Shadow Dancer (Kitsune series) Read online

  “Good.”

  Golden eyes opened in the back shadows of my mind; Taliesina checking in at last.

  What do you want? I mentally snarled.

  Her thoughts poured into me, fizzy, wet, and warm … bubbling like soda. Thanks for the show. It was wonderful. Chewing his tongue off, that was awesome! The blazing eyes faded but I knew she wasn’t gone.

  I muttered bad words beneath my breath until Fenn noticed. After that, I kept them in my head.

  Back at camp, I emerged from an armored vehicle that might have been a Hummer in civilian life. An autumn wind tugged the long coat I’d borrowed. It was baggy of course. No one had shoulders like Fenn, except Shaun. The martial artist was nowhere around. I guess he had a life to get back to. Must be nice.

  I trudged toward the lodge. There were little patches of white residue on my skin. They were flaky, itchy. I wanted them gone. I needed no souvenirs of tonight’s adventure.

  Cassie caught up to me and snagged my arm. “I know you’ve had it rough,” she said, “but we need to get you checked out by a doctor with some experience in … weirdness. This way.” She guided me toward an eighteen wheeler nestled among the other vehicles crowding the yard. It was black with orange-yellow flames painted on the sides. The side closest to us had a door and three little steel steps leading up to it. A murky red light poured into the yard.

  Guards stood by the door, but they didn’t try to stop us. I trudged in her wake, following her up the stairs and into the vehicle. Quarters were close inside. Various arcane pieces of machinery were here and there. The lights were on tracks, big and bright, dangling from the low ceiling. There seemed to be a section hermetically sealed with translucent, plastic walls—an operating bay? Uniformed soldiers stripped clothing away from bloody wounds. They were attended to by doctors and nurses in uniform, pushing covered trays around.

  Hiding inside Fenn’s over-sized coat, I looked away from curious stares. I knew what they were asking themselves; why are we bleeding for you?

  “This way,” Cassie said. “Back of the truck.”

  I took a narrow corridor past the operating bay, to someone’s personal office space. A hanging lamp blinded me, hiding the face of a man in a dark suit. His coat bulged, indicating a holstered gun. A hand emerged from the glare, gesturing toward a small chair. “Sit down, young lady. We need to have ourselves a proper debriefing. There are all kinds of things in your head I want to know about.”

  Cassie’s voice lashed out, “Virgil, what the hell are you doing here? Grace needs a doctor, not a hard time.”

  Virgil shrugged. “Dr. Gillman has stepped out for a minute. We might as well talk until he gets back.”

  I squinted, raising a hand to shield my eyes. “Who are you anyway?”

  “Virgil Grant, Chief of Operations for the PRT in this region of the country.”

  My mind translated the initials; PRT—Preternatural Response Team. “What do you want with me?”

  “Yes, where to begin…” His voice lacked regional accents, smooth and polished like a river rock. He had one thin arm angled, fist on a hip. The other arm hung straight. He stood poised like a runway model about to turn from the audience and walk away.

  I offered a suggestion, “Let’s start with getting the light out of my face. What is this, an interrogation?”

  Cassie reached out and back-fisted the lamp away. It swung behind Virgil, flickering in protest before returning to a constant glow that illuminated filing cabinets, a framed medical diploma on the wall, and above that a certificate that allowed Dr. Lawrence Gilman to practice medicine in the state of Texas.

  Virgil never blinked an eye at the violence, smiling instead. “Sorry, force of habit.” Without the glare, I noticed he wore a power tie, deep blue. His narrow, long-fingered hands were tucked into tight-fitting, black leather gloves. He wore sunglasses to hide his eyes. He seated himself in a brown leather chair with brass studs, behind a small, oak desk that matched the paneling on the walls. Over his shoulder, a camcorder, with a tiny light on, sat on a shelf. This was being recorded.

  “Should I have a lawyer present?” I asked.

  “Good idea,” Cassie said.

  Her boss waved away the suggestion. “No need for that. Just don’t lie to me. Not ever.”

  I lifted an eyebrow at Cassie, my way of asking; “Is this guy for real?”

  “I’m beginning to wonder.”

