“We’re good, Mom,” said Harper. “Is it okay if James and Lei-li come over for brunch?”
After a raucous family meal, I left the cleaning up to the teenagers with the excuse I needed to call the hospital. The number was in my phone—had been since my ex and I had moved to the island with two rambunctious little boys in tow. “Hi, this is Calliope Jones. Friends of mine were brought in last night, and I was wondering if they were up for seeing visitors today?”
“What are their names?”
“Abigail and Clifford Pearmain.”
“Let me ask at the nurses’ station.” Voices in conversation and attendant hospital beeps and rattles filtered into my ear then an “Oh,” and everything was muffled until a different person spoke. “Who did you say is calling?”
“Calliope Jones.”
“May I ask what your relationship is to the Pearmains?”
“Family friend,” I answered.
“They were signed out about an hour ago by their granddaughter, Jessie Pearmain.”
Sucker punch to the gut.
“Can you tell me when they’ll be back?” I asked, keeping my voice calm.
“They’re on their way to a private clinic. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you, Ms. Jones. If you need more information, you’ll have to speak with Officer Kaukonen at the RCMP station.”
I thanked the voice for their help, thumbed the off button, and placed my phone facedown on my desk. Jessamyne had the Pearmains. Again. I flipped my phone over and pulled up another number.
“Officer Jack Kaukonen.”
“Jack, it’s Calliope.”
“Calli,” Jack said, “what’s up?”
Crap. Should I dance around or go right to the point? “The other night, when you stopped at the house, you said you smelled something coming.”
“Yes,” he answered, drawing out his response. “I did.”
“You met that something early Friday morning, after your stop at my house. You helped that something bring an elderly couple to the hospital. That same something got those people checked out of the hospital this morning.”
“What?” The scree of metal chair pieces rubbing together scratched at my eardrum.
“Abigail and Clifford Pearmain are part of an extremely sensitive and ongoing investigation into a series of deaths on this island and at other orchards in the Pacific Northwest,” I explained. “All of the dead are Magicals. Hidden folk.”
“Calliope, stop right there. I’m coming to your house, and we’re going to talk.”
“Better I come there, Jack. Or you’re going to start asking a helluva lot more questions and Cliff and Abi don’t have time for me to give you all the answers.”
I brushed my teeth, gathered my keys, phone, and cross-body bag, and let Wes and Christoph know where I was going. Raised eyebrows and nods were all the response they gave.
At the station, the five seats in the corner of the waiting room were occupied. The two clerks behind the chest-high brick-and-glass divider juggled paperwork, ringing phones, and an impatient family trying to see their uncle, who was drying out in a holding cell.
Jack was waiting. He waved me in, covered the sign-in sheet with his broad hand, and steered away one of the clerks with a, “Personal business, Helen. I’ll be about fifteen minutes.”
His tiny office continued the theme begun in the hallway: gray concrete block walls, a gray metal desk, and mismatched chairs. He positioned the chair in front of the desk to face mine and sat. I grimaced at metal on metal.
“Talk to me, Calliope,” he said, leaning his elbows on his knees. His hand circled the smartwatch on the opposite wrist, worrying it in one direction then the opposite. “And please don’t lie. I really, really hate it when friends try to pull one over on me.”
I started at the beginning, laying out the story from my first visit to the Pearmain orchard, and why I was there in the first place, all the way to my Blood Ceremony and the celebratory party and its aftermath. I was adrenalized from being inside the station, in front of Jack, and the words spilled out. Judicious editing occurred simultaneous to the telling. He didn’t need to know about Tanner and me and our awkward mating dance. I kept the details focused on the orchards, the hidden folk, and Abi and Cliff.
I also left out the whole thing about speaking with the dead while in magic-cloaked burial mounds. There was only so much I had time to share. When I finished, I gripped the arms of the chair and took a deep breath. And another, in through the nose and out through the mouth.
A distinct, commercially produced smell greeted my nostrils. I recognized the fake pine woods of a deodorant Harper had once tried and Leilani had nixed within the first fifteen minutes of application. Either the station’s cleaning crew used a pine-scented soap, or Jack used the same deodorant.
“Calliope?” He leaned forward and tapped one of my hands.
“Sorry,” I said. “I just noticed a smell, and it distracted me.” I had the wherewithal to blush at being caught sniffing the air around an officer of the RCMP.
“I’m on hour twenty of a twenty-four rotation, Calli. Do I need to shower again?” he teased.
I shook my head. “No, not at all. The scent just got me wondering about shifters and their heightened sense of smell.”
“And you wonder if we have a heightened body odor to go along with that?”
“I’m sorry this conversation is veering off course…” I started.
“We can,” he said, “when our hind brain kicks in because we’re being threatened. Or aroused. Or when it’s been a long summer day and we’ve been chasing criminal elements all over the island.” He leaned away from me. “Shall we get back to the purpose of your visit, or is there more you’d like to know about shifter physiology?”
Now I was sweating and, I was sure, putting out the scent of someone trapped in a cage of their own making.
