Or whatever. David choked on the image of himself playing either role.
He'd been wandering, sloshing words around in his head like a sourdough panning sand for the rare flecks of gold. At some point the rain had stopped, and he found himself looking down the river at an orange ball peeking out from under the clouds. Naskeag was offering him a sunset, to show that all storms have an end. The ice was breaking up on the rising tide, another early sign of spring.
A flock of pigeons clattered overhead, feathered rats that infested the downtown, and they suddenly broke and scattered. A winged arrow shot through the panicked birds and knocked one spinning in a puff of feathers.
Peregrine. He'd never seen one before, but that's what it had to be. Maureen had told him that a pair nested high on a cornice of one of the bank buildings, raising brood after brood, feeding on the fat slow MacBird critters. City pigeons must be peregrine heaven.
Peregrines and coyotes, skunks and raccoons and sometimes a moose or bear on Main Street, the wild world crossed into city life. Borders were often permeable things, not Berlin Walls topped with razor wire that you couldn't cross or, once crossed, you never could go back. Maybe Jo could be a city falcon.
And maybe she'd flown back to the nest by now. He turned his back on the sunset and crunched back over the melting snow. Besides, he'd left the heat on under the coffeepot.
Neither poem connected. Not yet. More accurately, both sucked. He had maybe a line here, a line there. But he knew what he wanted, and he knew how to get there. The rest was just him slogging along through a swamp of words.
No sign of Maureen's junk Toyota in the parking lot. Instead, a police car sat parked near the apartment, engine idling its exhaust fog into the cold damp air. Its cop waited behind the wheel, patient, watching. Hey there, remember us? We haven't gone away. Cops made him nervous, even at the best of times. Cultural conditioning, examine your conscience whenever you see the uniform. He almost turned the corner and walked on.
Where the hell was Jo?
Chapter Fifteen
Shen's nest lay empty.
Eight nest mounds, eight hatchlings spread in a rough circle in the marsh, spaced far enough apart that Khe'sha could keep eight brainless appetites from devouring each other. They were devouring him, instead. The marsh had faded into a weary haze of feeding, guarding, chasing, snatching naps when enough of the hatchlings lay torpid with the night's cold or with full bellies. Each time he jolted awake in fear of what had happened while he drowsed.
He shook fatigue out of his eyes and looked again. Shen? Gone? She wasn't a rover like Po or a constant obsessed hunter like Ka. She had been the watcher of the clutch, not ill or weak or slow-witted but content to study her world with sharp eyes, missing nothing but rarely moving from the top of her mound. She would compose great songs when she grew old.
He sniffed the air and tasted the black water of the swamp. Her scent was growing stale, as if she'd swum away the moment he'd last left her. And there was another flavor in the mix . . .
Old One.
Khe'sha raised his head, slowly, slowly, slowly, and narrowed his eyes. He sniffed again. Old One, indeed. He drew the scent deep into his nose, savoring and remembering each nuance of the blend. Matching it. Drawing a picture in his mind's eye.
The Master stood there, dead though he was, and the male with the yellow hair, and the red witch, and the black. And another. And yet, the scent was only thick enough for a single thief. Deception.
Khe'sha slipped through the tangled grass and thorn-bush of the marsh, tracking. The trail led toward the keep. He found Shen's aroma mixed with the intruder's. He did not find Shen. If this went on much longer, he feared he would grow angry.
Blood tainted the water. He tasted it, savored it, measured the amount and the freshness of it. Old One again, a blend he did not recognize. But then, he had never tasted the yellow one. He had never tasted any Old One who still lived.
The amount seemed small, a large scratch or minor bite. Khe'sha slowed, sniffing to the right and to the left. Shen had come this way, but not by swimming. Her scent touched the swamp grass and hung thin in the air. The Old One's blood lay on the swamp grass, as well, and Khe'sha chuckled deep in his throat. The hatchling had teeth.
Rage built in him, and he fought it down. Seven other mounds called to him, with seven other nestlings. He must not follow this scent for long, no matter how important.
He pushed forward through the grass and reeds and water. Each stroke of his tail pushed him farther from the nestlings. He remembered Po, always searching. He remembered Ka, always hungry and sure where to find her next meal. He had not yet visited Liu and Kai on this circuit. Shen's scent pulled him forward. The others tugged him back. He thought the tension might split him in the middle.
He had searched too long. He could feel it. He raised his head and memorized the lines to the keep, to a tall tree, to the path of the sun, telling him exactly where he stopped. He stood for a moment, quivering with the tension drawing him in both directions at the same time. Then he turned.
Liu had wandered, but could be found. Kai slept on her heap of mud and reeds, fat belly to the sun. Khe'sha pushed on through his route, finally returning to Ka and Ghu. He found them safe and separate. He found Po and dumped him back into a hole in the muck and buried him almost to the water line. Let the rascal dig for
