Hunger Makes the Wolf

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Hunger Makes the Wolf Page 6

by Alex Wells


  Rock. He’d turned into rock. She’d always told herself that it must have been her imagination, though she hadn’t been that imaginative of a child. You didn’t really need to be imaginative when you’d had your eye ripped out by a phoenix and had a crazy old coot telling you with nods and winks that witches were real and that’s what you both happened to be. But seeing it twice was believing.

  She finished her cigarette, burning out the last of the paper in a flare of sparks between two fingers, then started on another. Only three cigarettes left in the case before she’d have to roll up some more. No talking, no pacing, no anything, all she had to do to keep herself entertained was stare at the stars and smoke. And think, about a spray of blood, about regret, about the hole she’d dug for herself, which she was still struggling to escape.

  No wonder she always kept herself moving.

  Chapter Six

  Then

  * * *

  Mag’s head ached, her pulse pounding behind her eyes, and her mouth tasted terrible, like dust and plastic and bitter medicine. She sat up slowly; she’d been dumped on a hard bed that was actually just a shelf covered with a thin pad and a blanket. There was a shiny metal toilet in one corner of the room, a tiny sink next to it. That was it. Her trunk was nowhere to be seen. She checked the inside of her blouse; the remnants of her money was still there, as was the ticket. As she moved, the pocket of her skirt crinkled – they’d left her the pamphlet with smiling Weatherman Bill on the front.

  Fat lot of good any of that would do for her now, least of all the ticket. She had no idea how long she’d been out, but from the cramping of her muscles, the ache in joints held in one position for too long, it had to be more than two hours. And if they’d locked her in a cell, well, they must not want her getting out. Either way, the rift ship was probably long gone, and with it her chance of escape.

  Mag huddled in the corner, knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around them. She didn’t call for help, didn’t ask any questions of the empty air, swallowing again and again at the panic that fluttered in her chest. It was obvious enough that the Mariposa men had done something, likely at the behest of some TransRift rule she’d never heard of. There was no escaping, no help coming. She wracked her brain for where she’d slipped up. This couldn’t be just about vaccinations, no matter what the guard had told her. Had Mr Franklin done something? Was this a punishment, aimed toward Papa somehow, even though he’d never done anything wrong?

  She dozed a little, head nodding, then woke to the sound of a loud clang. A little window, about head height, slid open in the door. She could see part of the face of a person, just the eyes, blue as ice. She stood, trying to smooth out her blouse, look presentable.

  Maybe it was all just a mistake.

  “Magdala Kushtrim is your name, correct?” It was a man’s voice, tone dry and disinterested.

  “Yessir. Why am–”

  “Your town of origin is Rouse.”

  “Yessir. Please–”

  “Were you accompanied by anyone here?”

  Mag hesitated, then stood up a little straighter. “Why should I tell you that, if you’re just gonna hold me like I’m some kind of prisoner and not even tell me why?”

  The man’s eyes tilted slightly, as if he’d moved his head. “If you comply, we will be able to get you out of here sooner.”

  “But why am I in here to begin with?”

  “We have detected some sort of contamination on you. You are not a prisoner, Miss Kushtrim. This is for your safety and that of everyone else. You’ll be able to leave as soon as we’ve decontaminated you. A room is being prepared now.”

  Her stomach knotted in her chest, and she pressed her hands against her middle. “Contaminated with what?”

  “We are uncertain. Did anyone accompany you to the landing field?”

  Mag hesitated, but if there was some sort of contamination, something bad that would make her and everyone else sick, she needed to be honest. And where else could contamination have come from, except up out of the mine? All of Rouse might be in trouble. “My papa, Philip Kushtrim. We were on the ore train from Rouse. He’s taking a different train back, though. But… sir, did I miss my flight? I don’t have money to buy another fare.”

  “Your ticket has been deferred for now. You can use it at a later date. In the last few days, have you encountered any unusual substances or strange people?”

