Tamiko and the Two Janitors (Amaranthine Saga Book 3)

by Forthright

  Joe resigned himself to the loss of dignity. It helped to think of it as a trust-building exercise. Because Kip needed to trust that Joe trusted him.

  Rising up on the pads of his paws, Kip bounced a couple of times and gave Joe’s thighs a friendly squeeze. “Ready?”

  “Think so.”

  Taking him at his word, Kip coiled into a spring that launched them into a steep arc.

  As the ground fell away, Joe clamped his arms more tightly around Kip’s neck. “Whoa,” he gasped.

  They jerked to a halt.

  Turning his head, Kip asked, “Was that whoa as in ‘make it stop,’ or more like a ‘wow, am I impressed’? Because I could see this swinging either way.”

  “Umm … the second one, I guess.” Joe hoped he wasn’t throttling Kip, because there was no way he was letting go.

  This was surreal. Kip was simply standing in thin air, like a cartoon character who hadn’t yet realized they’d run past the edge of a cliff. Joe really didn’t want the next few moments to include the predictable plunge and dust plume.

  Kip didn’t say anything about Joe’s choke hold. Instead, he lifted his chin toward the acreage beneath his feet. “Cornucopia verified. And filled with apples. Nice touch.”

  “Grandad’s idea.” Joe pointed—briefly—to the section above the horn-shaped basket. “Mom wanted the pumpkin.”

  “You do a different theme every year?”

  “Yeah. For next year, Grandad wants to design something in honor of the Miyabe-Starmark wedding.”

  “I like it.” Kip asked, “Giddyap?”

  Joe nodded, and Kip glided off, swaying from side to side, skimming through the air like an ice skater. The orchard passed by, giving way to empty fields and the forest beyond. Kip drifted lower, weaving between the jutting points of pines, keeping to an easy pace.

  Gradually, Joe’s mood mellowed. If not for the cold, he might have lasted longer. He pressed his half-frozen nose against Kip’s shoulder to stifle a yawn.

  “Had enough?”

  Joe pointed toward the house. “Window’s not latched.”

  Kip gave the barn a wide berth, and Joe didn’t have to ask why. He knew Ash was still in there with his sister, and he knew Tami was happy. He wasn’t after details. That was already enough information to flush his face.

  “You want to go in through the window?” asked Kip.

  “Drop me off at the kitchen door. I’ll meet you upstairs.”

  Joe shed boots and coat and tiptoed to the fridge. From the other room, he could hear the television and glanced at the kitchen clock. His parents and Grandad would stay put for another hour at least, tuned in to the nightly news, followed by the Rivven Report.

  Loading a tray, he hurried to rejoin Kip, who brightened considerably at the prospect of ham sandwiches and pumpkin pie. He ate as though dinner was a distant memory, chatting about nothing in particular, but especially not about Ash, Tami, and the haymow.

  When the food ran low, Joe tried for a different distraction. “Why are you so strong?”

  Kip’s eyebrows lifted. “You mean … physically?”

  “You’re a squirrel.” Joe wasn’t sure how to put it any more delicately. “I mean, they’re rodents.”

  “First off, I’m not a squirrel. I’m a protector of squirrels.”

  Joe nearly choked on a swig of beer. “How’s that work? You go around helping squirrels safely cross the road?”

  Kip huffed. At least he was smiling.

  “Do you help them rob bird feeders? Make them nests in attics? Find their misplaced nut stashes?”

  “Are you implying that I am a protector of pests?”

  “I’m a farmer. I’ve never had any great love for squirrels.”

  “Uh-huh. I have it on good authority that you secretly cuddle squirrels.” Kip casually indicated the stockpile of boxes and tins in the corner. “This is becoming a squirrel nest.”

  Joe set aside his half-empty beer can and crawled to his stash. “Thought you said you’re not a squirrel.” Finding the right tin, he pried it open and leaned over to push a nut tart into Kip’s mouth.

  Kip chewed. Joe popped a tart into his own mouth, then offered another. Although he accepted it, Kip didn’t immediately put it in his mouth. By some miracle, was he actually full?

  “You should probably stop feeding me.”

  “But you’re always hungry.”

