Flame in the Dark (Soulwood #3)(103)
His dimple went deeper and his blond hair swung forward as he dropped his elbows to his thighs and leaned toward me. “When I’m a cat I like raw venison. When I’m a human I love pancakes. I know this woman, lives in the hills, likes to garden? She makes the best pancakes I ever tasted.”
I had made him pancakes. I was that woman. My breathing sped up and Occam focused on my throat, where my color had to be high and my pulse had to be pounding. “What kind of farm animal do you like best?” I asked.
Occam laughed as if the question surprised and delighted him. “When I’m cat I like to hunt wild boar. Pig if not boar. The big old males are mean and good hunting. When I’m human I like to eat chicken. Your favorite farm animal?”
“I like fresh eggs and fried chicken, so, chickens. Second choice would be either milk goats or meat goats, for the milk or the meat, and also to sell the meat and the hides.”
We shared a good ten minutes of casual and sometimes unexpected food and critter conversation before we heard feet on the stairs again, this time slower and heavier. We stood and faced the entry as Justin carried Devin into the room. The boy was towheaded and sleepy-eyed, wearing blue pajamas with Marvel heroes printed all over them. His feet were tucked into white socks. He looked pale and fully human, though small for his age.
Occam’s nose wrinkled slightly as he took in the boy’s scent. And I remembered Devin hitting me with a ball of fire. Occam’s left thumb went up slightly as he stood, telling me that Devin did indeed smell like the fireball-throwing salamander we knew him to be. I didn’t smell anything one way or the other, except that the child no longer reeked of smoke and flame and death.
I smiled at the little boy. “Hi, Devin. My name is Nell. We met a couple days ago.”
“You talk funny.”
“Yes, I do. I was raised in the hills. It’s a hillbilly accent. Kinda hard to let go of.” I let my smile grow wider and held out my hand. “It’s nice to meet you again.”
“Are you retarded?” It came out “wetauted.”
“No.” I kept my smile in place by force of will. People who thought accent was an indicator of intelligence or lack thereof, and people who used the R word, were not real high on my list of favorites. People who taught children to think and ask such things were even lower on that list. And then I wondered if the slur had been used on him, since he was eleven and had a slight speech impediment. I kept my hand out, waiting, and Devin put his hand into mine. I didn’t read him—I knew better. I had no intention of getting burned again. Instantly I felt/tasted/remembered the blue blood from the salamander I had fed to the river. I shook the kid’s hand and let go as quickly as I could, resisting wiping it on my pants.
Occam said, “Devin, I’m sorry about your parents.”
The little nonhuman child looked up at Occam and tears filled his eyes. His nose wrinkled up and his mouth pulled down, his breathing ragged as he fought tears, making me want to cry with him. “Me too. I’m so . . . sad.”
“I know what you mean, little man.”
Devin reached out and gripped Occam’s hand tight. “Are your mama and daddy dead too?”
“Yep. They are. And I know they’re gone, every single day. Let’s sit over here,” Occam said, “and talk. Just for a minute or two. I know you need to get back to bed.”
It was clear the child had latched on to Occam. We all sat on the couches, me across from the men in the same seat I had taken before. I let my partner do the talking and thought about the feel of the salamander’s little hand. He was small, not much bigger than the tadpole forms in the river, but his hand had felt . . . different from their touch. Older. Not ancient exactly. But not young. I wondered how quickly they achieved physical growth, and at what age they could take on a human form. And then I wondered what correlations I could draw between them and any Earth creature. Probably not many. Maybe none. But for sure the kid didn’t feel like his tailed, swimming, and murderous . . . siblings? Cousins?
I let my attention wander from the conversation and drift around the warm-gray-toned room. It was fancy. Traditional style. Neutral color palette. Dark hardwood floors. Lots of crown molding. Beams in the high ceilings in the style architects called coffered. On the air I smelled cleaning supplies, a hint of fresh paint. Art objects on shelves and on tables illuminated by strategic lighting. Asian rugs set the limited color scheme of blue and deep red, carried out by pillows and a lamp and the backing on framed prints. Two small ornamental chairs at a small Oriental-style table matched the rug’s colors. A vase on a shelf in the dark red, another very large vase in blue on the floor, full of red and blue flowers. Heavy drapes puddled on the floor. They looked like they’d be hard to keep clean; dust catchers for sure, not that the senator or his wife had ever personally cleaned this house. They had a staff for that or a cleaning crew.
I’d had a continuing education computer class in Spook School on reading people by the style of their decorating. This room indicated only taste and money. A decorator had set-styled the room and there was nothing in it of the inhabitants. This was a public place, not living quarters. There was probably a great room or family room elsewhere, a room the Tollivers actually lived in.
“Mr. Tolliver, it’s Devin’s bedtime.”
I almost flinched. I hadn’t seen or heard anyone enter. The nanny stood in the cased opening, which I realized had pocket doors that could be closed to separate the room from the rest of the house. The nanny was wearing a deep-grape-purple velour jogging suit and orthopedic shoes. Her skin was less blue today, more gray in shade, an ashy color that I could almost place within normal human parameters. But she wasn’t human. Now that I knew what I was looking for, the air was laced with a trace of the strange metallic and sour scent I recognized as salamander. A bit like a stack of old quarters and a pair of old leather loafers.