by Anne Bishop
She tried to convince herself that nothing terrible would happen if this gesture of friendship didn’t work, and using up flesh for something insignificant was foolish. And how would the Others react to a fresh cut and the scent of blood? She hadn’t considered that when she took the job.
But she was pulling a couple of paper towels off the roll and making a pad on the counter next to the sink. She opened the razor, lined up the back edge with the first knuckle of her left index finger, then turned the razor so the honed edge rested against skin. She took a slow breath and pressed the razor against her finger, making a cut deep enough to scar.
Pain flooded her, a remembered agony from the times she’d been punished for lies or defiance. She saw the ponies and . . .
The pain was washed away by an orgasmic euphoria. This was the ecstasy the girls craved, the ecstasy that only came from the razor kissing skin. This . . .
Meg blinked. Swayed. Stared at the blood on the paper towels.
Something about the ponies.
In order to remember what you see, you have to swallow the words along with the pain, Jean had said. If you speak, what you saw will fade like a dream. You might remember wisps, but not enough to be useful to you.
She must have spoken, must have described what she had seen. But there was no one to hear the words, so the prophecy and whatever she might have learned about the ponies was lost.
She looked at the razor and considered making another cut. Then she looked at the clock. She’d lost too much time already.
Hurrying into the bathroom, Meg washed the cut, then found a partially used box of bandages and tape in the medicine chest above the sink. After tending to the cut, she hurried back to the kitchen, cleaned the razor, and slipped it in her jeans pocket. Then she grabbed the kitchen knife and cut up the carrots. If anyone noticed the bandage or smelled the blood, she could explain it. Accidents happened in kitchens all the time. A cut on her finger wouldn’t be unusual, wouldn’t give anyone a reason to wonder about her.
She put the carrot chunks in a bowl with a locking lid, tidied up the kitchen, then put on her outer gear and gathered the rest of her things. As she left the building and hurried down the back stairs, she was glad she didn’t have to walk far to get to work.
It was still lung-biting cold, but far more peaceful than the previous morning. Or it was more peaceful until she reached the bottom of the stairs and spotted Simon Wolfgard coming out of A Little Bite with one of those big covered mugs she had seen yesterday when she stopped in the Market Square grocery store to buy apples and carrots.
He jerked to a stop when he saw her. Then he sniffed the air.
Hoping her hair still smelled enough to discourage him from coming closer, she said, “Good morning, Mr. Wolfgard.”
“Ms. Corbyn.”
When he said nothing more, she hurried to the Liaison’s Office, aware of him watching her until she unlocked the back door and stepped inside. Hopefully now he would just go on about his own business and let her get on with hers.
She hung up her coat and swapped boots for shoes. After a debate with herself that consumed five minutes, she decided carrots at room temperature were probably better for pony tummies and left the container on the counter. Wishing she had something warm to drink, she checked the cupboards in the small kitchen area. The last person to work as the Liaison had been a slob, and she wasn’t putting anything she wanted to eat on those shelves until she cleaned them. Which meant actually learning how to clean.
At least she had music this morning. She had stopped at Music and Movies yesterday and taken five music discs out on loan. She would get a notebook and keep track of the music she liked and didn’t like, and the food she liked and didn’t like and . . . everything else.
She put the first disc in the player, then set about opening the office. She put a fresh sheet of paper on the clipboard to take notes about the deliveries. Retrieving the keys from the drawer in the sorting room, she breathed a sigh of relief when she fiddled the slide locks open on the go-through and managed to unlock the front door.
The birds were back—three on the wall and one on the wood sculpture. Since she wasn’t sure if they were crows or Others, she stuck her head out the door and said, “Good morning.”
A startled silence. As she pulled her head back inside, a couple of them cawed. It sounded more mellow than other caws, so she decided to take it as a return greeting.
She barely had time to take the map out of the drawer and drag one of the mailbags over to the table before the first delivery truck pulled in.
