Tamiko and the Two Janitors (Amaranthine Saga Book 3)

by Forthright

  Kip took Jiro’s floundering hand and guided it around his waist. “My bad. Should have warned you about scents. Was he upset?”

  “Concerned. Careful.” Jiro’s scent changed. “I did what you said.”

  “Me?”

  Jiro’s tone gentled. “You said they should talk, so I made Ash wait and brought Tami to him.”

  Oh. That.

  Kip swallowed hard. “How’d that go?”

  “Good, I guess. He makes her happy.” The mood shifted suddenly, leaving Kip rather queasy, and Jiro murmured, “Promise me something?”

  “What do you need?”

  “You’re Tami’s friend.”

  “Sure am.”

  Jiro begged, “Don’t let her be sad about me.”

  “Whoa, now. Back up.” Kip eased his arm under Jiro’s shoulders, which was much more comfortable. “Why would she be sad?”

  “Nobody thought to tell us that Tami will live as long as Biddie.” His voice wavered slightly. “I won’t.”

  Kip pulled him close. Sadness keened through the soul hidden behind his wards, a lonesome song that tugged at his heart.

  “Promise me?” Jiro repeated. “You can make sure she won’t miss me.”

  Right then, Kip would have done anything to drive away Jiro’s worries. Make any promise. Do something reckless.

  “Did you know …?” Kip began, speaking slowly at first. “Ever since the waning of their years, humans have always wished for more. That’s why the old groves are gone. Our trees were ravaged by those seeking the very life your sister’s found.”

  “Like the fountain of youth.”

  “That’s the idea.” Kip stroked Jiro’s hair. “If people thought it was possible, they’d pay anything, promise anything. Maybe do anything, even something selfish and terrible.”

  Jiro’s face lifted. “Is Biddie in danger?”

  “Possibly. That’s why George wants our wolves and Jiminy’s wards. That’s why most people—even Amaranthine like me—think the old songs are nothing more than stories.” Kip chose his next words with care. “We keep certain secrets to protect ourselves. I can use one of those secrets to give you what you want.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “I can make sure she won’t miss you,” said Kip. “She wouldn’t have to be sad.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, I know it’s possible. There’s precedence. And the most famous cases also involve beacons.”

  Jiro simply shook his head again.

  “It’s just another kind of bond.” Kip was already growing attached to his scheme. Mostly because it would be tricky to pull off. “Tami’s life is tied to a tree’s. Yours could be tied to mine.”

  Joe wasn’t used to close. Tami was the exception. And maybe Biddie, since she was more like a clinging vine than a tree. So he didn’t know how to react to Kip’s casual crowding. Given all the other important things that needed to be said, Joe didn’t want to call attention to the obvious.

  Like the fact that they were in bed. Which was much warmer than the floor, but still …! There was a whole lot of touching. For instance, the hand Kip had pulled around his waist had landed on a boundary line of sorts. Kip’s shirt had ridden up, exposing bare skin above, thick fur below.

  “Hey, Jiro?” Kip kneaded his shoulder. “You still with me?”

  “Right here,” he mumbled, trying to relax and focus at the same time.

  “I’ll admit, what I know is technically hearsay, but my source excels at information gathering. He keeps his ear to the ground and squirrels away facts, rumors, secrets, and gossip. Sometimes, he dishes the really juicy stuff to me, especially if it has to do with crossers.”

  Joe asked, “Are you a crosser?”

  “In a way.” Kip’s voice held amusement. “You may have noticed I don’t adhere to the standard design. Big old tail. All kinds of lovely, pettable fur.”

  To his embarrassment, Joe realized that he was petting Kip, scratching circles somewhere in the vicinity of his hipbone. He jerked away, but Kip caught his hand and pressed it back into place.

  “It’s okay. I told you. I like it.” Kip quietly added, “This is normal, friendly stuff. And we’re friends.”

  Joe mumbled, “I’m not used to this.”

  “I know. Want me out of here?” He sounded concerned now. “You haven’t crossed any lines with me, and I’ll give you the same courtesy.”

