Pocket Apocalypse
Page 46
“I’m sorry,” said Shelby. “I’ll talk to the rest of the Society. We’ll try to be better.”
Helen blinked, nonplussed. Apparently, that wasn’t the reaction she’d been expecting. “Ah,” she said. “Well, thank you. Now, as for you, Mr. Price . . .” She turned back to me, attention going to my arm.
That was when one of the mice decided to speak up. “Not sick,” it pronounced.
Helen blinked. “Excuse me?”
“The God of Scales and Silences is not sick,” said the mouse. The others joined in with nods and sounds of rodent agreement. “He is damaged, yes, and will need Tender Care and perhaps Kisses for his Boo-Boos, but he is not sick.”
“I wouldn’t be sick yet, guys. Lycanthropy has a twenty-eight-day incubation period. It’ll be weeks before we know one way or the other.”
The mouse that had initially spoken turned and looked at me like I was being intentionally obtuse. “No,” it said. “We know right now. Today or twenty-eight days, it will make no difference, because you are not sick.”
“I don’t think you can—”
“Hold on,” said Helen. “The, ah, mouse may be on to something here. What are you, mouse?”
“Aeslin,” squeaked the mouse proudly. “We Stand in Service to the Gods.”
“Aeslin mice traditionally do,” said Helen. “Can you detect sickness?”
“Not all sickness,” said the mouse. “Some things smell wrong quickly, like flesh going sour, or breath going dank. If there were sickness here, we would know.”
“You can’t know,” I insisted. “Okay, yes, you’re pretty good at catching the early stages of a cold, and we’ve learned to listen to you when you say it’s soup and juice time, but you’ve never been around lycanthropy. Let Dr. Jalali do her job.”
The mouse looked at me, whiskers bristling. “The Spring was New, and the green leaves of the willow trees were coming into Bud,” it snapped, in the rapid singsong that meant a point of scripture was being made. “And lo, the Patient Priestess did come to the God of Uncommon Sense and say Dear, Something Is in the Sheep Flock, and We Should Investigate. Then did the God of Uncommon Sense call upon the Sitter of Babies—”
“Wait.” I held up a hand, cutting off the flood of rodent theology before it could build to an unstoppable pitch. “Are you saying that Great-Great-Grandpa Alexander and Great-Great-Grandma Enid took a member of the congregation with them to deal with werewolves?”
“He got all that from a mouse beginning a religious parable?” asked Helen, looking to Shelby incredulously. “How are these not the most protected species in the known universe? They ought to be everywhere.”
“But they’re not,” said Shelby, looking regretful. “As to the parable bit, yeah. They go on, and he translates. Unless we’re having sex at the time. Then I just chuck a pillow at them and tell him that noise was the wind.”
I rolled my eyes but otherwise ignored her. I had more important things to worry about, like the mouse clinging to my arm and looking at me with surpassing rodent smugness. “Not one member,” said the mouse. “A full dozen. We scattered through the grass and led them to the den, and oh! Such cheese! Such cake! We feasted well and thoroughly!”
“HAIL!” shouted the rest of the mice, exulting in the memory of a feast that happened generations before they were born.
“Hold on a moment.” Helen leaned closer to the mouse, which held its ground surprisingly well, considering that she was a giant cobra that just happened to look like a human woman. “Before they became extinct, Aeslin mice were renowned for their ability to preserve institutional knowledge. We know they pass their rituals from generation to generation. Why wouldn’t they also pass the descriptions of scents they wanted to catalog. Mouse?”
“Yes?” asked the mouse.
“What does lycanthropy smell like?”
For a moment, we all held our breath. The mouse didn’t seem to notice. Calmly, it replied, “Like rabies, but sweeter, the way a spider’s bite smells when it is fresh and hard to see. There is no smell of sweetness here, only torn flesh, and blood, and bruising. He is not sick.”
“Do you mind if I proceed with preventative care despite your no doubt excellent diagnosis? I’m sure you’re right—you’re talking mice, after all, and I honestly can’t think of any studies saying not to use talking mice as diagnostic engines—but it’s best if I do my job anyway.” She leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, in a voice still loud enough for Shelby to hear, “The local humans get shirty when they think we silly monsters know more than they do.”
“Hey,” protested Shelby, without any real heat. She knew the local attitude toward human-form cryptids as well as I did, if not better: she had shared it, on some level, until she’d met my family and friends. It was hard to keep thinking of people who didn’t descend from monkeys as inferior when they were smarter than you were, or at least better read.
Helen looked at Shelby and shrugged. “Sorry, princess. I go with what I know, and what I know is that your people were going to let a werewolf run rampant through the state without telling anyone they didn’t feel protective toward. It makes a girl a little cranky. And you, sir.” She turned back to me as she stood, putting herself on higher ground. It was a snake instinct that the wadjet shared with their cobra cousins. Male wadjet sometimes used the females to become taller still, and if the sight of a woman in heels with a spectacled cobra balanced on her shoulder wouldn’t strike fear into your heart, then your heart is made of sterner stuff than mine. “I’m told you have a treatment. Is this correct?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, resisting the urge to stand and put myself on her level. It would just make her uncomfortable, and I needed her to stay in my corner, at least long enough to prepare her report to the Society. “It’s in my bag. The nasty black sludge with the little sparkles in it.”
“I’ll get it,” said Shelby, sounding glad to be of use.
“Be careful,” I said, earning myself a sour look. I shook my head. “I mean it, Shelby. This stuff is incredibly toxic. If you get any of it on you, you could make yourself really sick.”
