The Book Eaters(96)
After a whole entire week of being a stranger in a strange land, she finally worked out how to contact Jarrow.
Cash in hand, Cai sequestered safely in her room, Devon nipped down to a video game shop and picked up a copy of Tomb Raider: The Last Revelation. She paid the baffled cashier to write out her phone number as a string of Morse code on a bit of paper, watching carefully to make sure he got it right, then slipped the fragile scrap of contact inside the game’s case and dipped into a post office.
“I’m so sorry, but could you write this address out for me? I’ve injured my hands and need to send this package to Jarrow Easterbrook, at Gladstone Manor in London. What? No, um, I don’t know the post code, I’m afraid—”
The man behind the counter sucked his teeth sullenly. Not to be dissuaded, Devon simply repeated her request until he gave in, looked up the post code, and wrote it all out. She put on her best smile and walked slowly through the surging crowds back to her hotel room.
A video game was now carrying her phone number all the way to Jarrow. The Morse code would identify her as the sender, hopefully without tipping anyone else off, not that she expected anyone to go through Jarrow’s mail. Better safe than sorry, of course. Then, if he were able, he’d call her, get in touch, reconnect. Help her as he’d promised. And maybe, just maybe, she’d be helping him, too.
Only—whispered a tiny voice in her head, as she eased through the revolving doors—it’d been more than three years since she’d seen him, shuffled away from her by angry Winterfields amidst the chaos that had followed Cai’s birth and Matley’s furious attack.
Since then, anything could have happened. Perhaps Jarrow had been sent elsewhere, or simply moved on. He had Vic now, after all; that might be enough for him. She believed he’d seek her out if she sent word, and hoped he would, but could not count on it or be certain of it. Devon decided to give it three months, then reassess.
In the meantime, she had some Ravenscars to find.
28
NYCTERIS FOLLOWS THE FIREFLY
TWELVE MONTHS AGO
Nycteris followed the firefly, which, like herself, was seeking the way out.
—George MacDonald, The History of Photogen and Nycteris
Seeking out the Ravenscars proved to be a brutal education.
Tracking down one of their former drug suppliers was straightforward enough with the address Ramsey had given her. She walked to their basement flat in the city, stinking of fumes and stagnant water. Four men were inside, faces matching the descriptions she’d been given.
She had never before spoken to humans who dealt in drugs or other illicit trade and assumed, wrongly, that they’d be willing to talk or trade. Instead, they saw her as an opportunity: a woman alone, na?ve and uncertain, the perfect trafficking victim. When they finished laughing at her requests, they tried to capture her.
Her first punch broke a man’s neck. Her first kick crushed another man’s ribs. The other two went down moments later under her frenzied, terrified onslaught. She fled the premises, flustered by her accidental kills and also furious that they had even dared.
Later, limping back through gum-scabbed streets lined with faded brick buildings, it occurred to her that she should have approached with more tact. Strange, grim-faced women turning up at illicit warehouses and demanding addresses of secret clients wasn’t anyone’s idea of diplomacy. She lacked experience, in that regard.
At least there was a whole list of other names and places to try. But the first encounter had alarmed Devon badly. She dreaded trying again. Her phone still did not ring, Jarrow’s silence another weight on her mind. She should have gone straight to the next town and yet, somehow, days slid into another week.
Meanwhile, she bought a Polish phrasebook to eat so she could talk to Cai, and bought glossy mags and TV guides and books on culture or politics so that she could talk to humans. Sometimes she ate them with ketchup as Jarrow had taught, to take the edge off that plastic taste.
In those days Cai wasn’t perpetually weak from near-constant starvation, nor had she yet fallen into the routine of stalking the next victim. They spent many quiet hours walking in parks or woodlands, expanding the scope of their little world. Still lonely, but at least they weren’t bored.
“T?skni? za domem, ale to miejsce jest ?adne,” he said once, and she nodded in relief to hear his approval. This city was nice, in its way.
She thought about taking him to playgrounds, decided it was too risky; his tongue might show. He couldn’t hide it well and lisped strongly when he spoke. To avoid problems, they often went out in the evening or early morning, when fewer humans were around.
And the humans themselves were a challenge to her preconceptions. Women in the wider world dressed differently than her aunts or herself. Her long linen skirts drew abundant stares in public. Someone asked her, once, if she were part of a historical reenactment. Devon said yes and made a fast exit, because it seemed the safest answer.
Sometimes, she would watch humans while out and about: this heaving mass of folk, so like and unlike her. Watched women wear jeans and hold hands in public, watched men get married to other men openly—not meeting discreetly like Family brothers did. The openness of their affection captured her curiosity. She bought sunglasses and wore them often, so that she could scrutinize strangers without anyone noticing.
She went to a charity shop and bought the strangest, most daring books she could find. Things she’d never have been allowed to consume while growing up. Then spent a week eating them.