Marked In Flesh (The Others #4) Read online

  “Next?” Burke asked.

  “The Courtyard’s first guests are arriving next week,” Kowalski said. “Some Wolves from the Addirondak Mountain packs. No one mentioned other kinds of terra indigene coming in at the same time. Michael and I got the impression that we were expected to be visible in the stores and around the Market Square, at least for a little while each day.”

  “They’re coming to interact with humans,” Monty said. “It makes sense Wolfgard would want to have you around.”

  “Is this an invitation-only sort of thing?” Shady asked. “I’ve never seen a Courtyard or had a casual interaction with one of the terra indigene. I’d like the opportunity. The dealings I had with a few of the Others when some of the cassandra sangue were . . . channeled . . . to Brittania were tense experiences for all the humans who were helping with the rescue. Except for the people who live along the border or the coast, most of Brittania’s citizens have never come in contact with the Others. Considering what is going on in the world right now, I’d like some firsthand experience in a less life-and-death situation.”

  Catching Burke’s look, Monty said, “I’ll ask Simon Wolfgard about allowing us to bring in guests.”

  “Anything of concern about the folks on Great Island or information about the River Road Community?” Burke asked.

  “No, sir,” Monty replied. Shady would be the only person at the table who didn’t notice the omission of Talulah Falls, a town that was no longer under human control after a bomb killed several Crows and a Sanguinati was killed while hunting for the humans responsible for the explosion.

  “Then let’s talk about the main event since Shady gave away the punch line,” Burke said quietly.

  “Extinction.” Pete looked grim. “The Others are serious about this?”

  “Because of the recent troubles, the earth natives in the wild country are considering extinction as a way to rid Thaisia of a menace to the land and a threat to the rest of the beings that were here before our ancestors set foot on this continent.”

  “But we’ve tried to help,” Louis protested. “Monty and his team have been sticking their necks out every day to interact with the Others in the Courtyard. Gods, one of our own was killed during that attack at the stall market. Doesn’t that count for something?”

  “It counts,” Monty said. “The time we spend in the Courtyard, the help we’ve provided . . . We’re the reason the humans in Thaisia aren’t going to be erased from this continent.”

  “Not yet anyway,” Burke added. “One Courtyard and some police officers and civilians to balance out whatever stupidity the HFL movement is planning next. And let’s be clear about who will be erased, as the lieutenant put it. I think Intuit villages will be spared. So will Simple Life farmers and craftsmen. As much as possible, they keep themselves separated from the humans living in human-controlled towns and cities, and they’ve been careful in their dealings with the terra indigene. And I think the Others will still need some humans—if nothing else, to provide labor for the products they want to have.”

  “That leaves the rest of us,” Pete said.

  “That leaves the rest of us,” Burke agreed.

  “If you’ll pardon me for saying it, you’re all screwed,” Shady said. He poured cream into his cup and then filled it with coffee from the pot sitting on a thick cloth pad. “You should start laying in supplies while you can and start thinking about how to survive.”

  “Is it definite?” Burke asked. “Is the Cel-Romano Alliance of Nations going to war?”

  “They are. And not among themselves, which, frankly, is what the people of Brittania were hoping they would do. They’ve been stockpiling food and weapons and supplies for a while, but now the signs are out in the open, with troops being transported around the Mediterran. They don’t have enough land to grow the food they need to feed all their people. That’s the truth of it. So the question we’ve been asking is this: is Cel-Romano going to try to grab the human part of Brittania, since we’re the closest piece of human land to them, or are they going to try to annex some of the wild country, gambling that they have the kind of weaponry now that will eliminate the shifters who currently inhabit that land?”

  “The shifters wouldn’t be the only earth natives living on that land,” Monty said.

  Shady nodded. “I know that. Most people in Brittania may not have dealings with them, but we are taught the history of our land, so we know why very few humans go past the low stone wall that runs the width of the island and separates the land the world itself gifted to us from Wild Brittania. Just like we know that the tales told by the traders who do venture beyond that wall and return alive aren’t embellished.”

