Tamiko and the Two Janitors (Amaranthine Saga Book 3)

by Forthright

  Right about then, she’d found herself nose-to-nose with an enormous feline. The Kith must have been some sort of lynx, for Melissa remembered tufted ears and speckled fur. As well as pale green eyes that shone with intelligence and amusement.

  Scruffing her like a wayward kitten, the big cat had carried her like a prize back to the correct dormitory, where the teenaged girl assigned to Melissa had breathed a sigh of relief and held her close. Then taught her how to properly thank the Kith.

  The dye was set.

  Throughout her schooling, Melissa was most comfortable with her Kith acquaintances or her Amaranthine instructors. Her reserve never confused them. They knew when she was happy or confused or frightened or angry, and they modified their behavior to match her mood. Her awkwardness in expressing herself never mattered. Without a word, she was understood.

  So she donned a battler’s colors and took her father’s name, all to increase her chances of being matched with a Kith companion.

  As far as she was concerned, nothing else mattered.

  Courtney Barr indicated the second paper. “Christopher Armstrong may not have told you about Bellwether Enclave, but his recommendation has been on file with the Nightspangle pack since your fifth birthday.”

  “That’s nearly twenty years ago.”

  “The waiting list for whelped Kith is longer than a founding family’s pedigree.” The woman studied Melissa’s transfer papers again, and her lips pursed. “You’re not contracted?”

  “No.”

  Reaver Barr gave up waiting for an explanation. “With your lineage, you can’t be lacking for offers.”

  Melissa wouldn’t apologize for her decision to prioritize finding a Kith partner over her duty to the In-between. A husband would only complicate things, and an ill-timed pregnancy could undercut her eligibility if a potential partner became available. Mom and Magda had supported her choice to remain single, even though she’d had to pay a hefty fee on her twenty-third birthday.

  “I withdrew my name from the register.” Melissa quietly stood her ground. “My age, my lineage, and my whereabouts are currently … undisclosed.”

  Courtney didn’t bat an eye. “Good for you, honey.”

  “Th-thank you?”

  The third sheet of paper crossed the desk. “This is today’s threat advisory. Given the founding principle behind the Elderbough Initiative—pack is pack, care for your own—I suspect this is the real reason Naroo-soh Elderbough hustled you out this way.”

  “The rogue.” Melissa nibbled at her lip as she studied the map and its legend. Clusters of red dots spanned three states without any discernable pattern. “The few reports I’ve seen describe him as opportunistic … vicious … and elusive.”

  “Three of the rogue’s most recent attacks have been blamed on werewolves, which is utterly ridiculous. We’ve had to withdraw more than half of the Elderbough trackers because the sight of wolves in any context sends the public into a panic.” Courtney’s expression darkened. “Surgeons spent most of last night fighting to save the lives of Kith trackers who ran into the path of a citizen’s patrol. Three scraped through. Two died. Shot by silver bullets.”

  THREE

  Red Gate Farm

  Melissa stole a glance at her phone, confirming that she was indeed on the right track … a literal track. Well, not quite that bad, but she wasn’t accustomed to bumping along gravel roads. Her relations lived at a place called Red Gate Farm, and a brief phone conversation with her host had ended with the assurance that she couldn’t miss it.

  “Drive until you run out of road, and you’re there,” she muttered, creeping along.

  She wasn’t used to so much green.

  Grass carpeted the rolling hills of a pasture on her right, and the trees lining the road created a green tunnel. Very different from sand-skimmed boardwalks and a wide view of the ocean, with the continual rhythm of waves on their beach.

  Checking her rear-view mirror, Melissa stopped in the road and put her loaner in park. The faded blue hatchback was already showing a powdery coat of dust from her backroad ramble. She snapped a picture and sent it to Magda, who’d ordered her to stay in touch.

  Behold, Middle America!

  aka middle of nowhere

  A nice place to visit

  Don’t stay away too long

  No promises

  They have wolves

  If one wants me, I’m theirs

  Lock and load

  That was Magda’s way of wishing her luck.

