Or maybe the fancy food had been replaced when the humans who had tickets for this car didn’t show up. Didn’t matter to him. Montgomery and Lorenzo had insisted they preferred the chicken sandwiches, leaving the beef ones for him, so they’d all eaten their fill.
No, it didn’t matter to him if there was a fancy car, but someone was going to feel Elliot’s wrath—and his teeth—when Lakeside’s consul found out he’d been relegated to regular passenger cars with all the stinky smells while human government officials rode in this special car that had the pleasing scent of leather and food whenever you wanted it.
As far as Simon was concerned, the value of this private car was the fact that the passengers would be easy for the terra indigene to track even if they tried to hide their faces or lied about who they were. You might get away with lying to some kinds of earth natives, but that just gave the rest of them more reason to pay attention.
Couldn’t always ask the Crows to keep watch. That would be too obvious, and they were more vulnerable—and easily distracted by shiny. The Sanguinati? Definite possibility. After all, train stations were good hunting grounds for Vlad’s kin.
After the meal, all three of them pulled books out of their bags. Simon noticed that Montgomery had a book by Alan Wolfgard. Considering where they were going, he wasn’t sure that was the best choice of story for a human, but he offered no opinion. Humans had remarkably shallow memories. Whenever the terra indigene destroyed a city and reclaimed the land, humans wailed and claimed they didn’t understand. How could they not understand something so simple? If you break the agreements with the terra indigene, the terra indigene will strike back and strike hard. When would humans realize they always started the fights that would kill them?
He glanced at the two men sitting on the other side of the aisle. He didn’t think either of them had shallow memories, so maybe it was good that they would see what the Others could do. Maybe it was smart to let them see exactly what stood against them if their people started a fight.
Meg stared at the silver razor she’d placed on the sorting room table. Cs759. A designation for disposable property. Except cassandra sangue shouldn’t be property, shouldn’t be disposable.
“Meg?”
She looked up when Merri Lee walked into the sorting room.
“All this trouble started because I didn’t want to go back to the compound, because I wanted to be more than property,” Meg said.
“What, nobody made any choices but you? You know better than that.” Merri Lee pointed at the razor. “What choice are you making now?”
“I don’t know. I want to help Simon.”
“Do you need to cut? Is there some prophecy pushing at you that you think is about him?”
“No, but …” Simon wouldn’t want her to cut, not without a reason. Was being worried that her friend might get hurt enough of a reason?
Merri Lee walked over to the phone and picked up the receiver. “Do you know the number for his mobile phone?”
“Yes.”
“Call him, Meg. Leave a message on his voice mail. Then come over to the apartment. I’ll show you how to make spaghetti. That will help distract both of us. Ruth and Theral are bringing ice cream and chocolate to my place this evening, and we’ll all watch movies that give us an excuse to cry.”
Meg took the receiver. “What do I say?”
“Tell him you called because you were thinking about him. I think he would like that.” Merri Lee smiled. “I’ll wait outside.”
When she heard the back door close, Meg dialed Simon’s number. She knew she’d gotten his voice mail when she heard the growled order to leave a message.
So she left her message, closed up the office, and joined Merri Lee for an evening of distraction.
Lorenzo was asleep on one of the padded benches that folded out to a bed. Simon had spent the past few hours staring out the window and occasionally pretending to read. And Monty, halfway through the thriller by Alan Wolfgard, wondered how many humans had read terra indigene books. If nothing else, the story, with its devious, murderous human villains, provided insight into how the Others perceived people. After meeting the humans who worked in the Courtyard, would a different kind of human appear in some of Alan’s stories? How many times would a human female beat off an attacker with a broom or a teakettle?
At a station about an hour away from the Midwest border, a man entered the executive car. Three-piece suit and briefcase. A little portly and very well groomed. He jerked to a stop when he saw Monty and Simon.
“I think you’re in the wrong part of the train,” the man said. The pompous tone produced a growl from Simon. Instead of backing down, the sound seemed to goad the man into adding, “This is a private car.”
“Yes, sir, we’re aware of that,” Monty said courteously. “And we are in the correct car.”
“Are you? Are you indeed! Let’s see your tickets.”
Monty stood, stepped into the aisle, took out his ID holder, and opened it. And watched the man pale. “Now, sir. I’d like to see your ticket.”
“Mine?” the man blustered. “Why should I show you mine?”
“Because I’m a police officer, and I asked. Or I can request that the train be held while I make inquiries at the ticket station and confirm that you are, in fact, entitled to use this car.”
“You can’t do that!”
“If he can’t, I can,” Simon growled.
Monty didn’t have to look at the Wolf to know Simon no longer passed for human. He could see the fear in the man’s eyes.
The man pulled out a ticket, waved it in front of Monty, and put it away before anyone could take a good look at it.
Monty didn’t insist on seeing the ticket again, and he didn’t ask the man to provide a name and home address. He didn’t think either of those things would be important today.
He put away his ID and sat down, allowing the man to put his luggage on the rack and take a seat.
Simon didn’t like the human who had invaded the private car. Didn’t like the look of him, the feel of him, the smell of him. He couldn’t put a paw on why letting this human live offended him so much, but if such a man got near any member of Lakeside’s human pack, and especially Meg, he wouldn’t hesitate to rip into him and tear out the liver before the heart took its last beat.
<Caw! Message for the Lakeside Wolfgard.>
He looked out the window, but he didn’t see the Crow. <I’m the Wolfgard.>
<Train will stop soon. Wolves will meet you and your humans, drive you the rest of the way.>
<Is the track broken?> he asked.
<Not if the train stops and goes home. Air is riding Tornado and will be watching.>
Wouldn’t just be this train or this station. The terra indigene would have closed off all escape from the Midwest until the enemy had been hunted down and destroyed. And in their own way, the Others were protecting the humans who might otherwise be caught up in the killing.
The conductor came into the car a few minutes later. “Last stop, gentlemen. Please prepare to depart.”
“Last stop?” the businessman said, leaning into the aisle. “What do you mean last stop? I have a ticket for—” He stopped, as if reluctant to have a policeman and a Wolf overhear his destination.
“Uncertain weather conditions have made it inadvisable to continue,” the conductor said. “You or your company will be credited for the part of the ticket not used.”
“So this is the railway’s decision?” The man sounded angry. “What happens if the train continues on to its original destination?”
“The vultures will feast for days,” Simon said.
The conductor moved with control as he retreated from the car. The businessman stank of fear.