  I looked back to her boss.

  He set his chin on his hands, his elbows on the desk. “Care to unburden yourself? Confession is good for the soul, I hear.”

  “I have a confession.” I paused dramatically.

  He leaned forward.

  “I need to pee,” I said.

  Virgil leaned back. His right hand flicked phantom lint from off his lapel. A smile stretched his thin lips. There was something practiced about the gesture.

  Cassie put her hands on my shoulders and drew me to my feet, sending me toward a narrow door a few feet away.

  I went into a tiny restroom the same size as one you’d find on a chartered bus, but it was heaven to me. I closed the door and set about taking care of business, hauling up the long coat, taking a seat. The door was thin enough to let voices travel easily through.

  Virgil’s voice lacked inflection, sounding cold, “Cassie, you’re not helping. When I’m playing good cop, you’re supposed to play bad-ass cop, remember?”

  “I want to talk, off the record.”

  “Sure.”

  “Turn off the recorder.”

  “Oh, that. Heh-heh, forgot it was running.”

  Likely story.

  There was a distinct click. “All right, go,” Virgil said.

  “The one in your pocket too. I know how you operate.”

  A pause followed, then another click.

  “I need you to not look too closely at Grace.”

  “Why not?” Virgil asked.

  Yeah, why not?

  “Her secrets are tied to my own. You can’t have them.”

  “Cassie, be serious. She’s the best handle we’ve had on ISIS in a long time. She’s highly resistant to the Mothman mutagen. She can appear and disappear into thin air. And according to records, consumes enough chocolate every month to sink a battle ship. Her mysteries keep piling up, layer after layer. Do you know she’s got no Record of Live Birth? Her blood doesn’t match any known human type. There’s no way the people she’s living with can be related to her. And she plays with fire. Not real fire. Illusionary fire that actually drops the temperature in a room. I think we need to understand exactly what she is in order to know why ISIS wants her so badly, and what they intend to do. For all we know, she’s the bigger threat.”

  “Virgil.” Cassie’s voice lowered, “Please, leave her alone, for my sake.”

  “Give me a reason, Cassie. A damn good one.”

  “She’s my daughter.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  My daughter … daughter … daughter… Her words hung in my thoughts, echoing across my inner bewilderment. The walls closed in, squeezing badly needed oxygen out of the tiny restroom. My body went nerveless, and all I could do was sit on the porcelain throne, and continue listening to the voices through the door.

  “Who’s the father?” Virgil asked. “Darth Vader?”

  “Probably not.” Cassie’s tone lacked humor.

  Silence followed. Apparently, that was all Cassie had to say on the subject. Just as well. I had no room left in my head for shocks. Reflexively, I reached for the toilet paper, winding it around one hand like a mothman cocoon. I’d always known I wasn’t human, but hearing it straight out from someone who had all the missing pieces… Not that she was sharing with me, if she’s even telling the truth.

  Standing at last, I let Fenn’s voluminous long coat drop to my ankles. I washed my hands with a tiny bar of soap, probably stolen from some hotel somewhere. I remembered my reoccurring dream of being left in someone else’s cradle while my mother escaped out the window. Could t
hat dream have been more than that, perhaps my oldest memory?

  I stared at myself in the mirror over the sink. My face was pale and sharp, a bruise decorating my right cheek. My lower lip was split and tender, also swollen. The eyes seemed to belong to a stranger, someone lost and alone. I hate this face. I cut off the water and dried my hands on a paper towel that went into a tiny can.

  My mind lurching crazily, I burst into the office. Cassie leaned over the desk, looking like it wouldn’t take much for her to vault over it and strangle Virgil with his own power tie.

  I wanted to yell, but my voice came out frail and broken, “Is it true?”

  She spun to face me, a stricken expression on her face. “Grace, this isn’t the time.”

  I took a step toward her, drawn by my need to confirm what I’d heard. “You’re my mother?”

  “Yes.” The word nearly choked her. She shot a glance at Virgil.

  Once more, he bridged his gloved hands, supporting his chin, quietly absorbing every word, every expression.