  “Thanks.” He wasn’t sure what to say, so he just tangled his fingers in fur to hold Kip there.

  “I’m a rare breed and something of a secret, so keep this under your hat. Long story short, I’m three-quarters Amaranthine, what’s known as Kith-kin. Because my dad’s Kith.”

  “You’re part squirrel.”

  “I’ll have to introduce you to my dad. He’s even cuter than I am.” Kip tangled their legs together. “And I have a sister and two brothers—littermates. And enough nieces and nephews to fill Biddie’s branches.”

  “Your mom …?”

  “A Woodacre. What the international press likes to call a High Amaranthine.” Kip chuckled. “I’ve never been able to tell anyone about myself before, so this is fun. But I’m getting off topic. I was aiming the conversation toward crossers, since they’re proof of the possibilities.”

  Joe knew this one, largely thanks to Heart of a Dog. “Biological compatibility.”

  “And not simply in the procreative sense.” Kip blazed ahead. “You know that two of the Five have human bondmates.”

  “They’re the Seven, now.”

  Kip thanked him for the correction by nipping his ear. Joe guessed he’d been scolded.

  “Both Lady Starmark and Lady Mettlebright are beacons. Everybody and their uncle knows that.” Kip lowered his voice. “What’s less obvious—since their males are canny and cagy by turns—is that their ladies are a little like Tami now. Uncle Linden swears that Lady Starmark entered Harmonious’ den more than three centuries ago. It’ll be the same for the elusive Lady Mettlebright. The whole matter probably won’t come to light until the world realizes that Kimiko Miyabe, soon to be Starmark, is keeping time with Eloquence instead of the rest of humanity.”

  “Their lifespans changed.”

  “It’s bound to come out, and it’ll cause a sensation.” Kip sighed. “There’s concern over the potential for exploitation.”

  If people would pay anything, promise anything, all for the chance to live beyond one lifetime, what would happen? And which side would be using the other?

  “There are limitations, but those happen to work in our favor. The human partner must be a reaver in order to strike the right balance. Something about synergy or symmetry. I’m a little vague on the details, but it should work.”

  “How does it work?”

  Kip hesitated. “I do know tending is involved.”

  The soul-sharing thing. “You never explained how that works.”

  “I’m not really sure about the mechanics. I mean, tending is give-and-take—you give, I take. But in my experience, the reaver always initiates a session.” He sheepishly added, “Never really thought about how.”

  “So we can’t try it?”

  There was a long silence, during which Kip’s hand kept pressing at Joe’s shoulders, coaxing his tension away. Finally, he said, “Better not.”

  “You don’t want to?” Joe’s heart sank. What had he expected?

  Kip made one of his squirrel sounds, a burring of his tongue that was hard to interpret. But dawn must have been approaching, and Joe could make out a little of Kip’s face in the gray light. He was grinning.

  “Oh, I want to. You’re so tempting, it scares me a little. But I am a very little squirrel, and you are very much a beacon. I might be able to hide you, but I’m not sure I can handle you. Not without safeguards.”

  “Are you … afraid of me?”

  “Nope. Even if you cut loose, dousing and dazzling the whole farm, I know I’d be safe from harm. Your power is part of
you. It would never betray your good intentions.” Kip’s forehead touched his. “I am trying to be sensible. And respectful. Maybe even gentlemanly. If this was a fairy tale, you’d be the most beautiful person in all the realm, and I’m the poor schmuck who doesn’t deserve you.”

  “But I’m the farm boy.”

  Kip snorted and nipped his ear again. Definitely retaliation, but it seemed playful. And proof enough to Joe that Kip wasn’t afraid of him. Either that, or he wasn’t afraid of anything.

  “We’re getting off topic again,” he grumbled. “I am trying to offer you a happily ever after.”

  “Why?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? You’re like a treasure hidden in a field. A pearl of great price. Brighter than the morning star, and willing as the wind.”

  Joe cautiously asked, “What about Ash?”

  Kip curled into him, hiding his face against Joe’s chest as he clung. “Okay, so I’m being sensible and selfish. Because if I make it possible for you to stay with Tami, I’ll get to stay close to Ash.”