  “If Cel-Romano is trying for a land grab, why cause trouble on this side of the Atlantik?” Kowalski asked. “Cel-Romano can’t bring an army across the ocean.”

  “No, indeed,” Shady said. “Even a fishing boat is carefully watched. Troop ships would never be allowed to reach land.”

  “Food was smuggled out of Thaisia,” Burke said. “Troops could be smuggled in. If offered enough money, ship captains will try to slip past whatever is watching.”

  “None of this addresses the threat of extinction,” Monty said.

  “There’s nothing we can do about that, Lieutenant,” Burke said gently. “We just keep the lines of communication open. We provide assistance where and when we can. And we hope that we continue to balance whatever foolishness other humans instigate.” He looked around the table. “Anything else?”

  Michael Debany shifted in his chair. “Captain, you said the information shouldn’t leave this room. Does that mean not saying anything to the girls, because”—he looked at Kowalski—“they’re meeting with Meg this morning, so they might know about this anyway.”

  “I don’t think Wolfgard told Ms. Corbyn about the earth natives’ decision,” Monty said. “But he may have shared something else with her that he didn’t share with us.”

  “Need to know, gentlemen,” Burke said. “For now, that excludes the girls. Next week, the Courtyard will have guests, and the girls don’t need to be wondering about every word or gesture, afraid that it will be the thing that tips the scales against us.”

  “So business as usual,” Louis said.

  “Yes.” Burke pushed away from the table. “If that’s all . . .”

  A dismissal.

  Monty caught a ride with Louis to the station, which allowed Kowalski and Debany to talk between themselves on the way back to the Courtyard, where Debany would put in a few hours helping Eve Denby and the girls before reporting to work.

  “Have you talked to Officer Debany about a new partner?” Louis asked.

  “Not yet,” Monty replied. “Even with the hazard pay that comes with working on this team, no one has made a request to be the fourth man.”

  “Well, it’s not just dealing with humans who want to start trouble, is it? Anyone on your team is expected to interact and spend time in the Courtyard during off-duty hours. Even officers who won’t hesitate to back you up are going to think long and hard about that.”

  “About being branded as Wolf lovers.”

  “It’s not just the man who gets branded,” Louis said quietly. “And it’s not just people who interact with the Others on a daily basis. My wife and a neighbor—a woman she’s been friends with for years—went shopping the other day. Carpooled to save gas. They parked in the general area of the shops. Two butcher shops, two blocks apart. One was showing an HFL sign in the window; the other shop doesn’t support the movement. My wife’s friend went to the shop with the HFL sign—a place where you have to show your HFL membership in order to be served. My wife went to the other shop because we’ve agreed that we aren’t going to be a part of the HFL in any way.”

  “What happened?” Monty asked.

  “The friend didn’t say anything, but the car was gone when my wife finished her shopping and returned to where they’d parked. The woman, friend and neighbor, just left without h
er and hasn’t spoken to her since. Gods, they used to watch each other’s kids, used to have a night out once in a while—dinner and a movie that the husbands and kids didn’t want to see. And now . . .”

  “The lines are being drawn.”

  “Yes. I just hope there are enough of us standing on this side when the time comes to hold that line.”

  Monty looked out the window and didn’t reply.

  CHAPTER 3

  Windsday, Juin 6

  Just before daybreak, they drove south on the dirt road that led to Prairie Gold, silent men filling the cabs and beds of three pickup trucks. They knew this road well, and driving it today filled them with fear and elation. Finally they, and dozens of men like them from towns throughout the Midwest and Northwest, would strike the first blow that would free humans from the furred and fanged tyrants that were keeping them away from everything that this land had to offer.