Don’t need a bell on the door when there were Crows on watch, she thought as she dated the page and made her notes about the truck.
Same wariness as yesterday when the delivery people opened the door. Same relief when they saw her and realized they didn’t have to deal with one of the Others. Same helpful information about who they were and what days they usually made deliveries.
She found it interesting that two or three trucks arrived at almost the same time, which made her wonder if the drivers had some agreement among themselves about delivering at a specific time so they wouldn’t be in the Courtyard alone—especially since most of them greeted one another by name.
When the first flurry of deliveries was done, she opened the door into the sorting room and pushed one of the handcarts inside. She didn’t like treadmills—too many memories of being exercised in the compound—but maybe she should go over to Run & Thump and see what she could do to gain some muscle. Not being able to lift packages or mailbags wasn’t going to win her any gold stars from Simon Wolfgard.
She turned on the disc player and started sorting mail, her hips following the beat of the music.
“Courtyard Business Association,” Meg muttered as she read the name on the envelope. “They have a business association? Where?” She put the envelope on the ask-Jester stack.
There were several envelopes for the Chambers that had a red FINAL NOTICE stamped on them. She had a feeling she would find earlier warnings in the mailbags at the bottom of the pile.
Was there some kind of rule that Others couldn’t sort mail, or did they expect that everything would go on as it was until they got someone to do it? Or were they really all so busy doing Other things that they didn’t have time to take care of mail and packages?
She was still pondering that when the front door opened. Meg set down the stack of envelopes and went to the counter, closing the Private door partway.
The woman approaching the counter had sleek, shoulder-length blond hair, brown eyes, and a carefully made-up face that Meg decided matched the “beautiful” training images. The woman’s parka was unzipped, revealing a curvy body in snug jeans and sweater.
Having no yardstick for the outside world, Meg couldn’t decide if a woman dressed like that in the daytime indicated a movie star or a prostitute.
“I’m looking for the new Liaison,” the woman said.
“I’m the Liaison,” Meg replied.
“Really?” Anger flashed in the woman’s eyes at the same time she gave Meg a wide smile. “Why, you’re almost a pocket pet.”
Anger and a smile were conflicting images, but a conflict she had seen often enough on the faces of the Walking Names, especially when Jean had caused trouble and stirred up some of the other girls.
Unsure of how to respond, Meg took a step back. If she needed help, there was a phone in the sorting room as well as on the counter here, and the Private door had a lock.
The woman studied her, then said, “Oh, honey, you don’t have to be scared. I’m annoyed with Simon for hiring someone else after he all but promised me this job, but I’m not upset with you.”
“Excuse me?”
The woman waved a hand. “Water under the bridge, as they say.” A friendly smile now. “I’m Asia Crane. I’m a student at Lakeside University. Howling Good Reads is sort of my home away from home, so I expect we’ll see a lot of each other.”
Not likely, since she d
idn’t intend to spend much time at the bookstore—at least, not when Simon Wolfgard was around to glare at her or take offense at her hair. “I’m Meg Corbyn.”
Asia clapped her hands. “Crane. Corbyn. Our names are so similar, we could be sisters!”
“Except we don’t look anything alike,” Meg pointed out. Was Asia’s behavior typical of the way people responded to meeting a stranger?
“Oh, poo. Don’t go spoiling things with details! And please don’t be insulted about the pet remark. It’s a phrase I must have picked up from the romance novels I’ve been reading for fun.”
Meg couldn’t picture Simon stocking romances. Maybe someone else had a say in ordering books for the store?
“It was nice to meet you, Asia, but I have to get back to work,” Meg said.
“Doing what?” Asia leaned on the counter and wrinkled her nose as she looked around. “It doesn’t look like there’s much to do here to keep from dying of boredom. Maybe I’m glad I didn’t get this job after all.”
“There’s more to do than watch the counter and sign for packages,” Meg said defensively.
“Like what?”
