Crowbones

CHAPTER 79

Vicki

Moonsday, Novembros 5

I was going to have to do something about food. Like, buy some, unless I was willing to talk to Bobcat and Cougar about letting my guests share whatever was left of the dead donkey. Which by now might be only a hoof and part of an ear. Since I wouldn’t be convinced that some butter and strawberry jam would turn those bits into a tasty, or even tolerable, meal, I doubted I could convince anyone else.

I pulled out a jar of peanut butter and a sleeve of crackers. Add a bit of jam to that and you had breakfast. Or lunch. Maybe not dinner since I was feeding adults, but I could tout PB and J as a valid choice for the other two meals—especially if the alternative was donkey bits and butter.

Really needed to drive to Sproing and buy whatever food Pops Davies might have left on the shelves. Or I could ignore token good nutrition and buy pizzas so we could all eat ourselves into a carb coma.

Ian Stern walked into the kitchen, saw me, and hesitated. He looked around, as if making sure we were alone.

My heart began to beat a little harder. I hoped he wouldn’t notice, but a psych doctor would notice things like that. Wouldn’t he? Maybe not. A Sanguinati psych doctor would—if there was such a thing—since all Sanguinati noticed little things like heartbeats.

Focus, Vicki.

“How are you feeling today?” Ian asked.

“Okay. Fine. How are you?”

He came closer. And closer. My heart beat harder.

“I’m concerned. You’ve been nervous since the phone call yesterday that made you ill.”

“I’m fine now. All okeydokey.” Yep, the phone call had made me nervous. Plus there was that tiny bit of excitement when a couple of my friends almost got blown up, and one of the Sanguinati youngsters did get blown up.

He shook his head. “I have a feeling that you’re suddenly uncomfortable around all of us, human and terra indigene, rather than just wanting to see the backs of some of your guests.”

Darn Intuit with a psych degree. “I . . .”

“I think you’re right to be uncomfortable,” Ian continued. “I don’t think it started out that way, but you’re now at the center of whatever is going on—and I have the uneasy feeling that someone wants to . . . disrupt . . . the center.”

“Is ‘disrupt’ a fancy way of saying ‘kill me’?” I hadn’t had enough coffee yet to have this kind of discussion. Not when mulling over breakfast was a challenge.

He seemed about to answer, then looked thoughtful. “Maybe not deliberately, but . . .” Hesitation. “Has there been a drug problem in Sproing? There always seems to be a little of this and that around the colleges, but I wouldn’t think the sale and use of substances could stay hidden long in a small village.”

“Why are you asking?” Doc Wallace had given me some pills for the times when an anxiety attack couldn’t be blunted any other way, but he gave me only a few pills at a time—partly to assure himself that I wouldn’t overuse them and partly because the medical practice in Sproing had to order supplies from Bristol or Crystalton pharmacies and shipments arrived when they arrived, so Doc divided the contents of one bottle of pills among the patients who needed them. But Ian wasn’t referring to the drugs you got from a doctor, who wrote that information in your medical chart.

“The way Aggie and Kira acted,” Ian replied. “Might have been blood loss. Might have been their reaction to a human sedative—or some other kind of drug.” He took a breath and let it out slowly, as if our chat had been the buildup toward what he really wanted to say. “I’m worried about Jenna McKay. She’s very groggy this morning, slurring her words. Similar to the way Aggie and Kira acted the other day. I actually came up here to see if you had any orange juice left.”

Caffeine wakes up a groggy brain. Orange juice is a staple for someone who has lost more blood than you’d lose from a cut on your finger.

“There’s some orange juice in the fridge, unless someone already drank it.”

Ian opened the fridge and pulled out the bottle. I took a water glass from the cupboard and set it on the table so our hands wouldn’t touch, accidentally or on purpose. He filled the glass, put the rest of the juice back in the fridge, and looked at me.

“I remember hearing about some substances that affected the terra indigene as much as, if not more than, the humans who used them,” Ian said quietly. “There are circumstances when a friend might not be a friend because they’ve been influenced by something—or someone. If you have a friend who can’t be compromised by . . . substances, tell that individual what you know. Just in case you find yourself with a friend who is no longer a friend.” He picked up the glass. “Thanks for the juice. I’ll take it to Jenna.”

He left the kitchen and went out the porch door, taking the path back to the lake cabins.

I thought about all the bits of information casually dropped into conversations over the past several days, things I might have revealed about myself or the Others. I thought about all the things that had happened since Trickster Night. I thought about what Ian Stern was telling me without quite telling me: Don’t trust anyone whose body or behavior might be altered by a drug.

But there was another way to alter behavior, another way to shape someone until they believed what you wanted them to believe.

Words.

Behavior modification achieved by verbal punishment or praise.

Who would know that better than someone who studied the mind and had a facility with words?

Aggie and Eddie found me in my office when I went in for my purse and car keys. “I’m going to Sproing to pick up some food. I’ll be back as soon as I can. The guests will have to cobble together breakfast from what’s available or wait until I get back.”

“Should you go alone?” Eddie asked.

I couldn’t say I didn’t want anyone with me because I didn’t trust anyone, even the Crows who worked for me, so I said, “Why not?”

“Crowbones,” Aggie whispered.

She still didn’t look well. “I’ll be fine.” I had to believe that, so I promised myself I could have a mini anxiety attack when I returned.

I tried to look casual while I checked the back seat and the front seat before getting into the car. Of course, if someone had tampered with it, I’d find out too late, so there was no point in worrying about that.

I drove down the access road. Only the flutter of yellow crime scene tape indicated where Peter Lynchfield had died. I wondered why Conan or Cougar hadn’t removed it. Then I wondered if some of the terra indigene, especially the ones who were not familiar with written human words, would like the color and take some of the tape to decorate whatever they called home.

I drove until I was in sight of the road. Then I stopped and rolled down a window.

“I have to run some errands in Sproing,” I said. “When I get back, I really need to talk to Aiden. Could someone tell him that?” I started to roll up the window, then stopped and added, “Thank you.”

I drove to the village without knowing if anyone had heard me—and wondering if anything that had heard me was an ally or enemy.