  Cassie turned back to me. “Not now, later we can—”

  “All my life’s been ‘later’ with you.” I wanted to scream, flail wildly, and break something. My fingers curled into trembling fists.

  “Well, my work here is done,” Virgil said. He left, walking calmly past us, vanishing into the corridor.

  “You go too. Running from me is what you do best.”

  Cassie’s face scrunched in pain. “Grace, that’s not fair.”

  “What do I know about fair?” My voice spiked up another notch. “It’s not like anyone ever tells me anything.” I bolted back into the restroom, slamming the door, locking it.

  A moment later, her soft voice pierced the door. “I’m sorry, Grace. I know there’s so much I can never make up to you—”

  “You’re not my mother. I have a mother who loves me, who’s always been there for me. I’m not trading her in.”

  “Grace—”

  “Leave me alone!” I shouted.

  Silence answered me. Then her footsteps retreated, fading.

  I opened the door and I stepped out. The office was empty. I stood there, giving

  Cassie time to get far away, then went toward the door up forward. The distance seemed much longer than before. At the exit, I rushed past a middle aged man in glasses and a white coat. His hair was thin above his forehead. His name tag said: DR. GILMAN. He called after me, but I hurried down the steps to the ground.

  I thought I felt the earth revolving underfoot at first. I closed my eyes, drew a deep breath, and marched off. The lodge blurred as my eyes welled with tears. An ache settled in my chest. I needed a safe place to hide … to wait for the storm to pass … and try to figure out how I felt about everything.

  I stopped in the middle of the rutted drive, aware I was being followed. A moment later, my Marine guard caught up with me. He loomed over my shoulder. I craned my neck to see his face. It was the guard Ryan had taken me from earlier. He wore a Band-Aid between his eyes, and a scowl to cover embarrassment.

  Another guard appeared at my other side. I turned to inspect her. She was Hispanic, with black hair and eyes. She wore no makeup and was heavily armed. A nametag on her shirt said: SANCHEZ. She gave me a friendly grin that failed to soften the challenge in her eyes.

  I started walking again. My feet thudded up the wooden steps to the porch. Down at the corner, someone had installed a mirror so you could see around on the other side of the building. There were guards at the main door. I went past them without a word. Some kind of brainstorming session raged down by the fireplace where several tables had been brought in. Computers and a giant-sized plasma screen filled a corner where vid calls were being made.

  The noise died as I passed through, heading for the stairs.

  They can tell. They know I’m not human. Just pretending. Pretending… I’m going to be spending the rest of my life looking out of a fish bowl, being watched, poked, prodded, and studied.

  I ran up the stairs to my room and locked myself in. Leaning against the door, I slid to the floor and hugged my knees. Through the wood, I heard voices as my guards took up position. I wasn’t trying to listen in, but my hearing had sharpened sometime tonight. I couldn’t help hearing them.

  “You’re still beating yourself up about losing the kid?” Sanchez asked.

  She was answered by a non-descript grunt.

  “We got her back in one piece. No harm, no foul. Good thing Cassie had that GPS locator on her.”

  “Hiding it in her shoe was smart, but I nearly lost it when we found that shoe in the woods along a trail of ripped clothing. I thought for sure she was bug-food.”

  “Yeah, if that Fenn kid hadn’t sniffed her out with that freaky nose of his…”

  Another grunt. “Yeah, I heard Mothboy was doin’ her when Fenn got there. Think that was her first time? What a memory to carry around the rest of your life.”

  I banged on the door and shouted, “I can hear you, you know?”

  The hall went quiet.

  I wiped tears away. This was no time for maudlin self-indulgence. If I wanted my life back, I’d have to take it back—with the same ferociousness I’d shown Ryan. Being soft would just get me stepped on, over and over. Tonight’s lesson was very clear. I looked at the window and the patch of sky it offered. Darkness was seeping away, leaving a charcoal smear behind. Lighter tones of gray would soon replace these. Sunrise would be here way too soon, with all new drama. I shuddered at the prospect, and made myself get up and gather fresh clothes.

