Catching his uncle’s look, Sam sat up in anticipation.
A simple rhythm that filled the square. Henry and Charlie joined in, their instruments reminding Meg of the sound of leaves stirring in the wind. Then Theral joined in, and her fiddle became the sound of a shallow stream. And then the Wolves sang—and the Courtyard, with its human shops and human instruments, embraced the sound of the wild country.
When Simon tipped his head back and howled, Meg joined him, and Merri Lee and Ruth joined her. Then Karl and Michael added their voices while the Crows cawed and the Owls hooted. Only the Hawks and Sanguinati were silent.
Meg looked to her right, where the Sanguinati sat on the steps or hovered as columns of black smoke.
Smoke, she thought as the skin above her ankle prickled. Grilled cheese sandwich. Merri Lee saying, “Don’t worry about it, Meg. It was your first try. So the crust burned a little. We’ll trim off the burned bits, and the sandwich will be fine.”
Meg looked at the oil lamps providing light, how the flames, even protected within the glass globes, flickered and danced.
Smoke . . . and fire.
The annoying discomfort she’d felt on and off during the concert suddenly turned into a buzzing under her skin that felt so painful it burned.
She cried out and clutched her ankle. In the silence that followed her cry, she thought she heard a distant siren, but she wasn’t sure if the sound was real.
“I have to cut,” she gasped. “I have to—”
No time to explain or argue. No time.
Meg rushed out of the Market Square. Had to reach the Liaison’s Office. Privacy. Bandages.
“Meg!” Simon howled as he ran after her.
She fell against the back door of the office, and almost fell again when she turned the knob and the door swung open.
Simon rushed in behind her, grabbing her to keep her from falling. She felt his claws pricking through her T-shirt.
“What can we do?” Charlie asked, piling into the back room with some of the Wolves.
“Let me through. Move.” Merri Lee shoved her way through the Wolves, who, surprised, lifted their lips in a silent snarl.
“Everyone, get out.”
Meg couldn’t see her, but Tess’s voice sounded oddly harsh.
The Wolves and Charlie took one look at Tess, coming in behind them, and bolted for the sorting room.
“I have to cut,” Meg gasped, pulling the silver folding razor out of her pocket. “I have to.” Too desperate now to walk the few steps to the bathroom, she sat on the floor and opened the razor with shaking hands.
“Okay, you have to cut, but we’re going to do this the right way,” Merri Lee said, her voice stern yet shaking. She grabbed the pen and pad of paper Meg kept on the table in the back room.
Yes. Had to do it right.
Smoke. Fire. Sirens.
Meg looked at Simon, who stared at her with amber eyes that held flickers of red—a sign of anger. Not fully human now. Too upset to hold the form.
“Can’t . . . wait,” she gasped.
“Focus on us,” Tess commanded, kneeling in front of her. “You know what you need to tell us. Speak, prophet, and we will listen.”
Command and promise. Meg’s hand steadied as she set the razor where the skin above her ankle burned—and made the cut.
? ? ?
Monty pushed into the back room, following Tess. Burke and Shady came in behind him. Feeling a change in the air, he guessed someone had opened the delivery doors in the sorting room to let more of the Others crowd into the office without antagonizing Tess—or Simon.
“You know what you need to tell us,” Tess said. “Speak, prophet, and we will listen.”
He saw the change in Meg as Tess said the words. He was sure that Burke and, especially, Shady, who hadn’t seen this before, were watching everything, from the way Merri Lee knelt beside Meg, pen poised over paper to record everything that was said, to the agony stamped on Meg’s face when she made the cut and how her expression changed to a blank wantonness as she began to speak.
“Woman,” Meg said dreamily. “Dark hair. A loaf of bread. Blackened crust. Blackened arms. Smoke. Fire. Screaming. Bread is burning. Woman is screaming. Burning.”
Sighing, Meg stretched out on the floor.
“Oh, gods,” Merri Lee said, staring at the pad of paper.
Tess twisted around in Monty’s direction, but she kept her eyes focused on the floor as the coils of black and red hair moved around her head.
“Nadine’s Bakery and Café,” Monty said, sick with the certainty. Then he turned to Burke, horrified. “Her apartment is above her shop. She lives above her shop.”
Pushing his way clear of the bodies crowding around the back door, Monty pulled out his mobile phone. He didn’t know Nadine’s home number, but he knew the business phone number. He checked his watch, surprised at how late it was. If Nadine was asleep, would a ringing phone in the shop be enough to wake her?
Burke walked out of the office, already punching numbers into his own mobile phone, his big strides and furious expression scattering the girls and his own men, who were waiting for their orders.
Vlad hurried around the corner of the office with an open phone book. “Is this the number?” He pointed to a listing.
“That’s it.” Monty disconnected and dialed the home number.
Nadine answered on the second ring. “Chris? Where are you?”
“Nadine, it’s Lieutenant Montgomery. Your building is on fire. Get out now.” Was it already on fire, or was the warning just ahead of what was going to happen?
“I— Chris.”
“We’ll find him. Get out, Nadine.”
She hung up.
“Do what you can,” he heard Burke say before his captain ended the call and swore viciously. Burke looked at all of them—his police officers, the girls, Simon, Vlad, and Tess, who was still not meeting anyone’s eyes. “A handful of businesses have been torched on Market Street, and there are more fires around the city. Too many. Lieutenant, you’re with me.”
“Hold up a minute, Lieutenant,” Kowalski said. “I’ll fetch your service weapon.”
None of them, with the possible exception of Burke, were carrying a gun this evening. “Kitchen cupboard. Top shelf.” He pulled out his keys and handed them to Kowalski, pointing out two in particular. “Apartment key. Lockbox key.”
Kowalski took the keys and ran to the steps leading up to the efficiency apartments.
“I’ll wait for you here and do what I can to help,” Shady told Burke.
“Debany, you and Kowalski call the hospitals and other precincts,” Monty said. “We need to locate Chris Fallacaro.”
“You think he’s been harmed?” Vlad asked.
Monty glanced at Simon and wondered if the Wolf was capable of human speech. “I hope not, but we need to locate him.” Chris, who was a locksmith, also did work at the Courtyard and could be a target.
“Lieutenant!” Kowalski returned and handed Monty his weapon and holster. “It’s loaded. And here are extra rounds if you need them.”
Monty slipped the speed loader into his jacket pocket.
“Lieutenant!” Burke shouted.
Monty ran to catch up with Burke, who had already reached the employee parking lot where he’d left his car, had the blue light on the roof, and was ready to go. He’d barely closed his door before Burke backed out of the space. But the captain eased the car out of the lot and down the access way, aware of Wolves and humans milling about. He turned right, then right again, flipping on the sirens and light as he raced along Crowfield Avenue to Parkside, where he headed north at what would be a reckless speed if anyone else had been driving.
“We can’t fight a fire,” Monty said quietly. Prophecy could be changed. Burned bread? Yes, the shop would be lost. But . . .
“No, we can’t fight a fire, but we can make sure Ms. Fallacaro survives if she gets out of the building,” Burke replied.
“Survives?” He felt sick. “You think someone would be waiting for her?”
“Don’t you?”
? ? ?