Flame in the Dark (Soulwood #3)(100)
“Mythologists have some of it right,” Soul said, her voice too lyrical and ringing, again giving too much away. She seemed to glide across the room and sat at her accustomed place, her gauzy skirts buoyant on the air, her silver hair lifting and floating. T. Laine was watching her too closely, one of the handheld psy-meters in her hand, reading Soul’s magical signature.
“Fire salamanders came through to this dimension from inside active volcanoes. They were evil, twisted things, shape-shifters who could take on human forms, who could take the place of kings and moguls, and, if they chose, could take to the air, as winged dragons.”
I thought about Jane Yellowrock, the Cherokee skinwalker who could take the shape of animals if she had enough DNA to work with. “They absorb or use the genetics of the beings they want to replace?” I asked. “Including arcenciels?”
“Salamanders,” she said, her lips curling in a snarl, “do not have genetics as humans understand them.”
Which wasn’t an answer. Did that mean that they were like light dragons? Like Soul? But no. The look on her face suggested that they were very different and had indeed been mortal enemies. Her expression said the war had been horrific.
Tandy closed his eyes and I could feel the gentle calm the empath was sending out. As if to encourage what should have been a normal debrief, Occam broke off more shell pieces. I ate another donut and drank coffee. JoJo was updating something on her laptop, oblivious. I’d seen enough of the slimy ugly critters underwater.
Rick watched Soul the way a cat might a snake crawling nearby—cautious, concerned, and warily respectful. “What else can you tell us? Habitat requirements? Life span? Reproduction?”
Soul reached up and pulled down her floating platinum hair, twisting it into its long spiral, her fingers threading through as she coiled it tighter. “They were said to reproduce like lizards, living in harems of four females to each male, with the primary leader being the eldest wife. That female chose the other wives first, and then selected a mate strong enough to protect the harem. They were said to mate within families, with no regard for lineage or blood ties. They did not—do not, as the tales of their demise seem to have been grossly exaggerated—bear live young but lay a clutch of eggs in fresh running water, with the hatchlings unable to breathe air. They live the first five years in the water, tailed, like a tadpole, but with arms and hands with one clawed finger and two clawed opposable thumbs.” Soul looked down at her hands twisting her hair and stopped the motion. “They were—are—amphibians, not reptiles. According to the histories, there was one that lived over five hundred years. But then, the shells were supposed to be beautiful. Much of what I think I know may be wrong.”
“Shakespeare’s historical plays prove that history is written by the victors,” I said. “Churchill said so too.” I pulled my tablet to me and began to add all her comments to my bullet point file. “It’s been six thousand years. Some things might have been forgotten or changed in that time span.”
JoJo said, “I’ll need those histories to update our arcenciel file.”
While we had been speaking, Occam had tapped and removed shards of shell, placing them in a small pile to the side of the sink. The tapping and removal of shell went faster now, bigger pieces set to the side, revealing the creature within.
“Salamander,” Soul whispered, her face blank.
T. Laine cleaned off the break room table and opened out the ad section from the Knoxville News Sentinel across the top, covering the surface. I scooted my chair into a corner just as Occam carried a lump of slimy blue flesh to the table and placed it in the center. “We shoulda thought about scales for weighing it and devices for measurement,” he said.
“All we want is to get a feel for it and then overnight it to PsyCSI in Richmond,” Soul said.
As she spoke, a long line of goo slid across the papers and dripped to the floor.
I had seen enough of the salamander, and I hadn’t slept enough in the last few days. I needed a nap. I made another trip to the locker room for my clean blanket and pillow, found the room with the mattresses, fell on one that looked unused, and was asleep about the same moment I got the pillow in place.
? ? ?
It was fully dark outside when I woke, starving and smelling something with a strong protein base. Beef maybe. Hopefully not roasted salamander. I got up, checked for leaves and vines—none—and pulled on my boots. I had kicked them off at some point. Stumbling to the locker room, I folded the blanket, stuffed my linens back into the locker I had chosen, and staggered into the break room.
They had finished with the autopsy and cleaned up the goo. Now there were paper cartons and bowls all over the table, with packets of soy and duck sauce, and chopsticks, which I had not learned how to use. If I hadn’t been so hungry I might have felt icky about sitting at the recently disgusting table. As it was, I accepted a bowl and let JoJo ladle Chinese soup into it. The broth was thin and clear and had lumpy things in it that I was unfamiliar with, but it smelled and tasted wonderful, of onions and herbs I didn’t recognize.
“This is fabulous,” I said, slurping it down, drinking it straight from the bowl.
“Yeah, yeah. Eat up,” JoJo said. “Soul wants you and Occam back at the senator’s mansion to talk with the guests—Occam to get a good smell of Justin and any other Tollivers and Jeffersons he can find, and you to shake Justin Tolliver’s hand and get a feel for him. Human or not human? That is the question.”