Written in Red

counter.

Monty looked away before anyone noticed him staring. Her hair had been brown and straight when they walked in. Now it looked like she’d poured green food coloring over strands of it and used one of those curling irons. But she hadn’t left the room. He knew she hadn’t left the room.

“Since I’m closing up tonight, maybe I should take over the register now,” a man said as he approached their table.

Black hair, dark eyes, black sweater and jeans. More olive-skinned than fair, and dangerously good- looking.

“This is Vladimir Sanguinati, the comanager of Howling Good Reads,” Simon said.

Kowalski bobbled the mug and sloshed coffee on the table.

“Sorry,” he muttered, grabbing the napkins Tess had put on the table.

“This is Lieutenant Crispin James Montgomery and Officer Karl Kowalski, our new police contacts,” Simon said.

“How intriguing,” Vladimir replied.

Monty didn’t know why it was intriguing, or why Kowalski reacted to the name like that, but he did know there were things he wanted to think and say, and it wasn’t safe to think or say them while he was in that store.

“I won’t take up any more of your time, Mr. Wolfgard,” Monty said quietly as he pushed his chair back and stood up. He pulled one of the new business cards out of his pocket and handed it to Simon. “My number at the station and my mobile phone number. If you need assistance—or just want it for any reason—please call me.”

Rising, Simon slipped the card into his trouser pocket without looking at it.

“Since we’re all friends now, you should come in for coffee again,” Tess said.

“Thank you, ma’am. We’ll do that,” Monty said. He buttoned his coat as he and Kowalski walked to the outside door. “Wait until we’re in the car,” he added to his partner, feeling the Others’ eyes watch them as they walked past the store windows to the parking lot.

When they got in the car, Kowalski blew out a breath and said, “Where to, Lieutenant?”

“Nowhere yet. Just start the car so we don’t freeze out here.” Monty stared straight ahead, letting thoughts solidify into words. But he wasn’t quite ready to say what he suddenly understood, so he asked a question. “Sanguinati. You jumped like you were poked with a needle when you heard that name. Why?”

“Doesn’t mean anything to you?” Kowalski waited a moment. “Are you familiar with the term vampire?”

Monty turned his head and stared at the other man. “That was one of the bloodsuckers?”

Kowalski nodded. “As in drain their prey of blood. In popular fiction they’re called vampires, but that species of terra indigene call themselves Sanguinati. No one really knows much about them except that they drink blood, don’t seem to have anything else in common with the fictional version, and they’re just as dangerous as the shape-shifters. And there’s been some . . . evidence . . . that they have another way of extracting blood besides biting you.”

Glad he hadn’t drunk much coffee, Monty swallowed to push down his churning stomach. “Do you think they’re using those stores as easy places to hunt?”

Kowalski tipped his head back. Finally he said, “Can’t say for certain about the Sanguinati, but the shifters aren’t using the stores that way. Wolfgard wasn’t kidding about them eating a shoplifter’s hand, but we’ve never filled out a DLU because someone went into one of those stores.” He turned his head and looked at Monty. “What’s on your mind, Lieutenant?”

“I’ve been thinking that most of what you know about the terra indigene you learned because you’ve been brushing against them all your life. You probably grew up in a neighborhood that’s close enough to the Courtyard that you know the rules for the social center.”

“I’m not the only cop in Lakeside who’s brushed up against the Others at a social occasion. The terra indigene control most of the world. It’s foolish not to take an opportunity to figure out more about them. And, for the record, before I met Ruthie, I did some necking and petting with a girl who worked in the Courtyard, but we parted company after a few dates and I never used one of the rooms above the social center for a romp between the sheets.”

A silence filled the car. Monty ended it before it became a wedge between him and the younger man. “Terra indigene. Earth native. At the academy, no one ever explains exactly what that means. Maybe command doesn’t know exactly what it means or is afraid the truth would scare too many of us, and frightened men with guns would get us all killed.”

“What’s scarier than knowing you’re always surrounded by creatures who think you’re edible?”

“They really aren’t human, Karl,” Monty said. “Intellectually, I knew that. Now I know that with body as well as brain. The terra indigene aren’t animals who turn into humans or humans who turn into animals. They really are something unknown that learned how to change into a human shape because it suited them. They gained something from the human form, whether it was standing upright or having the convenience of fingers and thumbs, just like they gained something from the animal forms they absorbed.”

“You support the first-form theory?” Kowalski asked.

“That wasn’t taught at the academy,” Monty replied with a forced smile.

“Something Ruthie found in some moldy old history book a while back. There was a theory that the Others have had a lot of forms, changing their shapes as the world and the creatures around them changed so that they remained the dominant predators. But the first form, whatever it might be, is the evolutionary ancestor of all the terra indigene and is the reason they can change shapes. The theory also says they take on some of the traits of the forms they use—like that girl Crow attracted to something shiny.”

“That’s close enough to what I was thinking,” Monty said. “They have learned a human shape, but there is no humanity in them, nothing that recognizes us as more than meat. More clever than deer or cattle, but still meat. And yet, when they couldn’t find the men who killed one of their own, they understood how to punish everyone in the city by tacking on a tax to the water rates. Which means they do have feelings about their own kind.”

“Okay. But what does that have to do with Wolfgard offering to let us see something that’s usually off-limits or making sure I knew they recognized Ruthie? You were polite and got back threats.”

“I don’t think it was a threat. I think Simon Wolfgard was trying to be friendly. But the terra indigene line he comes from has absorbed the wolf for thousands of years and the human side for a few centuries at best, so he sounds threatening even when he isn’t trying to be. He has his own motives for opening those stores to human customers and inviting us to see a market I’m guessing has been seen by very few visitors.”

“So?”

“So we’re going to take him up on his offer,” Monty said. “We’re going to tour the market. Ruthie too, if you’re comfortable asking her to join us. We’re going to stop in and have a cup of coffee on a regular basis. We’re going to be faces the Others recognize. We’re going to try to change the dynamic, Karl. They aren’t human, will never be human. But we’re going to try to get them to see at least some of us as more than useful or clever meat. Then maybe—maybe—the next time adult men act like fools and enter the Courtyard uninvited, we’ll get a call instead of having to fill out a DLU form.”

“I’m not sure anyone ever tried to change the dynamics between us and the Others,” Kowalski said cautiously.

“Then maybe it’s time someone did.” Monty sighed. “All right. One more stop, then I’d like to drive around for a bit to get the feel of the area.”

“Where to?”

“To introduce ourselves to the person who could be our best ally—the Human Liaison.”

They pulled out of the parking lot and turned left at the intersection of Crowfield Avenue and Main Street. They passed one storefront before turning into the delivery area for the Liaison’s Office and the consulate.

“That store is called Earth Native,” Kowalski said. “Terra indigene sculpture, pottery, paintings, and weavings that are pricey but available for sale to humans. A sculptor who works in wood makes something called garden totems from the trunks of downed trees. Big things that can weigh a couple hundred pounds, or pieces small enough to be used as an accent table. Ruthie wants to buy a piece for our new apartment.”