  Melissa didn’t bother with her seatbelt as she continued along, stones popping under her tires, lazy puffs of dust her only companion on the road. But beyond the wall of trees on her left, she caught glimpses of an orchard and a white plank fence.

  A school bus and a van from a Fletching senior center were parked beyond red gates flanked by fluttering welcome banners and barrel-sized pots of geraniums. A big sign announced that it was apple season, with late-summer varieties listed. Melissa hadn’t even heard of half of them.

  She turned in.

  Everything was red and white, from the huge barn with GIFT SHOP painted on the side to the tractor hitched to a long wagon. More signs pointed the way to pick-your-own apples, cider press, petting zoo, hayrides, farm fresh eggs, and a corn maze opening in October.

  Coming along the driveway toward her was a young man in overalls. She hadn’t even realized people still wore them. Waving a small red flag, he tried to guide her into an open parking place at the gift shop.

  Leaning out her window, she explained, “I’m not a customer. Can you tell me where to find the owners? My name’s Melissa Armstrong, and they’re expecting me.”

  “This way.” He turned and walked away.

  Not sure what else to do, she rolled slowly after him. Right before the barn, the drive turned a corner, and a farmhouse hove into view, complete with picket fence, green shutters, and a porch swing. The young man went into his traffic directing routine again, pointing her into the open spot beside a station wagon in front of a detached garage.

  She called her thanks and popped the hatch to get her luggage.

  Instead of heading back to work, he silently stepped forward to take her suit case.

  “Do you work here?” she asked.

  “Every day.”

  He led the way up the porch steps and didn’t bother knocking before walking into a big kitchen. A man turned from the sink with a wide smile, and Melissa immediately relaxed. He was at least a decade older than Chris Armstrong, but he looked enough like him to assure her that she was in the right place.

  “Melissa!” Making hasty use of a dishtowel, he held out a hand. “Abel Reaverson. I guess we’ll go with Uncle Abel, okay?”

  She matched his grip. “Hello. Thank you for taking me in on such short notice.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Nodding past her shoulder, he said, “You’ve met my son.”

  Turning back, she realized that the young man in overalls was still there, staring at his feet.

  She flushed in embarrassment. Her whole family was cut from the same cloth—tall, strong, blue-eyed, and fair-haired. By contrast, her guide’s features had a distinctly Asian cast.

  Melissa said, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.”

  Uncle Abel laughed. “You’ll have to pardon Joe. He’s a little shy. Tami makes up for it though. She’ll be back in another hour or two. She’s principal of the elementary school in town. You probably passed it on your way here.”

  “I did.”

  “Hiro, that’s my wife, she’s working in the gift shop right now, so I’m on salad duty. I’ll take you out to meet her, but first we should let you set your stuff down and freshen up.” He beckoned for her to follow him. “Everything’s ready. We put you upstairs, right across from Tami. Joe’s room is at the other end, little bigger than a closet, really, but he doesn’t seem to mind.”

  Pausing at the door, she looked back to where Joe was still watching. Her cousin offered a bashful smile a
nd a tentative wave, then escaped out the front door.

  When she caught up to Uncle Abel on the stairs, he asked, “Long day?”

  “Yes.”

  His smile widened. “I get the impression that you’re a little shy, too.”

  “I guess so?”

  “No problem. You’ll see how it works around here. Plenty of room in the world for all kinds of people.” He opened a door, saying, “For you. Bathroom’s there. I’ll be in the kitchen!”

  And he left her alone.

  She eased into her new room, closing the door behind her. The lock was old-fashioned in the extreme, but with a jiggle and a twist, she managed to turn the skeleton key. After a brief reconnoiter, she crossed to the room’s one window and inspected the casement. Flipping the catch, she raised the sash and gave a quick pinch and pull, relieving her window of its screen. With practiced ease, she slid out feet-first and crouched barefoot on the sloped roof outside.