  When they reached the crossroads, they reduced speed, moving slowly toward the herds that had settled down on both sides of the road. On one side were thirty head of cattle from a human-controlled ranch. On the other side were three hundred bison that grazed on land that belonged to the terra indigene. The bison had been drawn to a salt lick the ranch hands had put out a couple of days ago. The cattle had been cut from the main herd and brought to this part of the ranch’s fenced range—the necessary sacrifice in this dangerous, secret warfare.

  The men had put out the salt openly, a neighborly gesture, they’d told the terra indigene Wolves who had trotted up to see what they were doing on land that wasn’t leased to humans.

  Now those same men climbed out of the trucks and checked their rifles. Once things got started there wouldn’t be time or room for mistakes.

  “Company A with me,” the leader said quietly. “Companies B and C . . .” He pointed to indicate that their job was on the other side of the road. “Remember, it doesn’t matter if it’s a clean kill or a killing wound. Just put ’em down, as many as you can. My whistle is the signal.”

  Company A moved away from the road and quietly approached the cattle, while the other men crept within firing range of the bison.

  All the men raised their weapons and waited.

  Bait the Wolves by killing animals they needed for food. That was stage one of the land reclamation project. After all, fewer bison meant more land for cattle.

  Bait the Wolves. Stir things up. And most important, don’t get caught.

  The leader whistled. The men opened fire and kept firing until they emptied their rifles. Then they ran back to the trucks and drove away, speeding up the dirt road to get back to the bunkhouse or their homes before anyone thought to look for them or wonder where they had been.

  They had struck the first blow. Now secrecy was truly a matter of life and death.

  Thaisia could be the breadbasket for the world. There are thousands and thousands of acres of land going to waste, providing nothing instead of growing the food the human race needs. One way or another the terra indigene must be persuaded to release some of the land they hold with such selfish disregard for the desperate needs of other species in the world. If the Others don’t want to be bothered with such concerns, let the human race do the work of providing food for those who need it. Let us utilize some of this empty land instead of forcing us to watch our children starve.

  —Nicholas Scratch during a speech at an HFL rally in Toland

  There is no wasted, empty land in Thaisia. Every place on this continent is full of residents who need what the land already provides. Even the deserts have residents who live on what is available in those places. Even the coldest, remotest areas are not empty of life. When Mr. Scratch talks about the needs of other species, he is really talking about one species, the human species. He and his followers care for nothing else, which is why the terra indigene must care about all the rest.

  —Elliot Wolfgard, when asked to respond to Nicholas Scratch’s speech

  CHAPTER 4

  Windsday, Juin 6

  White walls, white furniture, white clothes.

  “Please, I need colors. I see the colors.”

  “You don’t need colors, cs821. You just need a cut. You’ll feel better after you’re cut.”

  “Please.”

  “Stubborn little bitch, obsessed with colors. We recommend finger cuts as much as possible. Might as well use up that skin in case we have to remove the fingers to keep her from making drawings that dilute the prophecies.”

  The feel of the razor slicing through skin. And then . . . Color. That shade of red that looked like nothing else, at least to her eyes. Floating on the euphoria that came with a cut after she began speaking, she looked at the white walls, at the dark straps that held her to the chair.

  “You don’t need colors, cs821. You just need a cut.”

  White walls, white ceiling, white furniture, white clothes. As she stared at the wall, part of it darkened, becoming a shape. Four legs. A tail. Massive head with horns. Another dark patch on the wall began forming another animal. And another, until there was a herd of shapes on the wall.

  Then she noticed dots forming on the wall just above the herd—that shade of red unlike any other. The dots grew and began to flow down the wall, covering the herd with bloody tears.

  • • •

  Panting, her heart pounding, Hope scrambled out of bed and staggered to the screened window in her room, sucking in cool, early morning air as she pressed her hands against the wood windowsill.

