He was dressed in clean blue jeans, field boots, and a T-shirt the same color gold as his eyes. His hair was dry, but too long, and his beard was scruffy, telltale signs of a shift to his cat. His expression was severe, stark, and he was staring at me with eyes that carried the faint golden glow of his cat, reminding me that we were very close to the full moon. Rick was looking at Occam, and his gaze swung to me, his nostrils widening as he scented, probably taking in the smell of my blood, tadpole blood, the stinking water, and the egg. His eyes too were glowing, that green that signified the coming phase of the moon. Pea was sitting in a corner, cleaning her nether regions, just like a cat. Not something I needed to watch. Occam passed me a metal travel mug of coffee, pale with cream and smelling of sugar. It was prepared the way a cat might like coffee. I drank half the mug empty. It was delicious. Someone passed around a platter of cold hoagies; Occam took three, and started eating like a starving cat.
“If the egg is still viable,” T. Laine said, breaking the silence as we ate, “then cracking it might kill the creature. If it’s sentient, that’s murder.”
JoJo added, “It would be handy to have it alive, whatever it is, to study.”
“That’s keeping a sentient creature against its will,” Soul said. It didn’t sound like disagreement, but more like information added to the discussion. “Civil rights and protections of paranormals haven’t yet been addressed by Congress or the Supreme Court or the UN and are not protected by the Geneva Conventions.”
“Special Agent Ingram,” Occam said, his voice slow and growly. I whipped my eyes to him and saw his dimple appear and deepen. “What do you think?”
“’Bout wha’?” I said through the sweetness.
“About the viability of the egg.”
“It’s not alive. The creature inside’s dead.”
Soul leaned in so she could see me around the others. She reached up and coiled her hair, which she did when she was deliberating. “And you know this how?” Her tone was arch, as if she might be ticked off. Or doubting me.
I shrugged. I was pretty sure I’d said all this to someone once before. “I know it. I knew it when I touched it the first time.” I scowled at her and then at the others. “You people really can’t tell when something’s alive or dead when you touch it?”
“No,” Soul and T. Laine said together. Soul asked, “Are you always correct in your evaluation? Your judgment?”
I shrugged and stuffed the rest of the donut in, chewed, and eventually swallowed. The others were all looking at me, waiting. I drank more coffee, thinking back. “I don’t remember being wrong, but then I don’t remember always proving it to myself that I was right either. So I guess I coulda been wrong and not known it.” I licked my fingers to get the last of the sugar. “I knew when Leah died. I was out of her room and I felt her going. I ran in and she was mostly gone. I shouted for John and we were both there when her pulse stopped. Same with John.” I shrugged. “But that was on Soulwood.” I took a second donut. I sipped more coffee. “Tandy, you agree?”
“I do,” he said softly. “But I must admit that my lack of familiarity with the egg species and your conviction may be overriding my judgment.”
Occam freshened my cup and adjusted the creamer and sugar. I pretended not to notice him serving me, but the room was awfully silent. “Thank you,” I said. He gave me a dimpled smile, one that felt warmer than it should have.
“So we open the shell,” Soul said, “and see what we have.”
“What about PsyCSI?” JoJo asked. “They’re supposed to do all necropsies on paranormal creatures.”
“On my authority,” Soul said. “I want to see this thing now. This thing”—she glared at me—“that is most assuredly not a salamander.”
The words were laced with venom and that brought my head up fast. Mostly because I’d sent in the report that we might have found a salamander egg. “Why not a salamander?” I licked my sugary fingers again.
“I know of a certainty, for three reasons.” She held up one finger. “Their eggs were said to be white, with a pearly iridescence and small brownish spots. This one is dull and gray with white and brown spots.” She uncurled a second finger. “Salamanders were killed off to the last egg, in the year 4000 BCE.” And a third finger. “Because arcenciels killed them.”
I went quite still, only my eyes flitting around the room. Everyone looked as surprised as I felt but for different reasons. The information about an arcenciel/salamander war was not in the databanks. And Soul hadn’t yet released the intel that she wasn’t human to the group at large, so not everyone knew. She was skirting the truth about her species, and releasing that information could change the dynamics within our unit.
Drawing the same conclusions I had, Rick asked softly, “Arcenciels and salamanders? At war?”
Soul dropped her fingers. “It was six thousand years ago. Long before my time,” she said wryly, as if inferring a human age. “There are no arcenciels on Earth who lived then, but the oral accounts and tales persist and the songs continue to be sung. This is not a salamander egg.”
Interspecies war and genocide, I thought. And what was I supposed to do about it? For all of two seconds I considered texting my mentor at Spook School for advice, but the thought died.
“Ingram, is it rotten?” Occam asked me, breaking a silence that was fraught with potential, none of it good.
I frowned, thinking. “Sorta. A little bit. It won’t stink too bad. Not near as bad as the dead fish did.”
Occam held up a bit of grayish shell, pulled from a pocket with finger and thumb. “Shell’s this thick. Maybe use an icepick to chip it open.”
Soul took the shell and worked it in her fingers. “Brittle but stronger and tougher than a chicken egg. More like ostrich egg.”
T. Laine pulled open drawers in the small cabinet, slamming them one by one. She came up with a bottle opener. “This is the only metal thing I see.” She handed it to Occam.
“What?” he asked. “Because I’m a man you expect me to do all the dirty work?”
“Because you handled the shell,” Soul said, “and are familiar with it.”
“And because you got all those big strong man muscles,” T. Laine added, putting her hands over her heart and batting her eyes.
JoJo faked gagging.
T. Laine added, “And because I do not want to get rotten egg all over my nice office clothes.” She exhibited herself by moving a demonstrative hand up and down her form. “You, on the other hand? I don’t care if you stink.”
I could tell by Tandy’s expression that the tension in the room had lessened.
Occam shook his head. “Uh-huh. It’s fine for the dumb cat to get slimed, if Nell’s wrong about the extent of the rot. I’ll remember this.” However, he elbowed the others away from the sink and put the sharp tip of the bottle opener on the shell.
“Wait,” I said. I looked at Soul and asked, “And if it is a salamander?” Because I had seen them underwater. I had a feeling Soul was very, terribly wrong.
Soul glowered at me and said, “Dyson or Jones, record this for the records, please.” But she didn’t answer my question.
JoJo punched and swiped her cell and balanced it on a chair back for stability. She gave the date and time and named all of us in the room.