Flame in the Dark (Soulwood #3)(93)
At the gesture, the Secret Service guy slid his hand inside his jacket, moving like former military, instincts on high. I glanced to Tandy, and he looked spooked.
Out of nowhere, Pea landed on the table, chittering madly. She leaped over the little Christmas tree, dropping onto Occam, landing like a cute kitten, a grindylow reacting to the rising violent were-pheromones in the room.
Tandy stood, his Lichtenberg lines too bright, too red on his white, white skin. His face was caught in a rictus of fear, his eyes on Rick, his hands reaching, as if to hold the SAC in place. And failing. Something was about to happen. Something bad.
There was only one grindylow. Where was the other?
The Secret Service guy was drawing his weapon. Occam’s eyes flashed golden fire. Rick reached for his service weapon.
I barked, “Rick!” I pulled on Soulwood. Pulled peace and calm from the sleeping trees and bound them around Rick’s cat. I had claimed Rick soon after I met him, claimed him for the land, to heal him, to heal his were-magics. Now I used that, and reached out to Tandy too, hoping he could help calm the cat. But the empath was panicked himself, picking up the wereleopards’ territorial anger.
I used the tools I had and wrapped Soulwood around all of them: the cats, the grindylow, Tandy, the government warrior. More quietly, I said, “We’re all happy here.”
Rick blinked. His eyes lost the green leopard sheen. Pea looked up from Occam and leaped all the way across the table to land on Rick. Stuck her nose into Rick’s face and chittered. It seemed everyone in the room took a breath. “Everything is okay,” I said. I looked at Tandy and said again, softer, “Everything is okay.” Tandy nodded and closed his eyes, his body language wilting. The empath had learned that in times of extreme stress and fear he had the ability to share his own emotions, to change other people’s reactions, but he hadn’t managed to do that, instead falling back on old patterns of being controlled by the rages and passions around him. Now he too drew on Soulwood, pushing the calm of the land that lived inside me into the room. It was a bizarre sensation, similar to the touch of a slow spring rain pattering down on the earth. I liked it.
The tension in the room went down fast. The Secret Service agent blinked in confusion and replaced his weapon with a soft click of hard plastic holster.
Rick’s weapon disappeared; he took a breath and released it. “Where were we?” he asked.
The glow in Occam’s eyes died and he said, “I’ll skip the weight of the senator’s liver and brain and heart and conditions of his internal organs to give you the English translation of the COD. Cause of death is listed as third-degree burns and inhalation of superheated air, resulting in the shutdown of his respiratory system. It’s transcribed in medicalese, but that’s the gist. They were starting on the security guys when I left, but prelim results were the same.”
“But he was human,” Rick stated.
Occam hesitated, glancing at the Secret Service agent as if weighing what he wanted to say, and it was clear he had held information back. “His organs were . . . off. His digestive system wasn’t normal.” He looked at Soul and she tilted her head, telling him to continue. “He had no kidneys, no gallbladder; his liver was bluish. His blood smelled weird and it was darker than expected. The unburned parts of the senator’s skin turned a deep bluish color that looked nothing like livor mortis after death. The forensic pathologists sent patches off for DNA workup and they’ll be processing it through chemicals and dyes to look at it under a microscope in twenty-four hours. We should have a report in forty-eight hours or so. But no. The senator was not human.”
? ? ?
The meeting lasted too long. When it was over, the Secret Service agent left and the others went home or to their office cubicles. I printed out a dozen files and spread the pages over the conference room table, to put together a timeline and a possible family tree. I worked for hours, as the moon passed by outside the windows, marking the night’s progression. I drank eggnog right out of the carton. It wasn’t near as good as Mama Grace’s nog. I ate cookies. Also not as good. When I was done, I organized it into a new file with bullet points.
Wilder Thomas Jefferson, infant, taken to orphanage—1950.
Burns it down at age 15 (entering puberty, which is when many paranormals come into their powers).
Numbers of potential paranormals in Jefferson/Tolliver family: Wilder Thomas Jefferson? Jefferson’s wife? (Note: No details on her. Determine status.) Justin’s mother Miriam Tolliver (actually sister to Senator T) missing? Sonya Tolliver, deceased? Clarisse Jefferson Tolliver, missing presumed deceased? Charles Healy (Jail 1973. Missing 11 years). Nanny. Devin. Unknown which family line trait descended. Both? Unlikely.
Theory: Long-lived pyro shape-shifters, able to assume human form. No kidneys. Nonhuman digestive tract. Gray skin. Dark blood postmortem.
Possibility: Flight?
Possibility: Ability to hide/camouflage scent patterns? Males only?
Need/want way to reproduce safely.
Need/want way to transfer holdings.
I did a little more research and added to the list:
Note: Wilder Thomas Jefferson never married, but starting 30 years ago, he was photographed often with his young daughter, Clarisse. Went into business with Tolliver upon three things: marriage of Sonya to Justin, Clarisse marriage to Abrams, and birth of Devin.