Midnight Blue-Light Special
Page 44
So why didn’t that help?
“The brunette?” asked Sarah, gaping. “She’s a Healy?”
“Yeah.” If I could recognize Margaret as a relative, it was only a matter of time before she was going to start thinking that I looked oddly familiar. Like a picture she’d seen once in a history book, next to a paragraph titled “Traitor.”
“But . . . but what’s she doing?”
“I don’t know, Sarah. Probably assessing the roof for tactical defense purposes.” Which meant—assuming she had any training at all, which she must, or they wouldn’t have sent her—that Margaret was going to notice the scuffs in the gravel that marked the place where I’d hit the roof from above. She’d be able to read those marks like a hunter reading a deer’s tracks in the wood. Something humanoid had jumped from the next building over; it had recovered without injury; it had gotten off the roof somehow. And she’d encountered two women coming out of the stairwell.
Sarah’s cuckoo camouflage might slow Margaret down for a little while, make her second-guess what she was thinking and try to come up with other reasons for us to have been up there, but that couldn’t work forever. Cuckoos work best when they stay near their targets, and we’d moved away from Margaret as quickly as we could. Factor in Margaret’s anti-telepathy charm, and I had no idea how long she’d be confused.
“What do we do now?”
“Get your things. We’re getting you out of here.”
Sarah’s eyes widened. “But I just got here.”
“She saw me!” I didn’t realize I was going to shout until it was too late to stop myself. Sarah took a step back. She didn’t actually go pale—her blood isn’t red, and her biology doesn’t support things like blanching or blushing—but she may as well have; her expression told me how frightened she was. I didn’t stop. “Even if she forgets about you, she saw me, she’s going to know that there’s something wrong here! You know how badly the Covenant wants to get their hands on a cuckoo. Do you want it to be you, Sarah? Because I don’t!”
“Verity, you’re scaring me,” she whispered.
“I don’t care! You should be scared! We have to leave, Sarah, and we have to leave now, or we’re not going to be leaving at all.”
Sarah stared at me for a long moment. Then, in a small, tight voice, she said, “I’ll go pack.” She wheeled and stomped off toward her room. It was more fear than anger. I didn’t care either way. As long as I got her out of here . . .
The idea of what might happen if I didn’t was unthinkable, and so I did my best not to think it.
The existence of the cuckoos wasn’t proven until my great-grandfather went to Colorado to look into the movement of a local hive of Apraxis wasps. Before that, there had been rumors, but never any hard proof. One of the last communications my grandfather sent to the Covenant before cutting off all ties was a letter describing everything we knew about the cuckoos. Warning people about them was more important than hiding information from the Covenant. That’s how dangerous we thought they were, and how dangerous we still think they are.
According to our contacts in Europe, the Covenant has been trying to get their hands on a cuckoo for research purposes ever since. It’s one of those things that causes a lot of ethical debate at home, since we have a shoot on sight order on most cuckoos, but they’re still sapient beings. They deserve better than the Covenant’s idea of “study.” If Margaret figured out who I was, and what Sarah was, she could kill two birds with one stone—take out a member of the traitorous branch of the family tree, and finally get a cuckoo they could take apart at their leisure. They’d just need to keep her unconscious. Cuckoos can only scramble your head when they’re awake.
All the discussions I’d had about the danger of staying in New York had included warnings about keeping Sarah safe, and endless reassurances that of course I wouldn’t let anything happen to her; of course she would be fine. She was a cuckoo. What was going to hurt her?
What, if not a Healy in the same hotel, with the potential to recognize her for what she was? Dad used to joke about Healy family luck, how sometimes it was good and sometimes it was bad, but it was always interesting. Margaret Healy clearly had that kind of luck, and she had it in spades.
Sarah emerged from her bedroom with a small suitcase in one hand and an overstuffed backpack in the other. “Let me get my laptops and my homework from the table, and we can go,” she said. She didn’t sound happy. I didn’t blame her. We’d been planning a relaxing evening, out of the line of fire. Having the fight follow me to her door was never the idea. “Where are we going?”
“You can stay with the rest of us.” The dragons weren’t going to be thrilled about me turning their old Nest into the new Grand Central Station, but with as much as we were paying them, they could cope.
“Oh, goody. Slumber party of the damned.” Sarah started for the dining room. (One thing about her taste in hotel rooms: she never gets anything smaller than a suite, and she’s never had a suite smaller than a good apartment. It seems extravagant, and maybe it is, a little, but it’s really one more precaution against having her brain come melting out of her ears in the middle of the night. Living as a telepath in a non-telepathic society was definitely not all wine and roses.)
Someone knocked on the door. We both turned.
“Did you order room service before I got here?” I asked, instinctively dropping to a whisper. I realized only after I spoke that I probably should have done it telepathically.
No, said Sarah, who was smart enough to do what I hadn’t. There was a soft thump as she put down her bags. Then she stepped up next to me, squinting a little at the door. I don’t . . . I can’t hear who’s out there. I’m not sure there is anybody there.
One more problem with being a telepath in a non-telepathic society: sometimes there aren’t words for the things you’re trying to describe. Sarah doesn’t really “hear” people thinking, but there isn’t any other way to say it. It gets clearer when she’s attuned to a person, and strangers can sometimes be almost inaudible to her mental ear. Still, she usually knows when there’s someone to be listened to. That means it’s Margaret. Maybe she’ll go away.