Helen blinked, nonplussed. Apparently, that wasn’t the reaction she’d been expecting. “Ah,” she said. “Well, thank you. Now, as for you, Mr. Price . . .” She turned back to me, attention going to my arm.
That was when one of the mice decided to speak up. “Not sick,” it pronounced.
Helen blinked. “Excuse me?”
“The God of Scales and Silences is not sick,” said the mouse. The others joined in with nods and sounds of rodent agreement. “He is damaged, yes, and will need Tender Care and perhaps Kisses for his Boo-Boos, but he is not sick.”
“I wouldn’t be sick yet, guys. Lycanthropy has a twenty-eight-day incubation period. It’ll be weeks before we know one way or the other.”
The mouse that had initially spoken turned and looked at me like I was being intentionally obtuse. “No,” it said. “We know right now. Today or twenty-eight days, it will make no difference, because you are not sick.”
“I don’t think you can—”
“Hold on,” said Helen. “The, ah, mouse may be on to something here. What are you, mouse?”
“Aeslin,” squeaked the mouse proudly. “We Stand in Service to the Gods.”
“Aeslin mice traditionally do,” said Helen. “Can you detect sickness?”
“Not all sickness,” said the mouse. “Some things smell wrong quickly, like flesh going sour, or breath going dank. If there were sickness here, we would know.”
“You can’t know,” I insisted. “Okay, yes, you’re pretty good at catching the early stages of a cold, and we’ve learned to listen to you when you say it’s soup and juice time, but you’ve never been around lycanthropy. Let Dr. Jalali do her job.”
The mouse looked at me, whiskers bristling. “The Spring was New, and the green leaves of the willow trees were coming into Bud,” it snapped, in the rapid singsong that meant a point of scripture was being made. “And lo, the Patient Priestess did come to the God of Uncommon Sense and say Dear, Something Is in the Sheep Flock, and We Should Investigate. Then did the God of Uncommon Sense call upon the Sitter of Babies—”
“Wait.” I held up a hand, cutting off the flood of rodent theology before it could build to an unstoppable pitch. “Are you saying that Great-Great-Grandpa Alexander and Great-Great-Grandma Enid took a member of the congregation with them to deal with werewolves?”
“He got all that from a mouse beginning a religious parable?” asked Helen, looking to Shelby incredulously. “How are these not the most protected species in the known universe? They ought to be everywhere.”
“But they’re not,” said Shelby, looking regretful. “As to the parable bit, yeah. They go on, and he translates. Unless we’re having sex at the time. Then I just chuck a pillow at them and tell him that noise was the wind.”
I rolled my eyes but otherwise ignored her. I had more important things to worry about, like the mouse clinging to my arm and looking at me with surpassing rodent smugness. “Not one member,” said the mouse. “A full dozen. We scattered through the grass and led them to the den, and oh! Such cheese! Such cake! We feasted well and thoroughly!”
“HAIL!” shouted the rest of the mice, exulting in the memory of a feast that happened generations before they were born.
“Hold on a moment.” Helen leaned closer to the mouse, which held its ground surprisingly well, considering that she was a giant cobra that just happened to look like a human woman. “Before they became extinct, Aeslin mice were renowned for their ability to preserve institutional knowledge. We know they pass their rituals from generation to generation. Why wouldn’t they also pass the descriptions of scents they wanted to catalog. Mouse?”
“Yes?” asked the mouse.
“What does lycanthropy smell like?”
For a moment, we all held our breath. The mouse didn’t seem to notice. Calmly, it replied, “Like rabies, but sweeter, the way a spider’s bite smells when it is fresh and hard to see. There is no smell of sweetness here, only torn flesh, and blood, and bruising. He is not sick.”
“Do you mind if I proceed with preventative care despite your no doubt excellent diagnosis? I’m sure you’re right—you’re talking mice, after all, and I honestly can’t think of any studies saying not to use talking mice as diagnostic engines—but it’s best if I do my job anyway.” She leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, in a voice still loud enough for Shelby to hear, “The local humans get shirty when they think we silly monsters know more than they do.”
“Hey,” protested Shelby, without any real heat. She knew the local attitude toward human-form cryptids as well as I did, if not better: she had shared it, on some level, until she’d met my family and friends. It was hard to keep thinking of people who didn’t descend from monkeys as inferior when they were smarter than you were, or at least better read.
Helen looked at Shelby and shrugged. “Sorry, princess. I go with what I know, and what I know is that your people were going to let a werewolf run rampant through the state without telling anyone they didn’t feel protective toward. It makes a girl a little cranky. And you, sir.” She turned back to me as she stood, putting herself on higher ground. It was a snake instinct that the wadjet shared with their cobra cousins. Male wadjet sometimes used the females to become taller still, and if the sight of a woman in heels with a spectacled cobra balanced on her shoulder wouldn’t strike fear into your heart, then your heart is made of sterner stuff than mine. “I’m told you have a treatment. Is this correct?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, resisting the urge to stand and put myself on her level. It would just make her uncomfortable, and I needed her to stay in my corner, at least long enough to prepare her report to the Society. “It’s in my bag. The nasty black sludge with the little sparkles in it.”
“I’ll get it,” said Shelby, sounding glad to be of use.
“Be careful,” I said, earning myself a sour look. I shook my head. “I mean it, Shelby. This stuff is incredibly toxic. If you get any of it on you, you could make yourself really sick.”
