Written in Red (26 page)

Congratulating herself on getting through another week without getting eaten or fired, she tapped the stack of papers that held her notes about the week’s deliveries. Her little finger slid along the papers’ edge.

A shiver of pain came before blood welled from the slice along the joint. She stared at her left hand, trying to remember something from her lessons that would explain the cut, unwilling to believe that paper could slice skin. Then the
pain
came, smothering her chest and twisting her belly.

Sam howled in terror.

She looked at the pup to reassure him, hoping to shape ordinary words before the prophecy began flowing through her.

Except Sam wasn’t howling. He stood next to her, watching her anxiously as her own body told him something was wrong.

Sam wasn’t howling. But she could hear him. Even now, knowing he wasn’t making a sound, she could still hear him.

The vision had started. She didn’t know what was coming, what images she would see. But if Sam was part of it . . . If she spoke to experience the euphoria, she wouldn’t remember enough, if she remembered anything at all, and no one would know why Sam was afraid. But if she didn’t speak, if she swallowed the words so that
she
could see the prophecy . . . For Sam’s sake, could she endure the pain?

“Stay here,” she said through gritted teeth. She hurried to the bathroom and shut the door before Sam could follow her.

Her throat felt clogged with terrible things. Leaning over the sink, she struggled to breathe as pain crawled through her and the vision filled her mind as if she were watching a stuttering movie clip.

Men. Dressed all in black. Even their faces, their heads, were black. Some had guns; others carried rifles . . .
skip . . .
One man was grabbing at something, but she couldn’t see . . .
skip . . .
A sound like a car mated to a hornet . . .
skip . . .
Snow falling so fast and fierce and thick, she couldn’t get a sense of place, couldn’t tell if she was seeing the Courtyard or the city or somewhere else that had a snowstorm . . .
skip . . .
But Sam was there, howling in terror.

Meg came back to herself when the muscles in her hands cramped from holding on to the sink so hard.

Focus on breathing,
she told herself.
The pain will fade. You know it will fade.

She washed her hands, taking care to thoroughly clean the little finger.

Such a small slice along the edge of that joint. If she sliced it again to lengthen it, maybe she could see more. And maybe she would see another prophecy, but it would be mashed with the images she’d already seen in this small cut. The Walking Names called the result of cutting over a previous cut a double vision, that nightmarish occurrence when one prophecy imposed itself over another and the images collided in ways that usually had terrible, mind-breaking consequences for the girl who saw them.

Sometimes the colliding images weren’t terrible. Sometimes, if the girl could accept what she was seeing, the images could change a life. They had changed hers when the Controller had cut across old scars as a punishment. The colliding prophecies had shown her the first steps of her escape.

Just because she had survived double visions before didn’t mean her mind wouldn’t break if she tried it again.

She dried off her hands, got antiseptic and a bandage from the first-aid kit, and took care of the slice. Moving slowly, she returned to the sorting room and Sam. Opening her personal notebook to a clean page, she wrote down what she had seen while the details were fresh.

She had to tell someone, but who would listen?

Wishing she could talk to Simon, Meg reached for the phone and made a call. The phone at the other end rang and rang. Then the answering machine picked up.

“Henry? This is Meg. I need to talk to you.”

Henry arrived a minute after she locked up for her lunch break. Leaving Sam in the sorting room with a couple of cookies, she found herself unable to look at the big man, let alone say anything.

“You’re hurt,” he finally said.

She shook her head.

“You smell of pain, of weakness.”

Not weakness. No, she wasn’t weak. But the pain, while fading, was still a fearsome thing.

Henry’s voice was a quiet rumble. “What did you do to your hand, Meg?”

“I didn’t know paper could cut.” Even to her own ears, she sounded whiny. “I thought that was a make-believe image.”

“Make-believe?”

“Not real.”

He looked puzzled. “Let me see your hand.”

“My hand is fine. That’s not why—”

He took her left hand and unwrapped the bandage on her little finger. His hands were big and rough, but he touched her with surprising gentleness.