  “Won’t that be hard?”

  “Not always.”

  Joe was being offered something for which many would pay anything, promise anything, do anything. Maybe he and Kip were using each other a little. Or maybe this was more like pooling their resources. “Okay.”

  “Yeah?”

  Joe awkwardly patted Kip’s back. “Yeah.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Denny

  Melissa couldn’t sleep, even though she should have been able to relax. The burden of secrets, the safety of her cousin, the formalities regarding boundaries, limits, and permissions—everything was now in the keeping of Doon-wen and the wolves of the Nightspangle pack. But she couldn’t find her way to the rest her body needed. Giving up, she pulled on jeans and a heavy sweater and braved the wet to get to work.

  Rook welcomed her with a soft smile and a hot drink, but he didn’t bother with words. Melissa was grateful that none were needed.

  Staying busy became increasingly easy, thanks to the weather. A combination of gusty wind and miserable drizzle drove half the campus to seek the shelter Founders offered. Students dragged in, cold, wet, and drowsy. Tables filled and stayed full, with people lingering over second and third cups of coffee.

  Melissa collected tray after tray of empty cups and mopped around the clogged umbrella stand. Mid-morning, Rook sent her next door to beg for a full restock of their bakery case. She blinked dazedly at the bright, clean interior of Tough Nut bakery, then relayed Rook’s message to the lady behind the counter.

  “Shake a leg, Linden!” The redheaded woman bustled into the kitchen and was back a moment later, pressing a slice of pumpkin bread into Melissa’s hand even as she cajoled a lanky redhead and two teens—all with vivid red hair and a burden of bakery boxes.

  “Yes, ma’am!” they chorused.

  “Lead on, Melissa,” said the man with a wink. “Can’t keep these to ourselves!”

  She held the door for them, then hurried ahead to open the one into Founders. Their arrival was met by a patter of applause. Rook’s voice carried as he cheerfully announced, “Fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies, courtesy of our friends at Tough Nut bakery.”

  The man at Melissa’s side called out, “Lemon shortbread and gingerbread will be along soon.”

  Melissa watched the ensuing stampede with a smile. “You do this often?”

  “Every rainy day,” he replied. “We also turn up on snow days, gray days, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. But especially on dreary Mondays.”

  Nothing in his appearance or presence gave him away, but she knew he must be Amaranthine. “You know my name …?”

  “And you shall know mine!” Offering a hand, he said, “Linden Holloway, this go-around. My sister Holly’s the bossy one minding the shop. The young ones doling out cookies are cousins—one from my brood, one from my brother’s. We’re a peace-loving passel, Woodacres one and all.”

  Woodacres. Like Kip. She wondered if it would be indiscreet to ask how they were related.

  “Are you going to eat that?” Linden indicated the pumpkin bread still in her hand.

  “Did you want it?” she offered.

  His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Tasty as the tidbit looks, I’ll wager you need it more than I do. Eat up.”

  Melissa mumbled appreciatively around a large bite. The squirrel clan’s baking was superb.

  “So!” Linden lowered his voice. “You’re the one who’s keeping our Jiminy on his toes. Had him at knifepoint, I hear!”

  “Only once or twice.”

  “Delighted to hear it.” His glee couldn’t have been more obvious as he guided her to the counter, where the redheaded cousins presided over sales—one cookie for a quarter. “The tougher the nut, the sweeter the meat.”

  Before she could protest, Rook joined them. “You’ve met Linden? He speaks for the squirrel clans.”

  Melissa blinked. She hadn’t realized. “Spokesperson Woodacre,” she murmured respectfully.

  Linden rolled his eyes. “Denny will do. Sorry for the delay, Lou. Would have been here sooner, but my nephew dropped by and ate his way through a triple batch of cookie dough before we noticed.”

  It took a moment for Melissa to remember who Lou was. He’d always be Rook to her. And she really doubted she could ever call the spokesperson for the squirrel clans Denny.

  “You mean Alder?”