  He chuckled. “No doubt. And food is always welcome. But I shouldn’t be letting you hand-feed me. It means stuff.”

  Joe mumbled, “I didn’t know.”

  “How would you if I didn’t say something.”

  “Umm … sorry?”

  “Nah.” Kip waved off the apology. “I know you’re not flirting. You’re trying to comfort me, and I’m grateful.”

  Great. Now Joe was bleary, slightly buzzed, and blushing.

  Kip kindly changed the subject. “While I’m here, can I add a few more sigils?”

  “You already put them everywhere.” He fidgeted. “Just about.”

  “Overlapping more would be even safer.” Kip started clearing away the remnants of their feast. “Change for bed. This will probably put you right to sleep.”

  It certainly had the last time.

  Within the first twenty minutes, Joe was in a blissful haze, unbothered by little things like the tip of a claw tracing patterns across bare skin. “Is it terrible?” he murmured.

  Kip responded with a soft, “Hmm?”

  “Being in love.”

  “Oh.” After a few moments, he asked, “Have you ever been?”

  “Not really.” Joe quietly admitted, “But I’ve always been afraid to lose Tami to some guy.”

  “Makes sense.”

  But that wasn’t an answer, so Joe asked again. “Is it terrible?”

  “No. Not at all. I gained more than I can ever lose. And I’ll keep everything that was ever ours, including a lifelong friendship.”

  “But you’re sad.”

  His finger stilled. His voice softened. “Only for a little while. My sadness will pass, and their joy will continue. Love endures, Jiro.”

  Joe really hoped he meant endures as in ‘going on and on forever’ and not ‘suffering in silence,’ but he didn’t have the heart to ask.

  “Speaking of enduring,” said Kip. “This sigil would be stronger if I used blood.”

  Opening an eye, Joe asked, “Mine or yours?”

  “Both would be best.”

  Kip looked uncomfortable … or perhaps unsure. Joe tried to make light of the suggestion. “Will that make us blood brothers?”

  The redhead took more time than usual to form an answer. “The meaning probably varies by clan,” he said carefully. Too carefully.

  Joe studied Kip’s face.

  “As you’ve probably already figured out, squirrels mostly use saliva. This adaptation puts me in new and unfamiliar territory, but I trust my source.”

  “Which clan uses blood?”

  “Dragons,” whispered Kip. “I learned some things from a dragon. But we should talk it over another time, when you’re not part-tipsy and half-asleep.”

  “Why?” asked Joe. “If it’s better, why not go ahead?”

  Kip scooted backward and rubbed his hands together, almost wringing them. “The seals can hide you, but they can’t extend your life. For that, I have to find a safe way to tend you.”

  Joe couldn’t understand Kip’s hesitation. Feeling like a broken record, he asked, “If that’s what we need, why not go ahead?”

  “I made some mistakes.” He winced. “It’s like … I started out following a recipe for cookies, only to decide midway through that I’d rather have doughnuts.”

  Joe looked down at his bare chest and belly, where the faint lines of fresh sigils still glowed.

  Kip said, “I’ve warded you from head to toe and back again.”

  “Right.”

  “Which means if I want to tend you—which is absolutely necessary—then I nee
d to get past my own wards to touch your soul.”

  “Okay …?” Joe frowned. “There has to be a way in. How else would a hungry squirrel access his stash?”

  “Oh, there’s one or two.” Kip stared at his hands. “I should have thought it through, but I was in a hurry.”

  Joe nodded. “The wolves were coming. You didn’t have much time.”

  “Right.” Kip took a deep breath and puffed out his cheeks. “The way things stand, you’re so excellently warded, even I can’t get in. Not without resorting to a longstanding Amaranthine tradition.”

  Kip tapped his own lips, then touched the same finger to Joe’s lips.

  Mouth to mouth? Surely there was another way. He’d said ways. Joe didn’t need long to work out the remaining option.

  “I’d like to call it a design flaw, but I’ve heard enough of the old rhymes to know better.” Kip laughed weakly. “Way back when, before the In-between was a twinkle in Glint Starmark’s eye, one of my ancestors must have been a frisky trickster who liked mixing power with pleasure.”

