It sounded like he was being asked if those activities were okay, so he nodded.
“When do you think the roads will be open?” Roash asked.
Aiden shrugged. Then he smiled. “When the enemy is dead.”
CHAPTER 41
Them
Watersday, Novembros 3
After Roash took a phone call from the informant, he watched the man almost wet himself with excitement. A one-of-a-kind opportunity. Couldn’t pass this up. Of course, the Others were watching Roash because of his interest in folklore and urban legends, so he couldn’t do the deed. No. Better to be one step removed.
It was always better to be one step removed. Wasn’t that why he’d chosen Roash to assist him in this part of his project?
And it had taken only a passing comment expressing apologetic doubt about Lynchfield’s manliness to have that man fall in with Roash’s plan.
With those playing pieces in motion, he looked at the occupant of the other cabin.
Edward Janse wasn’t a pansy. Or if he was, that wasn’t the reason he came across as sensitive and . . . vulnerable. Janse wasn’t one of those Intuits who could tell you about the weather or which horse would run well in tomorrow’s race. No, Janse seemed to pick up the undercurrents of people, which made him a potential threat.
Unless that sensitivity, combined with a little feel-good mixed into a mug of tea, could influence Janse’s thoughts, encourage him to do something potentially fatal. The drug was harder to come by these days, and he needed to hold back enough to reward his previous helpers, but he thought he could spare enough to find out how an Intuit reacted to a drug made out of blood from the cassandra sangue.
CHAPTER 42
Vicki and Aggie
Watersday, Novembros 3
There is something ironic about being afraid to watch horror movies when you live in a place like The Jumble. I was going to have a strong talk with myself about that one of these days.
“This shouldn’t take more than an hour,” I said for the third time, responding to the third of my four surly guests. This time it was Fred Cornley, who looked like he wanted to try out for the role of ax murderer. I stood my ground—and made sure I was in easy reach of Conan Beargard.
“I don’t see why . . . ,” Ben Malacki began.
“Because they’ll kill you, and Miss Vicki and the rest of us will spend a lot of time cleaning up the mess,” Conan rumbled. “And they’ll be very unhappy with the rest of you humans if bits of bloody meat end up on their nice books.”
No bloody bits of dead human on the nice books. Good to know Julian’s customers had priorities.
Breathe, Vicki. Breathe.
“Eat some food,” I suggested. “Watch TV.” Before there were complaints about the lack of good shows on at that hour, I slipped out of the room.
I wasn’t sure if dusk was a particular time for these preferred customers or was just some time between the sun going down and Julian closing the store. Turned out, I didn’t need to be sure, because when I walked into the library to check the displays one last time, I found five . . . beings . . . looking around the room and at the books on the tables. And then they looked at me.
They were shorter than me and had the leanness of a girl before puberty gave her breasts and hips. Because of that, it would be easy to mistake them for children if the light was dim and you couldn’t really see their faces. But they weren’t children, and they weren’t young, and I’m sure they would terrify the entire village of Sproing if seen in daylight—and I would bet that any one of them was strong enough to use Conan in his Bear form as a dust mop. My hind brain—the bit that used to tell humans to hide in caves and hope not to be found—recognized that.
“Reader,” one said.
No mistaking that voice. Monkey man.
Julian wouldn’t put me in harm’s way. I had to believe that. “Good evening. I set out the books Julian sent over from the store. Hopefully you’ll find some you like.”
A beat of silence before another one asked, “Do you like these books, Reader?” Moooonkey man.
“Some of them. I haven’t read all of them. I like Alan Wolfgard’s stories, even when I’m yelling at the humans in the stories for doing something stupid.”
Another beat of silence. Then the first one said, “But the humans in the stories cannot hear you.”
“I know. I yell at them anyway. Does me as much good as yelling at real humans.”
To avoid a discussion of why the anger of a short, plump woman would be ignored, I asked them about the books they liked to read. They showed me the ones they’d brought back to exchange.
I picked up one of their books that I hadn’t read. “Is this one scary?” I asked, forgetting who I was talking to. “I like scary if it’s not too scary.”
“There are bad humans,” the second one said.
“That can be the worst kind of scary.”
“Yes.”
The third one pointed to the new-books display. “These are different.”
“Those are hardcovers. Humans usually buy them when they intend to keep them. Paperbacks don’t cost as much, so people are more willing to trade them for other books.”
If they didn’t know about the new books, had I just gotten Julian in serious trouble?
“We trade these but can buy those to keep?”
I wasn’t sure which one of them asked the question, so I said, “Sure.” And I was going to accept whatever currency they wanted to use, be it acorns or pebbles or pieces of string.
They exchanged five paperbacks for five paperbacks. Then each of them selected a hardcover—including Michael Stern’s new book.
I wrote down the titles, explaining that Julian needed to keep track of the new books that were sold. When I looked up, I saw one of them remove paper money from a pocket in her slacks. I did not want to know what had made the reddish brown stains on those bills.
They must have seen something in my face, because that one put the money away and another one placed two gold coins on the table. She said, “Is that enough?”
“That is plenty for five books.” I didn’t know that for sure, but I didn’t care since I was fairly sure those coins were real gold.
I picked up five of the Lettuce Reed bags that Julian had supplied and that I’d placed under the table. “The bags have handles, so it will be easier to carry the books home.” Wherever home was.
“We do not need so many this time.”
They watched me divide the books into two bags. “Here you—”
All five of them turned away from the table and stared at the windows. I’d drawn the curtains, so there was nothing to see, but . . .
“Do you hear a rattle?” My heart pounded in my ears, which made it hard for me to hear anything else. “Maybe I should drive you home—or someplace closer to your home. Or you can wait for Julian and he can take you. There’s . . .” I was scared, but I held on to common sense enough to realize I didn’t want to insult someone whom they might consider a colleague of sorts. “Crowbones might be out there,” I finished in a whisper.
They looked at me. I couldn’t tell if they were puzzled or amused.
“No,” the first one said. “The Hunter is elsewhere tonight.”
Well, something was out there.
They headed for the library door.
“Wait!” I rushed to reach the door before they did. “Let me make sure none of my guests are acting like stupid humans in a story.”