  Mag shook her head. She thought about Mr Franklin, but he was a hateful bastard, not unusual at all from the rumors she’d heard, and he was one of theirs. The rest was a blur of work, cleaning up after the mine accidents and exhaustion. “No, no, nothing strange at all.”

  “Do your best to remember while you wait. If you think of anything, it could help us. Just speak your answer and we will hear.”

  She opened her mouth to ask another question, but the little window slid shut again. She ran to the door, banged on it with her fist a few times, but there was no response. “Hello?” she called. “Can I please have some food? And mayhap a book? Please?”

  The silence of the room pressing in around her, she retreated to the shelf, curled herself into the corner again.

  * * *

  With nothing else to do, Mag eventually started reading over the pamphlet that the clerk had given her. She turned to the safety information and felt like crying. There would be no flight for her, so she certainly didn’t need to know where the exits were, or the emergency air pods, or the proper procedure for deep space abandonment in case of reactor breach. She read it anyway, the friendly cartoon of Weatherman Bill explaining the various safety features blurring before her eyes.

  The later pages of the pamphlet explained the history of TransRift, Inc in glowing terms. It was similar to what she’d learned in basic schooling, but told in a much cheerier way with colorful pictures: TransRift, Inc had been founded two hundred and forty-six Sol-standard years ago, after the discovery of faster-than-light travel – “That means rift space,” Weatherman Bill added helpfully from the side of the page via speech bubble, “but we’ll talk more about that later, promise!” Before then, humans had traveled out from the Sol system on generation ships and colonies, humanity spread out on lonely planets that couldn’t really talk to each other because of the long transmission delays. The rift ships united the disparate worlds and turned one-way trips into commuter flights, the Federal Union of Systems got started, and the plucky settlers of Tanegawa’s World welcomed the major investment that TransRift wanted to make in their little dust ball because all that raw material for making ships had to come from somewhere. They were all one big, happy TransRift family, the pamphlet assured her, working toward a common goal, greasing the wheels of progress with the sweat from their brows.

  She laughed so hard at that last bit that she almost choked.

  The next section showed a simple diagram of the rift ship Mag had almost gotten to fly on, with smiling people inside. The relentless cheer was really starting to get on her nerves. “It’s time for me to tell you a little about myself,” Weatherman Bill said on the page. “Now, you might be wondering why I’m called a Weatherman if I’m talking to you from space! Believe it or not, there’s weather in space, only it’s not wind and rain and snow – it’s made of gravity, radiation, and even dark energy. Special people like me start training very early and very hard, from the time we’re children, to understand that space weather and navigate those big rift ships. Not just anyone can do my job because it’s so hard, but kids – if you think you have what it takes to be Weathermen, if you’re good at math and seeing shapes in your head and you’re really good at music, make sure to talk to the ship crew before you disembark for more information. Now, early immigrants to Tanegawa’s World called us Weathermen because they heard the crew talking about space weather, and the name stuck. Weathermen are just as important as the rift ships themselves for faster-than-light travel. Without us manning the helm, humanity would still be slow as slugs. But thanks to our understanding of
space weather and its relationship to the rifts, humans can go anywhere, and the Federal Union spans system after system. Isn’t that grand?”

  Somehow, she doubted it was anything grand at all, from her little cell. When she’d finished reading the pamphlet, just hungry for the words, she tore it up and started playing chess with the disassembled bits.

  * * *

  A meal arrived. She ate it wondering what this contamination could be. The more she thought, the less likely it seemed to be what they said. She thought about Uncle Nick and his witchiness, and Hob the same. Maybe that was what “contamination” meant, but she couldn’t do anything like they could, no matter how hard she strained. And she hadn’t seen Hob in three years, Uncle Nick in over a month; she doubted either of them had passed something to her. Like witchiness was even some sort of disease you could catch. She was pretty sure it didn’t work that way.