  Not a bad vantage point, though it only gave her a view of row upon row of trees. Fortunately, this side of the house was shaded by a pair of elms. She suspected that the grit-and-tar shingles would be too hot in full sun. Boots were definitely at the top of her shopping list.

  Keeping low, she scaled to the peak to get the lay of the land—a second barn, tractor shed, animal pens, chicken coop, corn crib. Beyond the second barn were stacks of pallets and wooden apple crates. And she could see a field thick with broad green leaves. Undoubtedly the pumpkin patch.

  With no people in view, Melissa straightened to her full height and slowly relaxed the hold she’d been trained to keep on her soul. Maybe not the wisest course, but certainly the quickest expedient.

  Thirty heartbeats later, and she was back under wraps, hiding herself from the telltale flit and drift of Ephemera. These low-level Amaranthine rarely gathered without certain inducements, the most basic of which was a reaver’s presence.

  That settled it for Melissa. Someone at Red Gate Farm needed her.

  FOUR

  The Oak Glen

  Joe probably should have rejoined his family in making their guest welcome, but as soon as he closed the gate behind their last customer and stowed the OPEN sign, he struck out through the orchard.

  It wasn’t that Melissa wasn’t nice. But why was she even here?

  Grandad’s mother supposedly had an Armstrong connection, which meant that Melissa was Dad’s second cousin’s daughter. Or something. But no matter how Joe turned it around in his head, she was so distant a cousin, they might as well be strangers.

  Joe didn’t mind dealing with strangers when they were customers. All you had to do was sell them a bushel of apples, a carton of eggs, or a gallon of cider, and they went away. Melissa was a stranger who was moving in. Mom had promised him up and down that a busy college girl wouldn’t be around much.

  But he knew she was here. And that was weird.

  Usually, he was only aware of Tami, something they’d always been told was a part of being twins. Joe liked the connection they shared. It was unique.

  His sister was all the things he wasn’t—confident and charismatic. She worked toward big dreams and fought for big ideals. He couldn’t begin to compare, so he didn’t try. Tami was Tami. As far as Joe was concerned, the world was lucky to have her. And so was he. But he was himself. And he was most himself out here, on their land, among their trees. And especially in the oak glen.

  Joe slipped into his favorite retreat. The wide ring of oak trees had been planted by Grandad some sixty years ago, back when he was a boy, and the orchard fanned out around it, hemming it in on every side. Over the decades the oaks had put down their deep roots and climbed skyward, sending out beamlike branches until their leaves touched. And in the very center, stood a tree unlike any other.

  It was by far the largest tree on the property, visible from the highway if you knew right where to look. If people noticed it at all, they probably assumed their tree stood on a hill, but it was actually tucked down in a little hollow all its own. As if the person who planted it was trying to hide it. The oak glen was a shady vale of mossy stones and twisting roots where he and Tami had picnicked and played as children.

  Joe settled among a dramatic swirl of roots that surrounded him like smooth walls, curving up and away from his niche. This spot had always felt like a throne to him when he was little. On the flat stone nearby, Tami used to set up a pretend kitchen and fix him meals of flower petals and grass blades, wild berries and green apples. And he’d lean back and count air ribbons or potter around, boring the holes into which he planted his apple seeds.

  Tami didn’t make it out here so much anymore.

  Grandad did, even though the distance made it tough. But Joe figured this was a special place for the old man. He hadn’t picked the spot and planted the trees for no good reason. Dad had once told him that Grandad was a twin, too, but his sister had died young. Maybe this was all for her. Maybe Grandad came here to remember.

  Once, just a couple of winters back, Joe had heard Grandad refer to this place as a “song circle.” When Joe asked about it, the old man brushed it off in his usual gruff way, but the term stuck with Joe.

  Maybe Grandad’s sister had liked to sing?

  Joe doubted he’d ever get around to asking.

  The day was getting on toward dinnertime when Joe heard the tractor engine cut out. Minutes later, Grandad was picking his way down the gentle slope. Probably sent to fetch him.