She hesitated, but answering the question didn’t seem like a terrible thing to do, especially since Simon had all but promised the job to Asia.
But if he promised the job to her, why did he hire me? “I sort the mail for the Courtyard,” she said, trying to ignore the prickling that suddenly filled her right arm.
Asia’s eyes widened. “For the whole Courtyard? Not just the stores, but the whole thing? By yourself?”
Meg nodded.
“Oh, honey, if that’s the case, I’m not sure that man can pay anyone enough to do that much tedious work.”
“It’s not tedious, and it’s not that much work—or it won’t be after I take care of the backlog.” The prickling in her arm got worse, and she began to feel uneasy. She shouldn’t have that sensation so soon after a cut. Was it a sign that there was something wrong with her? The Walking Names always told the girls they couldn’t survive long outside the compound because they would be overwhelmed by the world. Jean said that was a lie, but it had been a long time since Jean had lived on the outside, so maybe she didn’t remember things correctly anymore.
“Well, why don’t you bring some of that mail out here so we can get acquainted? I could even give you a hand,” Asia said.
Meg shook her head and shuffled her feet back another half step toward the Private door. “It’s nice of you to offer, but the mail has to stay in the sorting room, and no one else is allowed in there without Mr. Wolfgard’s permission.”
“Well, Simon isn’t going to mind me helping out.” Asia braced her hands on the counter. A little jump and turn had her sitting on top and swinging her legs over.
That was when the Private door opened all the way and Simon lunged out of the sorting room, knocking Meg aside. As he made a grab for Asia, she squealed, swung her legs back over the counter, and scrambled out of reach.
“Simon does mind,” he snarled. “And the next time you swing a leg over a counter and try to put it where it doesn’t belong, you’re going back over the counter minus a leg!”
Asia bolted out the door and ran until she reached the sidewalk. Then she turned and stared at them before hurrying down the street.
Meg pressed herself against the wall, wanting to get farther away but not daring to move. “M-Mr. Wolfgard, I told her she wasn’t allowed, but it sounded like—”
“I heard what it sounded like,” he snarled. “I don’t pay you to yak with other monkeys when there’s work to be done. And if you want this job, there’s still plenty of work in there.”
“I—I know.”
“Why are you stuttering? Are you cold?”
Not daring to speak, she shook her head.
His next snarl sounded as full of frustration as anger. After one more menacing glance outside, he walked back into the sorting room.
Moments later, Meg heard the back door slam.
Shaking and still too scared to move, she began to cry.
* * *
Simon stormed through the back door of Howling Good Reads, stripped off his clothes, and shifted to Wolf, unable to stand being in that human shape a moment longer. Then he howled, letting all his fury ride in the sound.
He didn’t know why he was so angry. He just knew that something about the tone of Meg’s voice when she was trying to defend her territory—and being so damned inadequate about it!—had tripped something inside his brain.
John was the first to reach the stockroom, but one look at Simon had him backing away. Tess came next, her hair streaked green and red.
“Simon?” Tess said. “What’s wrong?”
Before he could answer, the back door opened again, almost smacking his hindquarters. He whirled and snapped at Jenni, who had shifted from Crow and now was a naked, shivering human.
She ignored the cold and she ignored him, which was beyond insulting since he was the leader of this Courtyard. Instead, she focused on Tess.
“Simon was being mean. He made the Meg cry. I’m going over to the store to see if I can find a sparkly that will make her smile again. The Meg smiles a lot—when the Wolf isn’t snarling at her.”
Jenni stepped back outside, shifted into a Crow, and flew off to Sparkles and Junk.
Swinging around him and following Jenni out of the door, Tess said over her shoulder, “I’ll talk to Meg and see if I can repair the damage.”
He wasn’t sure she intended for him to hear the muttered, “Idiot.”
He looked at John, who was now crouched to bring his head lower than Simon’s.
John brought his clothes up, set them on the nearest chair, and hurried back downstairs.