  She wasn’t in the compound anymore. The walls of her room weren’t white. The cabin used by the Wolfgard in the terra indigene settlement at Sweetwater had walls made of wood, had floors made of wood. Everything was simple and wood except for the toilet and sink in the little bathroom attached to this bedroom. But some of the drawings she had made since coming to live with Jackson and Grace and the rest of the pack were pinned to the walls. A few were even framed.

  Some were just drawings of the pack, of the land, of everything that lived in the Sweetwater territory that came within the boundaries of where she was allowed to wander.

  “My name is Hope Wolfsong,” she whispered. “I am not cs821. Not anymore. Never again.”

  But the dream. There was more, and the more settled over her skin like a smothering film. Had to get it down on paper to show Jackson and Grace. The dream image of the animal had already faded from memory too much for her to describe with words.

  She closed the shutters over the window and carefully felt her way back to her bed and the lamp on the bedside table. She clicked on the lamp and waited. Jackson and Grace sometimes slept on the porch with some of the other Wolves. Sometimes they slept in the cabin’s main room where they could hear her.

  No one scratched at her door or growled. No male voice, rough from sleep and vocal chords that hadn’t fully shifted from Wolf to human, demanded to know what was wrong.

  Moving as quietly as she could, she gathered her big drawing pad and the colored pencils and pastels that Jackson had bought for her. She started to turn the top page of the pad. Then she stopped and looked at the drawing she’d made just before going to bed last night. She didn’t know if it meant anything, but the last thing she’d added before blinking out of the trance she fell into sometimes when she drew pictures were the words “For Meg.”

  She removed the drawing and placed the paper on the desk in her room. Returning to the bed, she sat cross-legged and set the drawing pad in front of her. But the patchwork quilt, which usually delighted her with its shapes and colors, was a distraction now. Pushing it aside, she pulled off the top sheet—white because the Others didn’t feel the need for colors in things that wouldn’t be seen once you turned off the light—and placed it on the floor. Then she settled down, picked up her pencils, and began to draw.

  The shapes. Yes, she remembered the shapes. And the sky. And . . .

  She searched through her pencils and pastels. Nothing! How could she not have the necessary shade?

  She spr
ang up, pulled open a drawer in the desk, and removed the silver folding razor that had been used exclusively on her when she had lived in the Controller’s compound. Jackson had been told to let her keep the razor because, if she felt compelled to cut, using the razor was safer than all the other things that could be used to slice through fragile skin. Jackson and Grace had bought her paper and pencils, had allowed her to draw, so she had tried so very hard to be good and not cut, but . . .

  “Need it,” she muttered, all her thoughts focused on the drawing taking shape on the paper. “Need that shade.”

  When the color began to flow, she tossed the razor aside, dipped her fingers into the color, and continued drawing.

  • • •

  The scent of blood snapped Jackson Wolfgard out of a sound sleep moments before Hope screamed. Scrambling to his feet, he leaped for the bedroom door, aware that his mate, Grace, was right behind him. The Wolves who had slept on the porch or on the ground surrounding the cabin were awake and howling an alarm—or getting the pups away from potential danger.

  Still shifting to human as he shoved the door open and stepped into the room, Jackson vaguely remembered some rule about adult males in human form not appearing unclothed in front of female puppies or juveniles, but he wasn’t concerned about human rules, not when Hope was staring at the drawing pad on the floor and blood from a deep slice in her left forearm dripped onto the paper and the sheet bunched up beneath it.

  “Oh, Hope.” Grace sounded heartbroken.

  Jackson wasn’t heartbroken; he was furious. And very frightened. The blood of the cassandra sangue was a danger to Others and humans alike. After taking in Hope, he’d heard that some of the terra indigene called the girls Namid’s creation, both wondrous and terrible.

  Until now, he hadn’t thought of Hope as something terrible.

  several Wolves called, using the terra indigene’s form of communication.

  he ordered.

  The girl herself didn’t smell like prey. None of the blood prophets did. But Hope’s blood! He’d never smelled anything quite like it, and he craved a taste of it.