The timing didn’t fit. That’s what bothered him. The cassandra sangue spoke prophecy; their visions were warnings about something that could happen, not something that had happened. Except when something past provided context or reference for something coming.
Had Hope been making a vision drawing of dead bison at the same time the animals were being shot? Or had she seen something else, and Joe’s dead bison weren’t the same as the bison Hope had drawn? And why had the girl been so frightened that she’d cut herself? No, she said she’d cut because she needed the color. She’d needed to paint blood. But once she made the cut, what else did she see?
No, the timing didn’t fit. And there were questions that needed to be asked—and answered.
“What are you doing?” Simon asked as he walked into the front part of Howling Good Reads.
“Pulling a book request.”
Simon looked at the books on the top shelf of the cart. “Who’s buying that many books?”
“More like bartering than buying. Everyone all right at Sweetwater?”
“Everyone is fine. Meg talked to Hope; I talked to Jackson. No one is going to bite anyone. Yet.” Simon watched Vlad select a couple more books. “Who isn’t fine?”
“Joe Wolfgard called while you were talking to Jackson.”
“Joe? Did he leave a telephone number or an address?”
“Joe is fine. But, Simon?” Vlad looked at his friend and comanager. “We need to talk. We all need to talk.”
CHAPTER 8
Windsday, Juin 6
“More disputes are heating up in the aftermath of the storm that swept up the East Coast yesterday. Some boat owners, whose vessels were damaged during the storm, are claiming the damage was done by members of the HFL movement because the boat owners refused to let the HFL use their vessels for ‘questionable activities.’ Representatives of the accused HFL chapters vehemently denied the allegations, saying the boat owners were targeting them because ‘You can’t sue the damn ocean for damaging your property.’
“Here in Lakeside, a number of businesses were vandalized last night. The police have no leads as yet on the person or persons who broke windows and painted obscene suggestions on the buildings. One store owner said he was going to leave a dictionary on a public bench so the vandals could at least spell the obscenities correctly. It was noted that none of the vandalized businesses displayed an HFL logo in the window. Police Commissioner Kurt Wallace, who recently admitted to being a member of the Humans First and Last movement, was not available for comment. This is Ann Hergott at WZAS, bringing you the news . . .”
Monty turned away from the break room doorway, having heard enough.
“Lieutenant?” Kowalski hurried out of the break room. “You ready to go?”
“Not yet. Did you hear anything on the news about bison being killed?”
Kowalski blinked. “Bison? Around here?”
“No, not around here. Anywhere in Thaisia.”
“Didn’t hear anything like that.” Kowalski leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Is that a concern?”
“Could be. I need a minute with Captain Burke; then we’ll go.” Monty went to Burke’s office and knocked on the doorframe—and wondered what Burke’s cousin Shady was really doing in Lakeside, since the man spent most of his time at the police station. “Captain? Can you spare a minute?”
“I can spare two,” Burke replied.
Monty wasn’t sure if that was literal or a joke. “Simon Wolfgard called. A hundred bison were shot in Joe Wolfgard’s territory this morning. Simon wanted to know if we’d heard of any other incidents.”
“Bison?” Shady asked.
“Large grazing animals that travel in herds,” Burke said. “They’re mostly in the Midwest and parts of the Northwest Region, although I think they can also be found in the High North. Some farming and ranching organizations feel that the bison are the impediment to opening up land humans need to grow crops and graze livestock.”
“And if the bison are eliminated?”
“If you eliminate the bison, elk, deer, and everything else the terra indigene hunt for food now, the Others will end up eating the cattle, sheep, goats, and, most likely, the pesky humans who made a land grab.”
“If it’s an isolated incident caused by a few troublemakers in one Midwest town, that’s one thing,” Monty said. “If there are more incidents . . .”
“Then it could be a concerted effort by the HFL to antagonize the Others,” Burke finished for him. “Or by another group altogether, but the HFL would be my first choice. I’ll make some calls, see if I get any answers. You heading for the Courtyard?”
“Not yet. I heard on the news that some buildings were vandalized last night, so I want to check on Nadine Fallacaro. She’s been supplying food for the Courtyard’s coffee shop. She could be a target because of that.”
“Nothing reported in our precinct, thank the gods.” Burke leaned back in his chair. “All right, Lieutenant. You check on Ms. Fallacaro. I’ll see if I can find out anything about bison.”
Monty turned to Shady. “I will be at the Courtyard sometime today, and I’ll ask Simon Wolfgard about human guests.”
“Appreciate it,” Shady said.
Of course he would be at the Courtyard sometime today. Monty was splitting his time between the one-bedroom apartment he’d rented when he’d first arrived in Lakeside and the efficiency apartment in the Courtyard that he was using as a place where Lizzy could stay while he was at work. Both places had disadvantages, but they would muddle through until he could move into one of the two-bedroom apartments on Crowfield Avenue. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about having the Others as his landlords, but he knew he wouldn’t find a safer place for Lizzy to live—or a more dangerous place if Lakeside exploded into a violent collision between the people who supported the Humans First and Last movement and those who believed that progress depended on maintaining peaceful relations with the terra indigene.
“So what’s the deal with the bison?” Kowalski asked.
“Could be an isolated incident. Or it could be the first volley in Cel-Romano’s war against the Others.”
“But I thought Cel-Romano was preparing to wage war in their part of the world.”
Monty looked out the side window. “Maybe that’s what we’re supposed to think.”
? ? ?
Vlad set a small bowl on the sorting room table and smiled at Meg. “I brought you some strawberries.”
She reached for a berry but didn’t take it. “You’re not giving up your share of the berries, are you?”
“No, I bought a quart of the berries that are for sale in the Market Square and decided to share them with you.”
“Oh. Well, thank you.”
He waited until she’d eaten a berry before broaching the real reason he was there. “Meg? What upset you this morning?”
He watched her throat work as she swallowed. Throats, with the blood in them so easily accessed by a kiss, always drew his attention. But with Meg, it was like looking at a delicate piece of art that could be admired but not touched because the cassandra sangue were Namid’s creation, both wondrous and terrible, and their blood was not drunk by the Sanguinati.
“I had a bad dream. Then I woke up. I guess I was loud about waking up.”
“You screamed and threw yourself on top of Simon.” With windows open to cool the apartments, her scream woke everyone in the Green Complex. But Meg tended to scream when she saw a mouse, so they all wouldn’t have come rushing into her apartment if Simon hadn’t yelped like he was also in trouble. To the rest of them, that yelp meant physical trouble. In a way that had been true, since Meg had been clinging to Simon while he’d been trying to get out from under her without hurting her. At least, he’d put on a good show of trying to get out from under her when the rest of them came rushing into the room. “What did you dream about?”
Color blazed in her cheeks. “I don’t remember.”
Vlad studied her, wishing he could believe there had been some erotic element in the dream that she didn’t want to reveal, but that wasn’t the reason for the blush. Meg had just lied to him.
“Why is a bad dream so important?” she asked.