  By the bed, I shucked the blanket on the floor and slid out of Fenn’s coat. He seemed to be pressing some kind of claim on me that I wasn’t ready for. I held his coat a moment and closed my eyes, inhaling his scent from the lining. His smell and my own mingled pleasantly. But he was keeping secrets from me too. Maybe that hidden part of me was what he really liked. Certainly, his kachina father wanted to play games. I’d seen the mischievous glint in the Trickster’s eyes and heard longing in his voice like a coyote’s song. He wanted something only I could give him. They both did.

  I tossed Fenn’s coat away, saying goodbye to him in my heart.

  Does anyone want me for me, no hidden agendas attached?

  I couldn’t run home. Mom and dad loved me, but they were out of the country, with big problems of their own. Sis wasn’t an option; she’d simmered in resentment all these years over the attention I’d stolen from her—an invader in her home. She’d often let me know she longed to be an only child.

  Shaun was friendly enough—there for me when things went to hell in a hand-basket, on roller skates—but otherwise, he kept his distance.

  Jill and Drew. They’d cover for me until I found a better answer. I felt sure they’d never give me up. But how would I get back to HPI without being seen?

  If only Tukka were here. He’d take me into the ghost realm, across a dreamscape, anywhere I needed to go. All realities were open to him. I missed the big goof.

  So, okay, I need a plan: a hot shower—this time alone—some chocolate, a little sleep, and if I’m lucky, some directed dreaming will do the rest.

  * * *

  Oblivion gave me up. I slid from blackness to…

  Braveheart…?

  A vast grass field separated the line of Scottish warriors from the ravenous English. Conflict was moments away. And I seemed to be out in front of the good guys. Mel Gibson’s blue streaked face was gone, the role liberated by a familiar, teal blue fu dog giving a pep talk to the troops.

  He looked his usual self, not like the parade float in my last dream. I now realized that had to have been spawned by fever. Tukka was his charming, indomitable self.

  “Two thousand against ten?" a veteran warrior shouted. "No! We will run—and live!”

  “Yes! “Fight and you may die.” Tukka shouts, the dream voice he’s acquired resonates with a piss-poor Scottish accent. “Run and you will live at least awhile. And dying in your bed many years from now, would you be
willing to trade all the days from this day to that for one chance, just one chance, to come back here as young men and tell our enemies that they may take our lives but they will never take … our chocolate!”

  I hid my face in my hand. “Tukka, what are you doing?”

  He spun around, noticing my presence for the first time. “Fixing it, Grace. Warriors need a better reason to die.”

  I waved at the assembled troops, “Do we have to do this now? I need to talk to you. Let Mel Gibson have his voice back.”

  Sure, Grace.

  Like heat mirages, the lined up men faded into curls of nearly clear smoke. The grass close by remained stable, but the English invaders ghosted away as the field contracted in a blur. The brick walls of a school rushed in. A Japanese school. I knew this by the uniformed students, all of them girls, lining up to lay handmade bundles at Tukka’s feet. Each one bowed respectfully and ran off with blushing faces. I picked up and opened one of the bundles, a box wrapped in a scarf. Inside lay heart shaped pieces of chocolate. “Valentine’s Day? Tukka, it’s October.”

  In dreams, everyday is Gimme-Chocolate Day.

  I sighed, nibbled on a heart, and set the box down, waiting for the line to dwindle. The nearby trees were frosty pink. Cherry blossoms flurried in the wind. As the last student delivered her tribute, scurrying off, Tukka turned and settled his great bulk into a relaxed sprawl. Grace got problem?

  “Yeah, I need your help. You remember my room, back at the Institute. I want you to take me there.”

  That’s all?

  “Well, yeah.”

  Tukka eat first, then we go.

  “Thanks.”

  “Excuse me, please.” A student approached with a five pound candy bar in hand, chocolate with rice crisps.

  Tukka’s eyes locked onto it at once. His jaws gaped as he drooled.

  The student—black hair fanning like raven wings, dark eyes glittering—set the bar down in front of the fu dog. With a titter, she danced away. A quick turn raised her plaid skirt, giving a flash of panties. I felt like I was trapped in an anime designed for boys to drool over. Unlike the other students, this one stayed to see how her gift was received.