. Now it applied to me. Lying was a slippery slope and I was sliding down that slope into hell mighty fast.
“It’s against my better judgment, but I’ll get Devin. Please have a seat.” Justin indicated the matching sofas in the living room to the left, and then stopped, the cessation of movement jerky. Without turning to us, he said, “I shouldn’t be here, letting guests into my brother’s house. He should be here. Sonya and Clarisse should be here. This is . . . a nightmare.” His shoulders hunched and he left the room quickly, his leather shoe soles slapping across wood floors and up a set of stairs.
Occam said, “My nose says he was speaking the truth every time he spoke.”
My frown got darker. “Speaking the truth is sometimes still a lie.”
Occam looked puzzled and then slightly insulted.
“I was talking about me, not you,” I said.
“Even worse, Nell, sugar.” But he entered the living room through a wide, cased opening and sat on one of the sofas to wait. I took the seat across from him.
“You got Pea?” I asked.
A green and black nose poked out of Occam’s jacket pocket. Pea chittered and vanished into the pocket.
“More like the grindylow’s got me,” Occam said, disgusted. “So. Tell me what kind of food you like best.”
I frowned at him.
“It’s called small talk, Nell, sugar. The kind people use when they’re trying to get to know each other.”
“Oh.” My frown got deeper. “Fresh?”
Occam dimpled. “As opposed to spoiled?”
My frown softened at his tone. Leaving the church when I was twelve hadn’t given me much time to learn how to converse in the getting-to-know-you or teasing conversations that most people courted with. Marriage and relationship discussions had been more like business negotiations. And this seemed like a dreadful time to engage in such peculiar chatter. “Why you asking me this now?”
“Because any other time might seem too threatening. I’m trying to put you at ease, Nell, sugar.”
“Oh.” My frown came back. “Part of me likes it when I don’t have to cook. Part of me only wants to eat food I’ve cooked so I can be sure of the freshness and the ingredients. I like trying new things. Like the Chinese food today. Like pizza. That was amazing the first time I tasted it. Like Krispy Kreme donuts. I could get fat on those alone and I’d never be able to replicate the donuts. I tried a time or two and had no luck at all. But I think I could make a better pizza if I put the time into it. I’ve been working on a recipe for crust.” Occam was smiling at me, as if I had said something fascinating, when all I’d done was tell him how food had changed my life. I scowled at him. “What do you like to eat?”
His dimple went deeper and his blond hair swung forward as he dropped his elbows to his thighs and leaned toward me. “When I’m a cat I like raw venison. When I’m a human I love pancakes. I know this woman, lives in the hills, likes to garden? She makes the best pancakes I ever tasted.”
I had made him pancakes. I was that woman. My breathing sped up and Occam focused on my throat, where my color had to be high and my pulse had to be pounding. “What kind of farm animal do you like best?” I asked.
Occam laughed as if the question surprised and delighted him. “When I’m cat I like to hunt wild boar. Pig if not boar. The big old males are mean and good hunting. When I’m human I like to eat chicken. Your favorite farm animal?”
“I like fresh eggs and fried chicken, so, chickens. Second choice would be either milk goats or meat goats, for the milk or the meat, and also to sell the meat and the hides.”
We shared a good ten minutes of casual and sometimes unexpected food and critter conversation before we heard feet on the stairs again, this time slower and heavier. We stood and faced the entry as Justin carried Devin into the room. The boy was towheaded and sleepy-eyed, wearing blue pajamas with Marvel heroes printed all over them. His feet were tucked into white socks. He looked pale and fully human, though small for his age.
Occam’s nose wrinkled slightly as he took in the boy’s scent. And I remembered Devin hitting me with a ball of fire. Occam’s left thumb went up slightly as he stood, telling me that Devin did indeed smell like the fireball-throwing salamander we knew him to be. I didn’t smell anything one way or the other, except that the child no longer reeked of smoke and flame and death.
I smiled at the little boy. “Hi, Devin. My name is Nell. We met a couple days ago.”
“You talk funny.”
“Yes, I do. I was raised in the hills. It’s a hillbilly accent. Kinda hard to let go of.” I let my smile grow wider and held out my hand. “It’s nice to meet you again.”
“Are you retarded?” It came out “wetauted.”
“No.” I kept my smile in place by force of will. People who thought accent was an indicator of intelligence or lack thereof, and people who used the R word, were not real high on my list of favorites. People who taught children to think and ask such things were even lower on that list. And then I wondered if the slur had been used on him, since he was eleven and had a slight speech impediment. I kept my hand out, waiting, and Devin put his hand into mine. I didn’t read him—I knew better. I had no intention of getting burned again. Instantly I felt/tasted/remembered the blue blood from the salamander I had fed to the river. I shook the kid’s hand and let go as quickly as I could, resisting wiping it on my pants.