“You have scars,” Meg said, looking at his fingers.

“I work with wood. Sometimes I am clumsy with my tools.” He studied the slice on her finger, then bent his head and sniffed it. Shaking his head, he rewrapped the bandage. “Such a small cut shouldn’t cause so much pain.”

He wanted an explanation, but her pain had no significance in what she had seen, so right now it wasn’t important. “Henry, I saw something.”

Releasing her hand, he straightened to his full height, towering over her. “You saw . . . ?”

Easing around him, she picked up her notebook from the table in the back room and handed it to him.

She watched him read the words, the frown line between his dark eyes getting deeper as he read them again.

“Some prophecies look like a series of images or sounds,” she said. “Some, like this one, look like a movie clip, or a series of clips with sounds and action. The same image might appear in a hundred prophecies, so it’s up to the person who wanted the vision to understand the meaning.”

Henry studied her. “You heard a Wolf howling. Are you sure it was Sam?”

“Does any other Wolf howl sound like Sam’s?”

“No.” Henry thought for a moment. “Why would you have a vision about Sam? He could not have asked you to see anything.”

“No, but he was the only person with me when I got the paper cut.” Meg shivered. “Who are those men? Why do they want Sam?”

With Henry standing in the middle of the room, she didn’t have room to pace.

“I’m so useless!” she cried. “I see this, but I can’t tell you where it will happen or when or why!”

Henry held up her notebook. “I need to talk to some of the others. May I take this? I will return it.”

“Okay. Yes. What about Sam?”

“Vlad will take Sam home. He has been here long enough for one day.”

“But . . .”

The back door opened and Vlad walked in, giving Henry a questioning look. Then he glanced at her hands and stiffened.

Something passed between Grizzly and vampire that neither shared with her. Vlad slipped into the sorting room while Henry fetched her coat from the peg on the wall.

“Come with me,” Henry said.

“My purse is in the sorting room, and my keys are in it.”

Before she had both boots on, Vlad opened the door enough to hand her purse to Henry, and used one of his feet to block Sam’s attempts to join her.

“Where are we going?” she asked when she and Henry stepped outside.

“Not far.”

He led her to the yard behind his shop. A narrow path ran down the center of it to his studio door, which wasn’t locked. Big windows filled the back wall on either side of the door, providing light. The sides of the studio were the building’s brick walls. The floor was wood chips—or was covered in a layer of wood chips so thick she wasn’t sure what the floor was supposed to be. The room felt warmer than outside, but not warm enough that she wanted to give up her coat, and Henry didn’t indicate she should remove her boots.

He pointed to a bench. She sat down, wondering why she was there. Besides several pieces of wood and a cart filled with tools, there was a storage cabinet with a granite top and a round carved table that held a music player.

Henry stripped off his own coat and hung it on a peg before plugging in an electric kettle that sat on the cabinet. While the water heated, he placed her notebook on one of the cabinet’s shelves, then selected a music disc and put it in the player. A few minutes later, he handed her a mug, turned on the music, and began working on the piece of wood in the center of the room.

The scent of peppermint rose from the mug. Not sure what he wanted from her, she cupped her hands around the mug for warmth and watched him as he coaxed a shape from the wood. The music, a blend of drums and rattles and something like a flute, flowed in the air, and the sound of Henry working seemed to blend with the rest.

“I like the music,” Meg said. “What is it?”

He looked at her and smiled. “Earth-native music. When humans invented the music players and the discs that held sounds so that songs and stories could be shared by many, we saw the value of those things and arranged to record the music of our people.”

“Do you like human music?”

“Some.” Henry caressed the wood. “But not here. Not when I touch the wood and listen to what it wants to become.”

Meg studied the rough shape that seemed to be leaping out of the block of wood. “It’s a fish.”

He nodded. “A salmon.”

When she said nothing more, he picked up his tools and began working again. She watched the salmon emerge from the wood, its body a graceful curve. Not finished, to be sure, but not unformed.

She hoped she would still be there to see it when it was done.

