Imprudence (The Custard Protocol #2)(57)

After the officials left, Rue bearded the lioness in her den.

Normally, Rue respected the werecat’s privacy, but this was a matter of ship safety, which gave her licence to pry. She left the door open so as not to cause gossip.

“You’re not technically allowed out of quarantine while we’re in Egypt.”

The werecat rolled her brown eyes. They were big and almond-shaped with thick lashes so monumentally unfair that combining them with flawless coffee-coloured skin, a straight nose, and full lips was basically an insult to every other female. Some supernatural creatures looked tired or old when they lost the shine of immortality. On Tasherit, the mantel of death turned her approachable, and by extension, Rue thought, more deadly.

“I’m not surprised.” The werecat wasn’t offended. “They do not hold with females who have lost their faith. Even if I am older than its arrival in this country.”

“You were born here?” Rue pounced on the clue, catlike herself.

“I am a daughter of the desert sands, at least in part. I took my name from an Egyptian queen, as is our custom,” was all Tasherit would say.

The phrase reminded Rue of the officer’s comment. “He called you ‘she who speaks with the hot breath of the desert wind’.”

“A fair accusation.”

“How did he know?”

“I do not exactly match the rest of your crew, Lady Captain.”

Rue narrowed her eyes. “You understand very well what I’m asking.”

Tasherit fiddled with the thin chain around her neck. “He noticed this.”

From the chain dangled two small gold charms. Rue had never seen them up close but judging on general shape they appeared to be a shield and a sword. They were not only tiny but also worn with age, so it was difficult to discern details.

The werelioness explained. “Even the followers of Mohammad have not forgotten all the old symbols. It does not pay to count entirely on the God-Breaker to protect one from the outside world. The smart ones remember that borders shift, even anti-supernatural ones. It is best to know the signs of the damned, even if you believe them long gone.”

“You don’t mind being trapped aboard?” Rue had made the promise on Tasherit’s behalf.

“I don’t mind that they wish to pretend.” At Rue’s worried look, she added, “I will not go exploring this city. And Cairo doesn’t mind what happens to the south.”

“Good.” Rue figured it was only the appearance of compliance that mattered. “Will we see you at supper?”

“Indeed. I find my fragile mortal self is quite hungry. How do you people manage?”

Rue laughed and stood.

A veritable roar emanated from the guest quarters across the hall.

Tasherit’s voice went bland in an effort to hide amusement. “I believe your father may be objecting to something.”

“Probably my mother.”

Rue went and knocked on the door opposite.

The roaring continued.

Rue knocked louder. With no response forthcoming, Rue let herself in.

Paw was striding about the chamber yelling, mostly dressed and no longer covered in slime.

His wife sat in calm tolerance at her dressing table, brushing her hair and replying in a maddeningly reasonable tone. “Conall, do put a cork in it. People will hear you.”

“Too late.” Rue shut the door behind her without bothering to ask if she could stay. It was, after all, her ship. And these were, after all, her parents. “Must you make a scene, Paw?” She walked over to him for a hug. “It is good to see you looking so well.”

“Ah, little one!” He snaked her into a smothering embrace.

Rue relaxed against his familiar rough affection. He did not smell quite as he used to – a product of mortality or time in a Lefoux tank; it was difficult to know which.

“Are you feeling better?” The question was partly muffled against his broad shoulder.

Paw released her. “I’m as hale as a man one third my age.”

Lady Maccon began coiling and pinning up her hair. “One sixth, my dear, I think it is.”

Paw shrugged. “Mathematics never was my strong suit.”

Rue didn’t know quite how to ask if he was still suffering Alpha’s curse. How did one enquire as to the mental capacities of one’s own father?

“Do you have any odd inclinations?”

Paw looked confused. “Pardon?”

Rue scrambled for some other delicate way of putting it. “Oh, I don’t know. A preference to don one of Aunt Ivy’s hats? The sudden feeling of euphoria and an inclination to polka with a palm tree?”

Mother put down her pins. “Your daughter would like to know if you are still going insane, dear.”

Paw considered this. “I’ve been married to your mother for over two decades. You might allow me certain dispensation for eccentricity.”

“Paw, please be serious. I must consider the welfare of my ship.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

Rue crossed her arms and glared, looking, many might have pointed out, rather more like her Paw than she ought being half his size and female.

He grinned. His Scottish burr became more prevalent. “Och, you fretful bairn. Whatever it is that pulls the senses out my head, ’tis linked to pack. I’m mortal, so that’s all gone, along with my pack.” A flash of pain cut across his face, quickly smoothed away with long practice.