  Then she remembered the little bag of blue crystals, something she’d never before seen in her life, just that glimpse after a long, exhausting night. Could that have been it? But they were just pretty rocks, nothing special at all. Papa brought pretty rocks up from the mine all the time. Maybe she should mention it anyway, but after so long, forgotten in this gray-on-gray oubliette, she didn’t feel inclined to cooperate any more.

  Mag tried calling out, experimentally, to the high ceiling and its sourceless light, asking if someone could hear her, if her papa was there.

  Silence.

  * * *

  The door finally opened when she was halfway through another meal. Two men in green waited out in the hall. They didn’t look nearly as friendly as the guards at the security check; both had guns and collapsible, spring-loaded batons swinging from their belts.

  The taller of the two, a man with a crooked nose and gray shot through his dark hair, said, “Come with us, miss.”

  Mag put her tray down carefully on her bed and stood, smoothing her skirt. “What’s this about?”

  “We’re still working on your case. But the Weatherman said he thinks he can help you. Come along.”

  “Weatherman? But…” Weren’t they only on ships? There’d hardly be any of their special space weather on the surface of the planet. And hadn’t the ship already left and taken its Weatherman with it?

  “I’m sure he’ll explain it to you. He’s a busy man, though. Come along, miss.” For all that he looked scary, he sounded nice. But Mag was well aware at this point that sound was just sound, and could lie easier than words. From the way the two stood, it was also plain that if she didn’t want to come quietly, they’d be happy to help her. There didn’t seem a point in making this into a fight, not when it was one she couldn’t hope to win. The helpless feeling made her stomach clench around the lukewarm casserole she’d just eaten.

  They bracketed her when she stepped out into the hall, pulled her along in their wake through a series of bare hallways. It was all synthcrete floors and walls, metal doors set in them, just like the door she’d come through. How many people did they have in these rooms? Mag clenched her hands in her skirts, gritted her teeth, and stared straight ahead. The gray floor beneath her feet was smooth to the point of slippery, polished by countless boots and so clean she probably could have eaten off it.

  Around a corner waited a different door, one that was all glass, providing a window into a white room. It was different enough, brighter even, that she thought maybe they were finally going to let her go. But as the shorter guard opened the door, a smell washed out, something she could barely identify. Dry, slightly sweet, like a spider, a smell that touched deep at the back of her brain and whispered danger.

  “Go on, then,” the taller of the guards said. They didn’t give her a chance to respond. Hands against her shoulders, they pushed her inside.

  The door shut at her back with an anticlimactic, almost inaudible click.

  There was a man in the room, sitting in a chair against one wall, his hands resting lightly on his knees. He looked ordinary enough at first glance, pale and wearing a company blue suit, his black hair just greasy enough to look like he needed a shower. But the little details screamed at Mag, like that smell, and his eyes. His irises were black, like holes floating in his head.

  The man looked up at her and smiled, and those black eyes swallowed her up. She could hardly breathe, throat working uselessly as he stood and walked toward her, his gait odd and unsteady. This had to be the Weatherman, a sick parody of the friendly cartoon from the pamphlet – no, this was the reality, she realized. Weatherman Bill was just one more lie.

  Mag pressed back against the glass wall even as he beckoned to her, and shook her head emphatically as if that would be some defense.

  “Hmmm,” he hummed, a light, not unmusical sound, and moved in closer. He breathed more soft notes as she scooted away from him until he had her caught in a corner.

  He grabbed her face with long, pale hands, his fingers cold and hard as bone. Thin white scars crisscrossed his hairline, a strange detail to notice when the rest of her brain floated in sourceless terror. This was wrong, he was wrong, she didn’t want him touching her. It was the same as Mr Franklin, worse than Mr Franklin, and he stared at her with unreadable eyes.

  “What have we here…” he said in a little sing-song. It was a beautiful sound, and it didn’t have a right to be. He let go of her face and grabbed her hand, the one wrapped in now-dirty bandages.