  “Found you.” The old man grunted as he eased into a neighboring nook among the roots. “You’re a mite young to be so set in your ways.”

  Joe couldn’t help smiling. “I take after you.”

  “Might be,” he agreed.

  Grandad pulled an apple from his pocket and passed it along, then extracted another for himself. They munched in companionable silence, but Joe guessed there was something on the old man’s mind. Was he worried about sharing their home with a stranger, too?

  But when Grandad spoke, it was to ask about the tree. “Notice anything different about her?”

  “Can’t say for sure. I don’t see any fruit.”

  This past May, for what Grandad assured him was the first time, there had been flowers in the uppermost branches of their lone tree. Tiny white buds that opened into creamy flowers. To Joe, they seemed to shimmer, as if catching sunlight and sending it into the shadows. Best of all had been the scent. Every afternoon, when the sun-warmed flowers were at their most intoxicating, they’d come to doze under the tree. Him with an old army blanket, and Grandad with his cushion from the seat of the tractor.

  Joe missed that scent enough to long for spring again. “I’ll bring the ladder next time. Maybe there are seed pods or nuts.”

  “Unless she can self-pollinate, she won’t have anything to offer.”

  “Cross-pollinators?”

  Grandad hummed skeptically. “Special tree, special case.”

  “I asked Tami to look into it for me.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Joe explained, “Gave her some leaves. She thought she might be able to find out something online.”

  Grandad grumbled, “Wasn’t no need to do that.”

  “I know, but our tree wasn’t in any of the books at the library.” He reached for a leaf that had fallen early—perfectly round, thin as tissue paper, edged in the gold that would soon sweep through the entire canopy. “I wonder how it got here.”

  But Grandad pretended not to hear.

  Joe sighed and lifted his hand. A tiny bird, no bigger than a walnut and just as deep a brown, alighted briefly on his fingertips. Its speckled throat puffed out, and it warbled three notes, like liquid crystal, piercingly sweet.

  They were one of his favorites.

  He’d always wondered why no one else seemed to be able to see them.

  FIVE

  Fraternal Twins

  Melissa liked Abel’s wife, who asked to be called Auntie or Hiro or any combination thereof. The lady of the house spoke with a slight a
ccent that made it obvious she wasn’t from these parts. While pulling together the evening meal, she gave an abbreviated version of her story, how she and Uncle Abel had met at college and married thirty-five years ago. Aunt Hiro occasionally returned to Kyoto to visit her parents, but this was home now.

  Her aunt’s and uncle’s easy camaraderie made Melissa homesick, but it also gave her a fresh avenue of inquiry to bring up to the genealogical division. Many strong reaver bloodlines traced through Japan. Had the archivists checked for a maternal connection to the In-between?

  Tami returned late that afternoon, bubbling over with news about the selection of her school by Hisoka Twineshaft. Melissa hung back, not wanting to interrupt, content to gather her own impressions.

  But Tami curtailed her news and turned on her with eyes sparkling. “Cousins?”

  “On my father’s side.” Melissa found herself admitting, “Your dad reminds me of mine.”

  “There’s more like him?” Tami smiled teasingly at her father. “Maybe we should sneak in at the next family reunion. How are we related again … through one of Grandad’s cousins?”

  “Not quite sure,” Uncle Abel said apologetically. “Maybe one of the Reaverson girls married an Armstrong?”

  Melissa wasn’t sure what to say. Reaver bloodlines didn’t always involve traditional marriages, nor did siblings always choose the same surname. She’d seen the pertinent section of the family tree used to invoke the Elderbough Initiative. Melissa’s biological grandfather was Tami’s biological grandfather’s half-brother. By arrangement. Perhaps there had been an effort to revive a fading bloodline.

  But it must not have worked. According to records, Uncle Abel’s grandparents had vowed out, relinquishing their reaver status. They’d left the In-between, but Tami could still be a throwback.