  Joe cast about for anything to say. “Maybe we should stick to manly bloodshed for tonight.”

  Kip tried for another laugh, which faded into a groan. “Give me a little more time. I need to find out if I can overwrite my first sigils with blood. Or if I need to work backwards and start over.”

  “Should we stop, then?”

  “Let me finish these,” Kip said. “It won’t take much longer, and I’ll rest a little easier.”

  So they lapsed into silence, each lost in their own thoughts as more sigils bloomed across Joe’s skin. Maybe this was more than they could handle alone. Then again, maybe he should be glad there was any chance at all.

  Finally, Joe found the courage to admit, “I’d do anything to be here for Tami.”

  Kip’s jaw worked. “Even if it meant outing yourself as a reaver?”

  Dread washed over Joe, followed by a surge of panic. His breath came in short gasps, every part of him rebelling at the very suggestion of exposure, of capture, of betrayal.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Kip’s concern was written plain on his face. “Okay. Not that. Anything but that.”

  Several minutes of urgent pleas and promises restored Joe’s calm, but they did little to ease his embarrassment. He clasped his hands over his face, sure he’d mucked up eight kinds of etiquette. “I have to stay.”

  “I believe you.” Kip doused the light, but he lingered in the dark. His tone was cautious. “Jiro, what did you have in mind when you said you’d do anything?”

  He didn’t want to say.

  “Between us,” he coaxed. “I want to know where you draw the line.”

  Which was only fair. But so hard to admit.

  “I meant,” Joe began, every word more awkward than the next. “That I’d let you kiss me.”

  Kip went very still and remained quiet for several moments. “You trust me that much?”

  “Yeah,” he croaked.

  “Whoa.”

  And this time, it wasn’t the ‘make it stop’ kind of whoa. Joe could tell it was the sort that meant ‘wow, am I impressed.’

  FORTY-ONE

  Herald

  Melissa doggedly collected another armful of posts from the timber that had appeared—as if by magic—in the field from which all the pumpkins had been harvested. Doon-wen was already keeping his promise to the Reaverson family with a steady stream of arrivals.

  Daily couriers.

  Nightly deliveries.

  Fresh allotments.

  Scribes to witness the necessary contracts, forms, registries, and chronicles. Preservationists, who pottered with soil samples and fretted about security. Ephemeralists, who set about cataloguing the bounty of rare species that thrived in the orchard. Draftsmen and craftsmen, whose initial drawings left little doubt that the Reaverson family would soon play host to a quaint village.

  With an eye toward self-sufficiency, the Woodacres had proposed the addition of a small dairy and the partial damming of a creek in order to create a fishing hole. Cyril wanted a dovecote, a rookery, and a hatchery in order to increase the population of several varieties of birds in Perch County—including pheasants. Kith shelters were already under construction at the far corners of the property.

  Uncle George was in his glory.

  Today being a Sunday, the orchard was closed until noon. So dawn at Red Gate Farm found the property overrun. Melissa suspected that the urban enclave was standing empty. Everyone had come to work or to wander.

  More shipments arrived by the hour. Thatching and ticking and tents. Cordwood and kegs and case-lot quantities of candles. Several crates of wardstones arrived, many of which would be set into the very fenceposts Melissa was toting.

  She snapped a picture of the shipping label and sent it to Jiminy.

  He spammed the sob emoji. His double-shift wouldn’t end until six.

  Officially, Melissa was present as Rook’s escort, but she’d insisted on pitching in, as was her right as kin. She knew full well that the Amaranthine builders were humoring her. Rabbits who were shorter and slighter were many times stronger. And bears were grappling beams and shifting flagstones with apologetic ease.

  Rook kindly suggested, “Torloo and Sooli seem to have found Ash. Make sure they haven’t become a bother?”

  Melissa found them in the oak glen, where Ash had marked off a small plot between two of the oaks lining the song circle. Not in any official way. He’d simply cleared the patch of leaves and lined the edges with acorns. Would Tami’s suitor build her a home here, within view of Biddie’s tree?