Simon prowled the office, then howled again.
He hadn’t snarled at Meg. Not exactly. But he doubted there was a female in the Courtyard who was going to see it his way today.
Shifting back to human, he got dressed. Then he went to the window facing Crowfield Avenue and stared out. The streets were in decent shape. Not down to pavement yet, but passable.
Turning away from the window, he looked at the stacks of paperwork waiting for him because he had encouraged more contact with humans as a way of keeping better track of them.
“It was easier when all we wanted to do was eat them and take their stuff,” he grumbled.
And it had been easier when he hadn’t cared if he made any of them cry.
* * *
Asia shook so hard she couldn’t get the keys in the ignition to start her car.
Bigwig had told her dealing with the Others was a risky assignment, which was why he and the other backers had been willing to let her take her time infiltrating the Courtyard. In the months she’d been living in Lakeside and hanging around HGR, she hadn’t seen more than posturing and snarls from the Wolves and not even that much menace from the rest of the Others. Now she realized Bigwig had paid her so much up front because he had known that risky could mean deadly.
Pulling the flask out of the glove box, she took a long swallow of whiskey to steady her nerves. Then she took another to dim the image of her legs being torn off by a Wolf.
“Freaking Wolf,” she said after the third swallow. “Damn freaking Wolf should have been in his own store instead of sniffing around a no-looks female.” And he hadn’t just hired a female with no looks and no sense of fashion to represent the Courtyard; he had hired a feeb!
She had expected a man, had dressed to introduce herself to a man, had figured the reason Wolfgard hadn’t chosen her was because Liaisons were usually men and a man had applied for the job. Instead, Wolfgard had hired a feeble-minded, weird-haired girl who thought sorting mail was interesting.
Asia took another sip, then put the flask back in the glove box.
If Meg wasn’t a feeb, what kin
d of person would want the Liaison’s job for its own sake? Someone who had a reason to hide—that’s who. From what? From whom? The driver of that white van was keeping tabs on something or someone in the Courtyard, and Meg Corbyn was the only new employee.
She had a name and description to give Bigwig when she reported in tonight. That might help him figure out who would be interested in someone like Meg. Until he got back to her with whatever information he could gather at his end, she was going to be Meg Corbyn’s new best friend and use that friendship to learn whatever she could about the Courtyard. And that meant dealing with Simon Wolfgard.
Suicide by Wolf. She’d heard the phrase plenty of times. Now she understood what it meant. But if she didn’t push Simon now, she’d never get another shot at Meg.
She debated for a moment, then decided whiskey breath would suit this little drama. After all, no human in the bookstore would expect someone to start a confrontation with a Wolf unless that person was a little drunk. And she thought Asia Crane, SI, would be the kind of investigator who would have a checkered past and the need to have a daytime drink once in a while.
She needed to write these ideas down for the day when she met with Bigwig to discuss her TV show.
She got out of her car and strode to Howling Good Reads. As soon as she walked into the store, she balled her hands into fists and shouted, “Simon Wolfgard! You get your butt over here! I have words to say to you!”
Several people dropped books. Then an awful silence filled the bookstore when Simon appeared. Asia hoped the lenses of his glasses were picking up some kind of light that made his eyes look glowing—and red.
Before he got too close, she launched her verbal attack. “Simon Wolfgard, you are meaner than a rabid skunk!”
“You were where you didn’t belong!” he roared.
“Well, pardon me for trying to be friendly! I just dropped by to introduce myself and give your new employee a bit of a welcome. I didn’t realize she was forbidden to have a simple conversation with another human. It’s plain as plain that poor girl has some challenges.” Asia tapped her temple. It didn’t matter if Simon understood the gesture; all the humans in the store would recognize it and assume he had hired a feeb. “And then when someone takes an interest in her, all you do is make threats. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if she slips away some night and doesn’t come back because of the way you treated her. Do you know what you are, Simon?”
