I keep going. Only a few yards more.
“Fools!” a cool calm voice cuts the darkness. “She’s getting away.”
I hear a click, a wheeze. There is no way for me to dodge as the tranq sliver solidly hits my shoulder, knocking me off-balance and crashing down through the floor. I concentrate on falling, slowing my descent when I can by grabbing at protrusions. One hand is badly skinned when I thump down into a foot of stagnant water.
The stuff in the sliver is screwing up my head, but not so much that I can’t hear a voice from my back wailing, “God! We’re hit!”
Dragging myself to my feet, I assess my position. From the distance I’ve fallen, I’m probably in the basement of the abandoned building.
The sliver pierced through my pack and apparently through some portion of Betwixt and Between before hitting me. I guess that this is why I haven’t been knocked out yet. Still, I am feeling woozy. I can tell the direction of the Jungle and slog that way. Above me I hear shouting, but the words are indistinct.
I crawl out of the pit, breaking the fragments of a rotted wooden door. While I am crouched in the doorway, two figures in navy jumpsuits run by. “She can’t have gone far….”
They’re out of my erratic hearing before I can find what they are going to do. I stagger out, my course a jagged line. I’m not sure where I’m going, but the vague idea comes that if I can find the Lesser Trail we used to enter the Jungle, I can hole up there and surely Grey Brother or Abalone will find me.
I hide again when two figures appear, but I am too dizzy to pull my feet in from a patch of light. As I stare stupidly at them sticking out, wondering if they might be mistaken for soggy shadows, a hand touches my shoulder.
I look up and see Abalone’s blue lips curl in a smile, a smile that fades as I try to speak and only manage to faint.
Eleven
TWO DAYS LATER, I AM FINALLY WELL ENOUGH TO GET UP and move around. It seems that Dr. Haas—or one of her cadre—managed to hit me twice. One dart spent most of its drug piercing through Betwixt and Between’s foot before hitting me. The other hit squarely. The force of the combined impacts was enough to make me fall and though Professor Isabella mutters about the damage I did myself wading to get out of the basement, she admits that I was lucky.
“Not only did you survive the fall but the doubled dosage could have killed you,” she tells me as she winds fresh gauze around my hand.
Head Wolf has not been so fortunate. Although he no longer drools or stares vacantly into space, he has fallen into a coma from which he does not awaken. Members of the Pack take shifts at his side, patting water onto his chapped lips, checking the IV Bumblebee has hooked up.
We are currently holed up in a most peculiar cave: the Cold Lairs. Midline had discovered it when he was still a Cub and it had become a secret between himself and Head Wolf.
“Paid my dues for a month or so with the information,” Midline recalls when telling me about it.
The cave is a pocket beneath a freeway. Apparently, once there had been a tunnel, perhaps a water main here, but when the freeway was restructured and magnetized, the tunnel was no longer needed. Instead of filling it in, the contractors had sealed it over, no doubt padding their pockets with the money not spent on the job.
The weather shifted the asphalt and concrete used to seal the place, breaking a crevice to the underworld. After Midline reported his find to Head Wolf, the Pack leader arranged to have the freeway’s power grid tapped, another entrance made, and then both openings concealed behind thick curtains of kudzu.
This retreat is not as comfortable as the Jungle, but it serves to keep most of our Pack together.
Professor Isabella has drawn medical supplies for Head Wolf on her ElderAid card and now the Pack views her as one of their own. I am pleased, if slightly jealous, to see the littler Wolves crowding to her, begging her for stories or asking questions.
The first night when I am well enough to walk about unassisted, Abalone waits until the bulk of the hunters have left and then invites me and Professor Isabella for a walk.
She has completely abandoned her young executive guise and returned to the paints and street struts she favors. As we walk to an automatic diner, she tells me how she and Grey Brother created a false trail that would have eventually led Dr. Haas and her people to the apartment. Once there, they would have found signs of a hasty departure.