  “None other. He’s been and gone. Work and all.” Linden frowned thoughtfully. “He’s a mooch, but we don’t often see him so … moody.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Not the dangerous kind. I suspect he’s at that age.” Linden glanced Melissa’s way, and his lips quirked. “The raid on his mother’s kitchen probably helped. Chocolate is considered a remedy for the lovesick soul.”

  Rook’s brow furrowed. “You think he’s in love?”

  “Might not be courting behavior. Asked some odd questions, though. Holly thinks it might be a reaver.” Linden pointed up. “He didn’t even ask after Jiminy, and he usually does that first thing.”

  “That’s not like Kip,” Rook agreed.

  Melissa’s attention snapped to. She hadn’t realized they were talking about someone she knew.

  Linden waved the whole matter aside. “See here, Rook. Isn’t Melissa due for a break? She’s looking a bit frayed at the edges.”

  Rook hummed his agreement.

  Were they talking about her appearance or her endurance? She pushed uneasily at her hair and wondered if she should grab another coffee.

  “Jiminy hasn’t come down yet,” said Rook. “Melissa, would you mind rousting him from his den? He’s supposed take the next shift.”

  “His den,” she echoed cautiously. “Couldn’t you call him? Text him?”

  “Deep sleeper,” Rook said dismissively.

  Linden nodded solemnly. “Might require manhandling.”

  “Or more sleep. He’s been pushing his limits lately.”

  “Eager for his attainment.” The squirrel clansman’s eyebrows waggled.

  Rook elbowed him and said, “Rest and regard cannot be rushed.”

  Melissa knew that saying. Magda used it often, quoting one of her former teachers. “Isn’t that a feline proverb?”

  The colluders exchanged a glance, and Linden cleared his throat. “Dragon, I believe.”

  “And it’s incomplete,” she said.

  “True enough.” Rook seemed entirely thrown off. “They do favor fours. An homage to the four winds.”

  Melissa could almost hear Magda’s rolling inflection. Smiling at the memory, she quoted the full proverb. “Rest, regard, and revenge cannot be rushed.”

  A convoluted set of directions led Melissa into the very heart of the enclave, up three floors and along a maze of narrow halls. The door to her destination was plain, yet it seemed to shimmer and dance. Countless sigils decorated its surface.

  Jiminy’s room. No, Rook had called it his den. And he’d obviously wante
d her to see it. Why else send her up here?

  Reaching up to knock, Melissa snatched back her hand when the sigils moved. Was she about to trigger some kind of alarm? But the intricate figures only drifted back into their former positions. She extended her hand, and once again, the sigils seemed to scatter before her touch, clearing the way. And when she rested her fingertips on the door, she experienced the same happy burst she’d first experienced at the warded entrance to the enclave.

  She was welcome. Here, of all places.

  Had Jiminy tuned his personal wards to accept her?

  Maybe she was reading too much into it. Melissa tapped lightly. Then rapped. Then tried the handle. It wasn’t locked.

  Her first thought upon entering Jiminy’s private domain was confusion. She’d expected a bedroom, but the space looked like it belonged on campus—part library, part workshop. Tidy bookshelves lined one of the long walls, and judging by the number of ribbon markers, book flags, and sticky notes decorating the tomes, Jiminy was conversant with their contents.

  At the far end of the room, opposite the door, cubbies and drawers of all sizes overflowed with crystals. Jiminy’s collection would probably be the envy of any ward and every museum in the world. She’d never seen the like. Unless you flipped classifications, because in a way, this was a lot like her mother’s armory. Tools of the trade.

  A computer stood on the desk that jutted out from the remaining long wall, which seemed to have been lined with cork. Sigil designs, scribbled notes, tables and graphs, star charts, photographs of cloud formations, and annotated maps had been tacked across the entire surface. She recognized a handful of national parks, the crests of a dozen mining cooperatives, and a snapshot of Jiminy as a toddler, cuddled against the broad shoulder of an adolescent Nightspangle. In another, he looked eight or nine, and he was cheesing for the camera with three grinning packmates.

  The substantial worktable that took up most of the floorspace held tools and gadgets and chunks of stone. Some of it looked like jewelry-making supplies, which made some sense, since ward stones were usually placed in settings or strung together.