The knock came again.
“The brunette?” asked Sarah, gaping. “She’s a Healy?”
“Yeah.” If I could recognize Margaret as a relative, it was only a matter of time before she was going to start thinking that I looked oddly familiar. Like a picture she’d seen once in a history book, next to a paragraph titled “Traitor.”
“But . . . but what’s she doing?”
“I don’t know, Sarah. Probably assessing the roof for tactical defense purposes.” Which meant—assuming she had any training at all, which she must, or they wouldn’t have sent her—that Margaret was going to notice the scuffs in the gravel that marked the place where I’d hit the roof from above. She’d be able to read those marks like a hunter reading a deer’s tracks in the wood. Something humanoid had jumped from the next building over; it had recovered without injury; it had gotten off the roof somehow. And she’d encountered two women coming out of the stairwell.
Sarah’s cuckoo camouflage might slow Margaret down for a little while, make her second-guess what she was thinking and try to come up with other reasons for us to have been up there, but that couldn’t work forever. Cuckoos work best when they stay near their targets, and we’d moved away from Margaret as quickly as we could. Factor in Margaret’s anti-telepathy charm, and I had no idea how long she’d be confused.
“What do we do now?”
“Get your things. We’re getting you out of here.”
Sarah’s eyes widened. “But I just got here.”
“She saw me!” I didn’t realize I was going to shout until it was too late to stop myself. Sarah took a step back. She didn’t actually go pale—her blood isn’t red, and her biology doesn’t support things like blanching or blushing—but she may as well have; her expression told me how frightened she was. I didn’t stop. “Even if she forgets about you, she saw me, she’s going to know that there’s something wrong here! You know how badly the Covenant wants to get their hands on a cuckoo. Do you want it to be you, Sarah? Because I don’t!”
“Verity, you’re scaring me,” she whispered.
“I don’t care! You should be scared! We have to leave, Sarah, and we have to leave now, or we’re not going to be leaving at all.”
Sarah stared at me for a long moment. Then, in a small, tight voice, she said, “I’ll go pack.” She wheeled and stomped off toward her room. It was more fear than anger. I didn’t care either way. As long as I got her out of here . . .
The idea of what might happen if I didn’t was unthinkable, and so I did my best not to think it.
The existence of the cuckoos wasn’t proven until my great-grandfather went to Colorado to look into the movement of a local hive of Apraxis wasps. Before that, there had been rumors, but never any hard proof. One of the last communications my grandfather sent to the Covenant before cutting off all ties was a letter describing everything we knew about the cuckoos. Warning people about them was more important than hiding information from the Covenant. That’s how dangerous we thought they were, and how dangerous we still think they are.
According to our contacts in Europe, the Covenant has been trying to get their hands on a cuckoo for research purposes ever since. It’s one of those things that causes a lot of ethical debate at home, since we have a shoot on sight order on most cuckoos, but they’re still sapient beings. They deserve better than the Covenant’s idea of “study.” If Margaret figured out who I was, and what Sarah was, she could kill two birds with one stone—take out a member of the traitorous branch of the family tree, and finally get a cuckoo they could take apart at their leisure. They’d just need to keep her unconscious. Cuckoos can only scramble your head when they’re awake.
All the discussions I’d had about the danger of staying in New York had included warnings about keeping Sarah safe, and endless reassurances that of course I wouldn’t let anything happen to her; of course she would be fine. She was a cuckoo. What was going to hurt her?
What, if not a Healy in the same hotel, with the potential to recognize her for what she was? Dad used to joke about Healy family luck, how sometimes it was good and sometimes it was bad, but it was always interesting. Margaret Healy clearly had that kind of luck, and she had it in spades.
Sarah emerged from her bedroom with a small suitcase in one hand and an overstuffed backpack in the other. “Let me get my laptops and my homework from the table, and we can go,” she said. She didn’t sound happy. I didn’t blame her. We’d been planning a relaxing evening, out of the line of fire. Having the fight follow me to her door was never the idea. “Where are we going?”
“You can stay with the rest of us.” The dragons weren’t going to be thrilled about me turning their old Nest into the new Grand Central Station, but with as much as we were paying them, they could cope.
“Oh, goody. Slumber party of the damned.” Sarah started for the dining room. (One thing about her taste in hotel rooms: she never gets anything smaller than a suite, and she’s never had a suite smaller than a good apartment. It seems extravagant, and maybe it is, a little, but it’s really one more precaution against having her brain come melting out of her ears in the middle of the night. Living as a telepath in a non-telepathic society was definitely not all wine and roses.)
Someone knocked on the door. We both turned.
“Did you order room service before I got here?” I asked, instinctively dropping to a whisper. I realized only after I spoke that I probably should have done it telepathically.
No, said Sarah, who was smart enough to do what I hadn’t. There was a soft thump as she put down her bags. Then she stepped up next to me, squinting a little at the door. I don’t . . . I can’t hear who’s out there. I’m not sure there is anybody there.
One more problem with being a telepath in a non-telepathic society: sometimes there aren’t words for the things you’re trying to describe. Sarah doesn’t really “hear” people thinking, but there isn’t any other way to say it. It gets clearer when she’s attuned to a person, and strangers can sometimes be almost inaudible to her mental ear. Still, she usually knows when there’s someone to be listened to. That means it’s Margaret. Maybe she’ll go away.
The knock came again.