“If they looked hard enough,” Abalone brags, “they would have found enough evidence to convince them that the three of us fled up the Shattered Coast and into the East Megalop. I bought us tickets on a shuttle and then rented a hovervan. They’ll figure one is a decoy and one the real route, but they won’t know which. While they chase down dead ends, they’ll never be sure that we didn’t find some third route. Meanwhile, we’ll be here—the last place they’ll look.”
“That will give us time,” Professor Isabella says, holding the autodiner’s door for us.
I look first to confirm that the place is empty. Then I shake my head in query—unable to frame the question.
“What do we need time for?” Professor Isabella guesses.
I nod, accepting the soup and sandwich Abalone hands me.
“Because, my dear, we are done with running away. This time we are going to find these people and strike back.”
I choke on my sandwich and, as Abalone thumps my back, she explains.
“We got to, Sarah. They’re getting mean now, not just clever. They’ve hurt Head Wolf and any of the Pack could be next, especially if they do it in a fashion that would make national news.”
“Say a gaudy murder or a poisoning—‘Brighton Rock’ candy would certainly get our attention,” Professor Isabella notes with a dry smile. “You’ve already proved that you won’t let anyone else be hurt without rising to the bait, so they’re sure to hit where you’re vulnerable.”
“A man may be in as just possession of truth as of a city,” I suggest, “and yet be forced to surrender.”
Abalone shakes her head vigorously. “No way, Sarah. We don’t know why they want you, but I doubt it’s to hand you your inheritance check and send you on your way.”
“Besides,” Professor Isabella adds with a sip from her coffee, “these people probably have your brother and sister. We may be able to help them if they need help or, at least, learn more about your heritage.”
“Curiosity killed the cat,” I remind her.
“Ah, but your forte is dragons”—she smiles—“and owls. Think our proposal over and then Abalone wants to show you an interesting toy she’s found.”
With this as incentive, I bolt my meal, only to be teased by the others, who linger over their vended meals as if in a high-class restaurant. Getting into the game, I saunter over and punch myself a dish of ice cream. We are all in cheerful spirits when we depart.
Abalone leads us to a small park that is nearly deserted at this hour. She sits on a stone bench and motions for us to join her. We sit breathing in the honeysuckle-heavy air.
“Nice, isn’t it,” Abalone comments. “Might get rain later though, but not for a while.”
I nod, aware from a dozen nonverbal signals that she is about to spring her surprise.
“T’Whoo!”
The noise makes me jump. Abalone giggles, but Professor Isabella is calmly brushing her skirts into place.
“T’Whoo!”
A piece of silver-grey moonlight detaches itself from the trees above us and comes soaring down on outspread wings. The owl’s flight is liquid, soundless, utterly natural, but I don’t need to watch for breathing to confirm that the little bird that glides in to roost on the bench across from me is not a bird at all, but a cleverly crafted machine a mere five inches tall.
Feeling more happy and alive than I have since the Brighton Rock scam drove us into hiding, I get up and kneel before the owl. Betwixt and Between forget to be jealous and hiss their delight at this cleverly made newcomer.
I stroke the curved back, giggling when the amber eyes c
ross as the owl tries to keep watch on my finger.
Abalone asks anxiously, “Do you like it, Sarah?”
I nod vigorously. “Yes!”
“It’s a nearly perfect replica of a saw-whet owl, one of the smaller North American owls. This little critter can go anywhere an owl might and since saw-whet sometimes hunt in the daytime, that’s just about anywhere. It has a small camera built in, though the resolution isn’t very clear. Otherwise, it’s just a nifty little robot. We were wondering…”
Uncharacteristically, she trails off and Professor Isabella continues for her.
“Sarah, we accept that somehow you are able to do this ‘magical thinking.’ We don’t have a very clear idea of how you do it. We were wondering if you could somehow talk to this, as you seem to with Betwixt and Between.”
I look at the little machine, already feeling a creeping fondness for it, but its spirit is not yet awake. It does not have the experiences of the old buildings or the smugness of the lockpads. Certainly, it does not have the personality of Betwixt and Between, who speak with me like a person would.