  “Don’t…” She didn’t know what he was going to do, but she didn’t want it, didn’t want any of it.

  “Shh, shh.” He unwound the bandage and dropped it to the floor negligently, then examined the angry, red-brown-crusted lines that crisscrossed her palm, the little black loops of stitches, the shiny patches of tissue glue. With one hand, he held hers steady in a grip she had no hope of escaping; not crushing, but it didn’t need to be. With the other hand he lightly drew a fingernail along one of the cuts. Glue and stitches dissolved and her flesh parted again, bright red blood welling.

  “No,” she whimpered, through a throat gone sick with nausea and fear. She tugged uselessly at her hand.

  “Shh,” he repeated. He leaned down to sniff the blood and then slid his tongue over the wound.

  Mag screamed.

  The man looked up, his eyes gone black on black on black, and then the black was filling her nose, her mouth, her head, and she couldn’t see or breathe, just feel the tugging at her blood that ran down her arm and into her spine, pulling at every nerve in her body.

  Dimly, she heard her own heartbeat thundering, too fast, too fast. She felt cold lips on her palm, and faintly heard the words, “What have we here?”

  Then the black swallowed her up.

  Chapter Seven

  After what was probably just an hour but felt far longer, the Bone Collector made a soft noise. Hob looked down to see him back to normal, opening eyes that were once again a startling blue. He made to stand, wavering on his feet. She lunged forward to grab him by the collar and pull him upright before he fell and knocked his fool head on the wall.

  One hand still clutching the bones, he held on to the front of her black undertaker’s coat with the other. It brought his face in far too close to hers. His breath smelled odd, like cinnamon and blood, something she could suddenly taste in her own mouth around the tobacco; his eyes were dark and unfocused. She felt the urge to press their foreheads together, as if that would give her some insight into what he was thinking. It was such a strange tug on her heart that she didn’t welcome – she’d had enough of that bullshit to last three lifetimes and no good came of it. But fuck, she couldn’t help but think of a hand sliding along her neck until he had his feet properly under himself.

  He didn’t seem interested in letting go of her jacket, even when she let go of his. “I’m sorry. I usually allow myself a little more time to recover,” he said, not sounding at all apologetic.

  “Must’ve come up with somethin’ good, then.” Hob disengaged his hand and took a deliberate step back. “What you got?” />
  The Bone Collector looked slightly disappointed for a moment, then smoothed back his hair with one hand, his smile taking a crooked tilt. “Has Old Nick told you much about me?”

  “We talkin’ about the same dried-up ol’ asshole? ’Course not.”

  He laughed. “You could say that I see the future, though it’s not set in stone. And I can see the past as well. That is part of what I do.”

  “Huh.” Hob crossed her arms over her chest. Considering she could call fire out of thin air, she wasn’t too quick to dismiss anyone else’s claim to witchiness. Particularly not when they were as blatantly strange as the Bone Collector. “Can you see my future?”

  “I could if I wanted, though indistinctly. Unless you’d like to give me a bone?”

  It was her turn to laugh. “If it’s all the same to you, no.”

  He shrugged. “Philip was thrown from his train by men in green. The train had stopped in between towns, very abruptly. After he’d gotten a little way from the tracks, there was a helicopter. They shot him from inside it.”

  Hob let out a low whistle. “Don’t see those that far out all that often. He must’ve done pissed someone off.”

  “More than that, I cannot really say.”

  “What about Mag?”

  “It’s… difficult. She is his blood, but not. But I can tell you that she still lives. That she is far away.”

  “That could mean a lot of things.” Far away could be good. Far away could mean on a rift ship and flying the fuck out of this system.

  That hope died with his next words. “Still on this planet, but not nearby. I can also tell you with full certainty that she was not with him when he was thrown from the train.”

  She exhaled a long, smoky breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding. “Still on the goddamn planet. Fuck.”

 

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