Occam said, “Devin, I’m sorry about your parents.”
The little nonhuman child looked up at Occam and tears filled his eyes. His nose wrinkled up and his mouth pulled down, his breathing ragged as he fought tears, making me want to cry with him. “Me too. I’m so . . . sad.”
“I know what you mean, little man.”
Devin reached out and gripped Occam’s hand tight. “Are your mama and daddy dead too?”
“Yep. They are. And I know they’re gone, every single day. Let’s sit over here,” Occam said, “and talk. Just for a minute or two. I know you need to get back to bed.”
It was clear the child had latched on to Occam. We all sat on the couches, me across from the men in the same seat I had taken before. I let my partner do the talking and thought about the feel of the salamander’s little hand. He was small, not much bigger than the tadpole forms in the river, but his hand had felt . . . different from their touch. Older. Not ancient exactly. But not young. I wondered how quickly they achieved physical growth, and at what age they could take on a human form. And then I wondered what correlations I could draw between them and any Earth creature. Probably not many. Maybe none. But for sure the kid didn’t feel like his tailed, swimming, and murderous . . . siblings? Cousins?
I let my attention wander from the conversation and drift around the warm-gray-toned room. It was fancy. Traditional style. Neutral color palette. Dark hardwood floors. Lots of crown molding. Beams in the high ceilings in the style architects called coffered. On the air I smelled cleaning supplies, a hint of fresh paint. Art objects on shelves and on tables illuminated by strategic lighting. Asian rugs set the limited color scheme of blue and deep red, carried out by pillows and a lamp and the backing on framed prints. Two small ornamental chairs at a small Oriental-style table matched the rug’s colors. A vase on a shelf in the dark red, another very large vase in blue on the floor, full of red and blue flowers. Heavy drapes puddled on the floor. They looked like they’d be hard to keep clean; dust catchers for sure, not that the senator or his wife had ever personally cleaned this house. They had a staff for that or a cleaning crew.
I’d had a continuing education computer class in Spook School on reading people by the style of their decorating. This room indicated only taste and money. A decorator had set-styled the room and there was nothing in it of the inhabitants. This was a public place, not living quarters. There was probably a great room or family room elsewhere, a room the Tollivers actually lived in.
“Mr. Tolliver, it’s Devin’s bedtime.”
I almost flinched. I hadn’t seen or heard anyone enter. The nanny stood in the cased opening, which I realized had pocket doors that could be closed to separate the room from the rest of the house. The nanny was wearing a deep-grape-purple velour jogging suit and orthopedic shoes. Her skin was less blue today, more gray in shade, an ashy color that I could almost place within normal human parameters. But she wasn’t human. Now that I knew what I was looking for, the air was laced with a trace of the strange metallic and sour scent I recognized as salamander. A bit like a stack of old quarters and a pair of old leather loafers.
“I’m sorry, Connie,” Justin said. “Here. Take Devin to bed.” He transferred the boy’s hand to the nanny, and the little gray woman trotted off, Devin half dragged back up the stairs.
I wondered why Devin was human-colored and the nanny wasn’t. I wondered what I had missed while I was woolgathering.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Tolliver,” Occam said. “You been mighty kind to let us take up so much of your time and Devin’s.”
“The funerals have been all held off,” Justin blurted out, “until they find or recover Clarisse. The services for Abrams and Clarisse will be held concurrently.” Justin shook his head and ran shaking fingers through his hair, which stayed sticking up in a disheveled mass. His fingernails looked a little blue.
Was Justin human or salamander? Had we messed that up too? Or were the male salamanders better able to fake human? Or maybe he was ill.
“My wife’s services . . . will be handled after the others. A more private ceremony.” He closed his eyes to cover his emotions, which were raw and fractured. He cleared his throat. “What should I do about the security team? Do you think I need to keep them on?”
Occam said, prevaricating, “Security is always important.”
A security team on the grounds was a waste of time when the danger might be inside already. And when the danger could throw flames hot enough to sear a man to the bone. I kept all that to myself.
“I hope you will keep me informed about your progress on the investigations,” Justin Tolliver said, in an obvious dismissal. He walked to the door. We followed. “If I can help in any way, please call.” He extended a card to Occam. He didn’t offer one to me, in unconscious sexism. Or maybe he had forgotten me, sitting so silent on the other sofa.
And then we were outside in the cool night air and, though it wasn’t freezing, I was glad I had worn my coat. Together we made our way to Occam’s fancy car, got in, and drove away.
“I wasn’t listening all the time,” I said. “What did I miss?”
“Not much. The little salamander doesn’t remember anything. And he’s a little snot. Needs a good tanning.”
“You talking about him asking me if I was retarded?” I asked, amusement in my tone. “And you talking about spanking the recently orphaned son of a deceased senator? Corporal punishment? Child abuse?”