I narrow my eyes speculatively. “I look upon every day to be lost, in which I do not make a new acquaintance.”
“You can do it?” Abalone asks.
Stroking the bird, I nod again. “To be swift is less than to be wise. ’Tis more by art, than force of num’rous strokes.”
“You can do it, but not quickly,” Abalone clarifies.
I nod, wondering if the delay is a bad thing.
Professor Isabella cuts in, “Sarah, we told you we want to go after the Institute. Abalone has narrowed down where they are located. The place is quite isolated, which is good, because it means no nosy neighbors, but it is really secure. They use no outside programming so she can’t hack in as she did into the Home’s data bank. Anything more complex than this owlet is likely to have its signals scrambled by their jamming field. Hell, I don’t understand all of this technical stuff, but what it boils down to is that we can get in but we need to be very careful.”
Abalone hands me a control pad no thicker than a credit slip and neatly concealed inside a wide bracelet.
“I made certain to get one that uses shapes and colors rather than numbers or letters to identify the icons.” She grins wickedly. “You mix things up when they’re written, don’t you?”
I flush and she squeezes my hand.
“Don’t let it bug you too much. I thought that Grey Brother was gonna strangle you when we came out of the Lesser Trail all backward. We figured out later that your map was perfect but reversed. Even that wouldn’t have queered us except that somehow one of the edges had gotten rubbed out and we didn’t catch that the doors were in the wrong places.”
Hiding my embarrassment, I study the control pad: a red X in the center with geometric figures set like the spots on the “5” face of a die. Each is a different, bright color, and I guess that they are pressure rather than heat sensitive since each is perceptibly raised.
Abalone explains the pad to me and when I prove that I have the basics down, she takes us to an open field where I can practice. Setting Betwixt and Between between my feet, I work with the tiny owl until I can easily make it rise and fall, soar and fly, glide and perch.
Only when the damp has soaked through my shoes and Professor Isabella is making noises about hot coffee do I stop. I am reluctant to tuck the owl away; already it seems a pity to put such a wild thing in a box or bag, but I yield to reason.
As we walk, I reflect on Abalone and Professor Isabella’s determination to go after my enemies. The Institute. I, too, am curious. Perhaps more than either of my friends realize. Yes, I decide, I am very curious.
That night, I dream of a place that is almost familiar. A young man, who I somehow know is Dylan, is lying in a narrow bed. The sheets are white and folded in boxlike corners at the base of the mattress.
Moving only his pale green eyes, he looks across the room at a closed door. He moved his lips and although no sound comes, I understand that Eleanora, our sister, is behind that door. I am starting forward to open the door when Dylan slides his hands from under the counterpane. Unfolding the sheet, he draws it over his face. His hands move beneath the sheet to rest on his chest and the doorknob begins to turn.
I am just beginning to understand when I wake up and, of course, nothing makes sense anymore.
I try to diminish the dream, but something of its mood remains with me when Abalone again takes me to a park to practice with the owl.
During our break for a late-night snack, Abalone is troubled by how I toy with my food.
“Hey, eat up, Sarah. That’s good stuff there—full of preservatives and artificial flavors. It’s your favorite.”
I manage a weak, unconvincing grin.
“Something hurting, Sarah?” Professor Isabella asks. “Your period?”
She laughs at my confused expression.
“I forgot, that’s a thing of the past. You all get implants now. I remember that when I left the Home they decided I was too old to waste one on. So, let me change my question. Is your stomach hurting?”
I am tempted to nod, but instead I try and explain. “I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls, with vassals and serfs at my side.”
“That sounds like a nice dream,” Professor Isabella says. “Why are you so troubled? Want to go back?”
A sudden shaking seizes me, so violent that I spill my juice on the floor. Abalone leaps up but instead of wiping up the juice, she flings her arms around me.
“It’s okay, Sarah. It was just a dream.”
I hug her back, wishing I could explain the fear I suddenly felt. Terror of returning to the Institute, where surely I had seen Dylan. Fear of learning what I may.
