Part 9 (1/2)

That combination did not surprise Collins at all. It seemed to fit the hostile, flighty young man. ”So, you're all Randoms?”

Zylas stopped grooming. ”Who told you about Randoms?”

”Falima.”

Zylas shuddered his fur back into place. ”Yes. We're all Randoms. Except the pup. Once she came of age as a horse, Falima got fostered to guards.”

That seemed odd, though no more so than most of the other things Collins had learned here. ”Why?”

”All horses are guards.”

”Oh.” Collins asked the logical follow-up. ”And all rats?””We're vermin.”

It sounded shocking from the mouth of a human rat. ”Well, yes, but ... I meant what job do rats do?”

”Vermin were always discouraged from breeding, especially as Regulars. The only ones left come out of Random unions.”

”So your . . . mouse . . . mother . . . ?”

”Also a Random, yes. My father, too.” Though Zylas did not seem uncomfortable discussing these matters, as Falima had, he did change the subject. ”So, tell me about your world. I've seen many things that confuse me. Like why do you keep your white rats in cages while the brown ones run free?”

Chapter 7.

BY the time they reached Vernon's ramshackle cabin in the 'woods, Collins suspected he had raised more questions than he'd satisfied, which seemed only fair. He felt the same way about Barakhai. Falima grazed the clearing. Zylas pulled clothing over his pale human body. The dog romped around all of them, alternately begging pets from Collins and exploring every inch of their new surroundings. Collins did not see Ialin but suspected the hummingbird buzzed nearby, more cautious since being mistaken for an insect and clouted across the forest. Within moments, the door banged open and a man, apparently Vernon, appeared, britches hastily tied over thick legs, still pulling a coa.r.s.e linen s.h.i.+rt over his broad, brown shoulders. Though Collins had seen dark-skinned people in this world before, Vernon was the first who closely resembled an African-American in his own world. He sported close-cropped curls, full lips, and shrewd eyes nearly as dark as the pupils. Tall, well-muscled, and bull-necked, he made a startling contrast to the slight albino, who disappeared into his welcoming embrace.

Zylas and Vernon exchanged words briefly. Then, Vernon's gaze s.h.i.+fted across Collins to settle alternately on Falima and the wagging-tailed dog. He shook his head and addressed Zylas with a challenging tone.

Collins recognized ”Falima” in a reply otherwise gibberish to him.

Vernon nodded thoughtfully as he laced his s.h.i.+rt. He turned his attention fully on the dog and grunted something.

Zylas merely shrugged.

Collins looked at Falima. By the time he glanced back, Zylas was heading toward him.

”It's settled,” Zylas explained, drawing his hat down to shade his forehead. ”You and Falima remain here with Vernon. Ialin and I should be back tomorrow.”

Collins' gaze rolled to the dog. ”What about him?”

Zylas did not bother to follow Collins' gesture. ”The dog stays with you. Do what you must to keep us safe.”

Collins froze, hoping those words did not mean what he thought they did. He would not murder again, especially a child. He opened his mouth to say so, only to find Zylas watching him with distinct discomfort.

The rat/man held out his hand, fingers clenched to a bloodless fist. Collins watched each finger winch open, finally revealing the rose quartz stone. ”You'll need this.”

Collins stared at the translation stone. It made sense that he should carry it, as the others could all understand one another, at least in human form. Without reaching for it, he looked at Zylas.

The rat/man's lips pursed to lines as white as his flesh, and he dodged Collins' gaze. His fingers quivered, as if he battled the urge to close them safely around the stone again.

”This is hard for you, isn't it?”

Zylas nodded. ”I've rarely let anyone use it, and then only in my presence.” He glanced at the stone, and it held his stare. ”It's unique and irreplaceable.” He finally managed to tear his gaze free, to turn aworried look toward Collins. ”It's also illegal.”

Collins' brow furrowed. ”Illegal?”

”Magic of any kind. The royals hate it.”

The words shocked Collins. Shunning such a powerful tool seemed as absurd as locking away the secrets that science revealed. Yet, he realized, his world had done just that for many years now known as the Dark Ages. Despite himself, he found some logic in the realization that technology had brought the atomic bomb as well as computers, pollution along with transportation, thalidomide in addition to penicillin. With the good came the bad, and common sense could dictate none as easily as both. ”But, you're all magic-”

”Except the royals,” Zylas reminded. ”They don't switch forms.”