  Torloo-dex Elderbough and Sooli-fen Nightspangle were indeed monopolizing Ash. He perched on some sort of barrel, the young wolves sitting attentively at his feet. Far from being a bother, the kids were both rapt and respectful, for Ash was telling them a story.

  “… and so the wind was granted a magic all its own, for it had always been meant for more than scattering seeds and carrying clouds. But young winds can be fitful and flighty and forgetful, which made them difficult to train.”

  Melissa joined the youngsters on the grass. From there, she could see that Ash’s seat was a cask, marked with the crest of the Merryvale clan, whose honey wine was world famous. No doubt the circle would be filled with song tonight.

  Ash went on with the story, spinning it out in the manner of bards. “The avian clans knew the winds best, having learned to loft themselves along their many paths, but as so often happens in this world and the next, knowing is not understanding. And as every youngling is wise to remember, not every wing has feathers.”

  Torloo clasped his hands over his heart, looking very much like the child he still was, no matter his actual years. Sooli must have been close in age, although Melissa was only guessing. Amaranthine aged at the same rate as humans until they reached their twelfth year. On the cusp of a lengthy adolescence, their time slowed to match the pace of their parents.

  Rook had offered to bring her along today as a treat, perhaps because she was the youngest cub of the Nightspangle pack. But also because Sooli wasn’t just any young she-wolf. She was Roonta-kiv’s daughter.

  Sooli-fen was Jiminy’s sister.

  “The secrets of the winds might be a secret still, lost even to lore, if not for the patience and passion of dragons.” Here, Ash slipped out of his narration to ask, “You know about them, right? Wind is to the dragon clans what the moon is to wolf packs.”

  “When does the angel come?” asked Sooli. “Bechamel.”

  “Bethiel,” Ash patiently corrected, though his attention was definitely straying. “Bethiel of the Changing Winds. His part’s soon.”

  Melissa turned to see where he was looking. She should have known. Three figures had reached the far end of the oak glen, and one of them was Tami. She and Aunt Hiro were talking around the person carrying a large hamper.

  For a few moments, Melissa surprised herself by hoping that the man in the middle was Jiminy. It wasn’t.

&
nbsp; “Muffins,” whispered Sooli. “Are they for us?”

  “I believe so.” Torloo’s tail wagged. “Can we?”

  “Better hustle,” urged Ash, who wasn’t really listening.

  Melissa guessed he was eavesdropping on Tami, whose arm was looped through the newcomer’s. To be fair, Aunt Hiro had his other arm. Like they were all friends.

  Ash slowly said, “He’s here for you, Melissa.”

  “Who?”

  “The herald.” He stood and signaled to the newcomer. “Nice guy. Local office. Dove clan.”

  For a moment, Melissa’s heart lurched, but a local herald wouldn’t be sent with dire news from home. Nor would it be about her biological father, since Christopher and Cove were currently abroad. What, then?

  Would Reaver Barr at the local office have sent her a communique? Had something happened with regards to the rogue? The latest threat assessment put him far from here, but they might be summoning support for their trackers. Even moving a whole section for pursuit. But were they likely to call for her? And what might Doon-wen have to say if the Office of Ingress tried to assign her away?

  A hand appeared in front of her, and she allowed Ash to pull her to her feet. Before releasing her hand, he tweaked her little finger.

  Her surprise brought a faint smile to his face. “What? Jiminy isn’t the only one who was raised by wolves.”

  Tami closed the gap. “Here you are! Melissa, this is Remill Whistledown. He’s the herald I told you about before. The one who’s always lived here.” To the dove, she added, “And you must know Ash. He’s my fiancé.”

  Something knocked against Melissa’s shoulder, but when she looked, nothing was there. Only Ash, whose eyes were wide, his hands caught somewhere between reaching and retreating. She realized what must have happened and brushed her shoulder. Then arched a brow at Tami. “You’re announcing the engagement?”

  “I don’t see why not.” Tami radiated happiness. “There’s no reason to keep it a secret.”

  Melissa had to concede the point. Ash and Tami had met in the public sector, and nobody would question the principal and the janitor becoming a couple. They could go on dates. They could plan a big wedding. They could probably even host a community-wide reception in Landmark’s gymnasium. And nobody would ever have to know the whole truth.