This overgrown bully better put his goddamn gun away. In my head, the plants scream, Go, go, go! I lift my head to the internal racket and breathe in … the smell of fire. What next? A thin, smoky coil is wafting up through the leaves from just beyond. Is the field on fire? Taking Thorn’s hand, we run back to The Greening.
About ten minutes later, Jan reports that the blaze is out, though a sweetish smoke lingers, scratching the inside of my nostrils. Everyone crowds around the patio table, gaping at the two Red carcasses. They’re a sight up close. So eerie with their human eyes staring at nothing, their mortal wounds running with the same greenish liquid that swims in my veins, and their delicate leafy wings and stamen-like tufts, now partially flattened with gore.
Thorn is screaming and screaming inside. I hear it even though his lips are pressed together in a thin line. Clasping him tightly to my side, I’m hoping that the pressure will provide him enough comfort to impel him to stop. The Fireseed is still wailing too, as plaintive as if it’s bleeding out. These two Reds are its half-breed infants. My eyes fill with tears. If Jan could hear them, would he feel something, anything?
“I’ve never seen the likes of them,” Nevada remarks. “I’ve seen the lizard species Ruby calls Spatters and the beetles she calls Antlered Purples, but these?” She shrugs in bafflement. “You’re our resident naturalist, Ruby. Any idea what we’ve got here?”
Thorn pokes my side with his thumb. But what makes me even surer to stay quiet is the humming. Not now, not now, not now it insists. Who knows whether it’s coming from Thorn or the Fireseed or from my very own instincts? “No, Nevada,” I mutter. I hate lying. It gives me a nasty cramp in my gut. “I could run some tests if you let me—”
“No way!” Jan exclaims loudly. “Ruby and her brother wanted to steal those things from me. They want them as some freak trophy. I don’t trust her. No way,” he repeats.
“You’re making up stories,” I scold.
Blane leans over the carcasses. With a stick, he carefully stretches out one pair of leafy wings. Its wingspan is the length of one of my arms. “You could ask George Axiom to take one in for analysis.”
“Yes,” Nevada breathes, still staring. “That’s what I’ll do.”
“Doctor Varik might know,” Armonk says. “I could take them over to him.”
Nevada shoots Armonk a prickly look. “I doubt he’s been down here long enough to know the wildlife.” Is she that possessive of Dr. Varik’s time? Doesn’t want his expert help?
“He’s been here long enough, he’s a quick study,” Armonk answers.
“What do you know, Peg-Leg?” Jan growls.
“Yeah, you’re no expert,” Vesper gripes.
Bea sighs. “Would everyone just shut up?”
Only Radius is silent, holding close to Bea’s side.
Vesper sniggers. “They sure are ugly fuckers.”
“Well, I think they’re cool,” Blane counters.
We’re all one happy, cooperative group at The Greening.
“Hey, Jan, let’s see your bite marks,” Vesper says. He raises his sleeve enough to show her a run of scratches.
“They’re not bites and nothing’s really swollen,” I note. Otherwise I’d have to consider letting Jan use one of my salves, but no need.
“Jan, what happened out in the field?” Nevada asks. “What was all of that smoke?”
He coughs and spits. “Two Fireseed stalks burned to the roots. Then the fire fizzled out.”
“Was someone sneaking smokes out there?” Nevada regards us, one by one. “You all know that’s strictly forbidden.”
“No evidence of any smokers, pyros or matches,” Jan insists. He glowers at me. “No nothing, except this crazy thing and her brother out there kicking and screaming for me to give them the critters.” He nods to the Reds.
“Why would we want those creepy things?” I lie. If Thorn wants his creations back, we’d best act completely disinterested.
“You change your tune and lie through your teeth,” Jan spits.
“Enough!” warns Nevada. “That’s quite enough from all of you.” She covers up the Reds with a remnant of tarp. By now, there’s a pool of slowly congealing green liquid under them. “No one goes near these, got it?”
“Got it,” everyone echoes.
“They’re staying out here,” she instructs. “Until I decide what I’m doing with them I don’t want that glop messing up our floors and rugs. Now get inside, make dinner and work on your projects. George Axiom’s coming to pick the finalists in two days.”
In two days! With all of the uproar, I almost forgot.
For a flighty, airy type, Nevada sometimes rises to the occasion and cracks the whip. This is one of those times.
“Immolation,” Armonk whispers as he and I set the table.
“What?” I whisper back.
“My theory about the plants. My contest project.”
“Ah, that they set themselves on fire? How will you prove it?” I whisper.
“Trying to figure that out.”