My smile is crooked. “To sleep: perchance to dream; ay there’s the rub; for in that sleep of death what dreams may come?”
I pause and Abalone finishes the lines.
“When we have shuffled off this mortal coil/Must give us pause; there’s the respect that makes calamity of so long life,” she recites.
“You know Hamlet very well,” Professor Isabella says conversationally, with a sidelong glance to where I am trying to gather my composure.
I feel Abalone tense, but she picks up a napkin and begins to mop the floor. Perhaps sensing that I am still shaken, she decides to answer the implied question.
“Yeah, I did it in high school. I was the youngest member of the cast. Did lots of little stand-in roles so I was onstage a lot. Heard the play over and over and knew it better than the leads, I think.”
In the pause that follows, I hold my breath, knowing with certainty what Professor Isabella will say, dreading Abalone’s response.
“That’s quite an achievement—Hamlet at fourteen. Your parents must have been very impressed.”
“Twelve,” Abalone bursts out. “I was just twelve. If they were pleased, they were sure funny how they showed it. They wanted me to get Ophelia, y’see, and never quite let me forget that a grown-up got it.”
“Grown-up?” Professor Isabella lifts an eyebrow. “This was an adult’s production? I thought it was your school’s.”
“School’s?” Abalone laughs bitterly. “I never had a school—not for long anyhow. I started doing commercials before I was out of diapers. Except for a year when I was seven, I was never in school more than a semester. The other kids hated me for getting what they figured were vacations.
“Hah! That’s how I got good with this.” She taps her computer. “I did all of my classes on it.”
“So your parents kept you educated,” Professor Isabella asks carefully, peering over her coffee cup’s rim.
Abalone stands up, ignoring that the napkin in her hand is dripping orange juice down her pant leg. For a moment, I think she is not going to answer.
“Educated?”
Again that bitter, barking laugh.
“Oh, I got educated. Mom and Dad read tapes to me when I wasn’t even born yet—‘prenatal’ tutori
ng, y’see. It got more intense when I was around to work with. They had me talking eight months early, walking six months early, and reading when I was three. The theater and film stuff was just a sideline to pay the rent.”
She finally notices the juice and stops to stare at her soaked pant leg.
“So?” Professor Isabella probes.
“So? I did it all. I was going to be the girl genius, darling of the media. Brilliant, talented, and lovely. Funny thing happened, though.”
She stops and the look that crosses her face is so ugly that I must force myself not to look away.
“There was this big shot, the type who makes or breaks dreams like my folks had for me. One day I was told that I had an interview with him. Just me. No Mom. No Dad. They dolled me up, took me to this golden glass tower, escorted me to the right floor, and left me on my own. I wasn’t all that scared. When you’re—young—one big shot is pretty much the same as the others. Parents are what really matters.
“I walked into that office and a slim, baby-faced man ushered me right into the Presence. I went in, took the chair I was offered, and parroted the proper responses to familiar questions. Mr. Big seemed kind, if sorta gross: fat and over-dressed.
“At one point, he asked me to stand up and read a script for him. I did and while I was, he got up and walked around me. I was used to being looked at, but something about the way he did it, staring and circling closer and closer, gave me the creeps. Then he came up behind me, slid his arms around me, and grabbed my breasts—what I had. I flipped out, dropped the script and everything. I think I made some excuse about needing the bathroom, because Mr. Big pointed to a door.
“I got through there and sure enough, there was a fancy little bathroom. My Mom was there, too, and I was so scared that I didn’t even wonder how she got in there. I started to blab everything to her, but she hushed me and said, ‘I know you were startled, but he’s a very important man. I want you to think about that.’”
Abalone’s eyes have grown very wide, but not one tear mars their brightness.
“I thought. Then I went back in there and let that bastard fuck me, knowing Mom was hearing every bit—hell, she might have been filming it for all I know. When I left there, Mom and Dad took me to a fancy restaurant, showing me the contract that Mr. Big had signed.
Brother to Dragons, Companion to Owls Page 13