“My daddy beat me with a belt, buckle to the skin,” he growled. “I don’t remember much about my life before the cage, but I remember that. And I learned my manners.”
Occam had said he didn’t remember much about his younger human life. Maybe he simply hadn’t been ready to share.
“No,” I said as he pulled out of the neighborhood. “You learned to be afraid of your daddy.”
“Didn’t say I was or wasn’t scared. Said I learned my manners.”
“Mm-hm.”
“You disapprove.”
“Your daddy leave bruises?”
“Every dang time.”
“You think you mighta learned manners without the bruises?”
He made a turn, thinking. Made another turn. “Probably,” he said grudgingly.
“Then he was venting his rage and violence, not teaching you manners.”
Occam thought about that for a while, shifting lanes, his speed inching up. “Werecats fight their sons. It’s the only way to teach them manners. ‘Manners’ in this case means not to eat or bite or harm humans. It’s a bloody lesson.”
“Different situation,” I said. “If a human child is rude, no one dies. If that human child takes a few dozen reminders to be taught a lesson, then the parent learns a little patience. Werecats are completely animal when they first shift. Their human is buried under the were-brain. If werecats don’t learn manners, and accidentally spread the were-taint by infecting a human, they get killed by a grindylow. What an adult cat does to teach them not to kill is different from teaching a human manners. Was your daddy a werecat?”
“No.”
“Your mama?”
“No. You really wanna do this now, Nell, sugar?” he demanded.
“Yes.”
Occam squinted into the distance. “I don’t remember much. Stuff is still coming back to me in bits and pieces.” His voice softened. “I was bit the day after I turned ten. My daddy was a minister in a hellfire-and-damnation church and when I came home from playing in a gulch with friends, with tooth marks from a big-cat, he locked me in a cage. The full moon came. I shifted.”
Were-creatures hadn’t been out of the closet then. His daddy had known what had happened to his son. Somehow. Or guessed. Or just took a chance on myths being real. “What happened after?”
“I woke up partially, found myself in a cage. Couldn’t shift back because somebody had put a silver-threaded mat in the cage with me. But the silver didn’t stop me from remembering, slowly, that I was human. It took me twenty years to get free and I did. Shifted back and found the nearest police station, telling them I had been hit on the head and had no memory. Got lucky and had a chance to go to school. Graduated from Texas Christian University with a degree in ranch management. I survived.”
“Your mama and daddy?” I whispered, my hands clenching on each other.
“Dead. Died in a car accident five years after I went ‘missing.’”
“You think your daddy sold you?”
“I know he did. I remember.”
“When were you going to tell me this?”
“When you finally admitted that you were in love with me.”
I flushed. In love . . . I had no idea what that even meant except from reading a rare romance book and living the skewed life of a God’s Cloud wife, neither of which was probably normal. “Ummm.” I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say or do now.
“I didn’t want no pity getting in the way of us . . . becoming whatever we’re becoming.”
“I don’t pity you, Occam,” I whispered.
“Damn good thing.”
I fought a smile.
Occam said, “So. Back to our original subject. You’re saying you’re against spanking?”
I thought about a child reaching to touch a hot stove. A child ignoring a parent’s caution and running for a swift-moving river. A child scaring a horse or a mother pig even after being told of a danger. Worse, and more of an issue when it came to abuse, an older child, one old enough to know better, deliberately hurting another, younger child. Was there a difference between a swat and a beating? Was there ever a time to hit a child, even one growing up evil? Was Brother Ephraim beaten when he was a child? Most likely. It hadn’t helped him a lick. If I hadn’t been whupped, would I have grown up mean and evil? Probably not. “Lots of the church folk beat their young’uns. But ninety-nine point nine times out of a hundred, a whuppin’ isn’t necessary. It’s the adult’s emotional problem, not the kid needing a beating.”
“I’ll concede that. Are we having a philosophical discussion about corporal punishment in child-rearing, Nell, sugar?”
I ducked my head and looked out the window. We didn’t talk again until we were in HQ, and giving Rick and Soul our impressions of the Tolliver household. It didn’t take long. I finished my part with the words, “I’m worried that things are about to go to hell in a handbasket at the Tollivers’.”
Rick put his head down, studying his hands on the table-top, thinking. “I hate to send you back out, but I want Unit Eighteen on the grounds tonight,” Rick said. “With the private security and the feds gone, it’s the perfect time for an attack. Also the perfect time for us to look around.”
“We don’t have a warrant,” I said.
“We also haven’t received a call from Tolliver relieving us of responsibility for the welfare and protection of the family. And I don’t listen to third-party claims—like those of ALT Security.”
“Occam and me aren’t exactly a third party.”
“No. You’re not,” Rick said. “And you told me you were worried about the salamanders and what was going on there.”
“Sneaky,” Occam said. “I like it.”