The music ended. Her mug was empty. Taking it from her, Henry said, “The pain is quieter now. Eat some food. Rest a little more before you return to your work.”

She stood. “Thank you for letting me sit here. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”

“You gave us warning. That is help. As for the rest, you are welcome to come here and let your spirit touch the wood.”

Now that the pain had dulled, she was hungry for more than the usual soup and sandwich she could get at A Little Bite, so she walked over to Meat-n-Greens, the restaurant in the Market Square. Training images told her this wasn’t a high-end restaurant—the tablecloths were the kind that could be wiped down instead of cloth that needed to be laundered—but the menu listed everything from appetizers to full dinners. She ordered a small steak with mashed potatoes and peas, savoring the experience of making a choice.

When she got back to the office, she found a container of soup and a wrapped sandwich in the little fridge, and her lidded mug filled with fresh coffee.

“Don’t have to wonder about dinner,” she said as she picked up the copies of the
Lakeside News
and the Courtyard’s newsletter that someone had left on the back table. She took them and her coffee into the sorting room, then opened the office for the afternoon deliveries.

Henry, Vlad, Blair, and Tess gathered in the Business Association’s meeting room.

Henry set the notebook on the table. “This is Meg’s. I think whatever else is written here is private, but she offered these words for all of us to see.”

None of them spoke as they read Meg’s record of the vision, but Blair began growling.

“If this was a book, the vision would have included a newspaper that would indicate the date something would happen,” Vlad said.

“But it is not a book,” Henry replied. “She gave us much for such a small cut. An accident,” he added when Blair stared at him.

Blair nodded and went back to studying the words.

Henry looked at Tess. “You said there was pleasure in the cutting. All I smelled in her was pain. Why?”

“I don’t know,” Tess replied. “Maybe it’s the difference between an accidental cut and one made deliberately. Maybe it was because there was something she wasn’t able to do alone, so she experienced pain instead of euphoria. I told you all I know about blood prophets.”

“I used the computer to check for books or any writings about them,” Vlad said. “There are stories that have
cassandra sangue
as characters, but they were listed under horror or suspense novels, so I doubt there is any useful information. I added a couple of them to the next book order coming to HGR. I’ll keep looking.”

“Someone knows about them,” Tess said.

“Meg knows,” Henry said quietly. “In time, she will tell us.” He looked at the Wolf. “Blair?”

Blair let out a breath slowly. “Could be this year, could be five years from now. There’s still plenty of time for a storm like that before the cold girl yields to her sister. That sound. Smaller than a car, but not a BOW. Has to move well over snow.”

“I can help Vlad search the computers for such a vehicle,” Tess said. She hesitated. “Should we tell that policeman who talks to Simon?”

“Are such visions ever wrong?” Blair asked. “Can we know that those men coming in with weapons and hidden faces aren’t police?”

“Why would the police want Sam?” Vlad asked.

“Why would anyone?” Henry countered.

Flickers of red danced in Blair’s amber eyes. “Daphne is dead, so Sam is the Wolfgard’s child. Would anyone be foolish enough to touch him and start a war?”

“Someone
will
be foolish enough,” Henry said. “Meg has seen it.”

Silence.

Finally Blair said, “Clear skies today. Unless someone angers the girl at the lake, we shouldn’t have another storm for a few days.”

Tess leaned forward and brushed a finger over the page that held Meg’s notes about the vision. “Even if a blood prophet is never wrong, what she sees is open to interpretation. Meg has shown us the beginning of a fight, but there is nothing here that shows how it will end.”

She looked at the three men. Despite his strength as a Grizzly, Henry felt a shiver down his spine when he saw the way her hair began to coil.

Tess left the room, apparently deciding there was nothing more to say.

“Sam’s not going to accept being left behind all the time,” Vlad said. “And being around Meg is good for him.” He gave Blair a pointed look. “You don’t like the harness and leash, and I understand that, but a couple of days with Meg has pulled Sam away from the bad place he’s been in since Daphne died. That should count for something.”