I restarted the recording. Handfuls of gems scattering on the floor…
A soft chime announced an incoming request from a guest. I paused the recording and flicked the screen. It split, showing one of the members of Clan Nuan standing by the door leading to the ballroom. The demands Nuan Cee mentioned. I opened the door, sealed it again behind the guest, and rose when he walked into the living room. A grey fox flecked with spots of beautiful blue, he wore an apron and two gold hoops in his left ear. He was older than Cookire, but younger than Nuan Cee.”
“I’m Nuan Ara, Nuan Cee’s blood sister’s youngest son.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you.” I invited him to sit in a chair across from me and moved the screen to the left, out of the way. “What can I do to make your stay more comfortable?”
Nuan Ara folded his paws on his lap. “It is Nuan Re, the esteemed grandmother, she of great wisdom, the root from which we grow.”
“May her feet never touch the ground.” It wasn’t my first rodeo. I knew the customs. The merchant clans revered their elders. If grandmother wanted something, the entire clan would turn themselves inside out to get it. I had to honor this request or the Nuans would hate me forever. What could she possibly want?
“She wishes to obtain a small predator.”
“A small predator?”
“Yes.” Nuan Ara nodded. “The silent, stealthy, vicious killer that prowls by night and mercilessly murders its victims for food and pleasure.”
Um… What? “And she believes she can find this predator here?”
Nuan Ara nodded. “She has seen the images. They have glowing eyes and razor claws and are renowned for their cruelty.”
“Aha.” What was she talking about?
“She is in particular interested in the Ennui predator. She very much likes its demeanor and coloring in the images. She understand she may not get that particular one, but perhaps one that resembles it? A young one?”
The Ennui predator. “Where did she find these images?”
“On your planet’s holonet,” Nuan Ara said helpfully.
We didn’t have holonet. We had internet… Oh. “So, the esteemed grandmother would like a kitten that looks like Grumpy Cat?” I picked up my laptop, typed in the image search for Grumpy Cat, and showed him the picture.
“Yes!”
“I will see what I can do.”
“Wonderful!” Nuan Ara rose. “Many thanks. You have the promise of our generosity.”
I waited until he returned to his quarters and shut the door behind him. I would have to stop at a local shelter and possibly PetSmart. They had cats for adoption. Interesting how a sweet old grandmother would describe kittens as murderous beasts.
Sophie walked down the stairs and came to sit across from me. She wore soft black pants that flared at the bottom and a bright green tunic that was a cross between a hooded sweatshirt and a blouse. Her feet were bare. She was carrying her sword and her dark hair, previously arranged into a complicated knot, was pulled back into a pony tail.
“I like your floors,” she said, making small fists with her toes on the wooden boards.
“Thank you. Would you care for some tea?”
“Certainly.”
I went into the kitchen and fetched her a cup of green tea.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I restarted the recording. “Stop. Zoom.” Here it was, an emerald the size of a strawberry, the most beautiful intense green you could imagine. If Spring could cry, this would be its tear. That had to be the right emerald. “One quarter speed.”
“Did I scare you?” Sophie asked.
The emerald bounced off the floor in slow motion.
“You alarmed me. The safety of my guests is my first priority.”
“I’m not a psychopath,” Sophie said. “Nor am I psychotic.”
The emerald landed in the path of the other Nuan merchants.
“What’s the difference?” I asked.
“A psychotic suffers a break from reality, often accompanied by hallucinations and delusions. They are not aware of their own illness. I’m quite aware of my reality.”
One of the foxes kicked the emerald in passing, and the big jewel slid across the floor, spinning.
“A psychopath is unable to experience empathy. He can murder without remorse. His existence is free of guilt. His victim has no more significance to him than a used tissue he has discarded into a waste basket. I’m able to empathize. I feel guilt and sadness, and I am capable of acts of genuine kindness.”
She described it so clinically, almost as if talking about someone else.
“However, I am a serial killer.”
“Pause.”
I nudged the screen to the side and looked at her. She sat in my chair, her legs tucked under her. Her sword rested on the floor next to her.
“When I was younger, I experienced some of the worst things adults could do to a child,” she said. “It caused damage and I realize now that this damage is irreversible.”