”Right.” Collins recalled his companion telling him that, though it seemed ages ago. ”Well. . .” Running out of things to say, he reached for the translation stone. ”. . . I'll take good care of it. I promise.” It seemed ridiculous to vow to protect a rock when he could not keep his own life safe, but he knew Zylas needed the words. ”One way or another, no matter what happens, I'll get it back to you.”

”Thank you.” The lines dropped from Zylas' face, and he managed a slight smile. ”I'm sure you will.”

Collins took the stone, oddly warmed by Zylas' trust. He wondered if he could ever win it from his other companions.

Zylas made a broad wave toward Vernon, who returned it with a grudging movement of his hand that looked more dismissive than friendly. Ialin zipped out of nowhere to hover at Zylas' left shoulder, then the two headed into the woods. Collins watched them until they disappeared among the trees. When he finally turned back, he saw Vernon leading Falima toward the cottage, the dog trotting at her hooves.

Certain Vernon's cottage would lack indoor plumbing, Collins thought it best to relieve himself before getting to know Zylas' friend. He dropped the rose quartz into a pocket of his jeans. As he walked to a secluded spot, he allowed his thoughts free rein. His limbs felt heavy, world-weary, and uncertain. He went through the motions of preparing to urinate, thoughts caught up in the realization that he had stumbled into something quite impossible. It amazed him how quickly he accepted companions who spent half or more of their lives as animals, his own transformation from mild-mannered graduate student to hunted fugitive under sentence of death, his need to find some magical doorway back to the world he had once thought alone in the universe. It seemed unbelievable that people spent their lives searching for creatures from other planets when a whole other world existed through a storage room in Daubert Labs.

Collins' urine pattered against dried weeds.

A distant, high-pitched sound touched Collins' hearing suddenly, and he froze. For a moment he heard nothing but the wind rustling through branches and his own urine splattering against dried weeds. A howling bark wafted over those sounds, sharp as a knife cut and followed by another.

Startled, Collins jerked, wetting his left shoe. Staccato words soft as whispers came to him. ”This way, this way.” ”No, over here.” ”Smell . . . smell target.” ”Smell.” ”Smell.” ”Smell.” ”Here!” Then a loud, trumpeting voice sounded over the rest, ”Hate wood-ground. Go home!”

Uncertainty held Collins in place. Only then, he realized he had wormed a hand into his pocket and clamped it over the worn-smooth rose quartz. Oh, my G.o.d! It's translating barks and whinnies. A worse understanding penetrated. They've come for us. Whirling, he sprinted toward the cabin, securing his fly as he ran.

Vernon met Collins at the door. ”Come,” he said in rough English. ”Hide you.”

Collins careened inside. The cottage had no windows. Thatch poked through the mud plastered between the logs. A crooked table surrounded by crudely fas.h.i.+oned chairs took up most of the s.p.a.ce.

Straw piled on a wooden frame filled one corner and, beside it, stood a chest of drawers. Near that, a trapdoor broke the otherwise solid floor.

Vernon thrust the dog at Collins with a force that sent man and animal staggering. He fell to one knee, arms, chest, and face filled with fur, managing to catch his balance, though awkwardly. Vernon shoved aside the dresser to reveal what seemed to be plain wall until he caught at something Collins had not noticed. Lashed logs that appeared as part of the structure glided open on unseen hinges, and Vernon gestured frantically at the darkness beyond it.Still holding the dog, Collins dragged himself into the hidden room. Almost immediately, his nose slammed against solid wall, and wood slivered into his right cheek. He barely managed to turn before Vernon smashed the panel closed, and Collins heard the grind of the dresser moving back into position.

Worried its claws might make scrabbling noises, Collins continued supporting the dog, one hand wrapped around its muzzle, the other grasping the translation stone.

For several moments that seemed more like hours, Collins stood in the silent darkness. Gradually, his heart rate returned to normal, and worse thoughts descended upon him. What if they find us? What if they take Vernon away? What if we're walled in here to die? The tomblike hush of his hiding place seemed to crush in on him, airless and boring, and he stifled an abrupt urge to pound on the door in a mindless frenzy. If the guards caught him, death went from ”what if” to stark and graphic certainty.

Shortly, Collins heard footsteps clomping down nearby stairs and realized several people had pa.s.sed through the trapdoor he had seen, likely into a root cellar. He had heard nothing of whatever exchange occurred in the cottage, but here their voices wafted to him in m.u.f.fled bursts.

”Why is it that every time we're hunting fugitives, the trail always ends here?” The voice contained clear exasperation.

Vernon's reply sounded gruff. ”Why is it that every time you're hunting fugitives, you chase them toward me? I'd thank you to stop. Puts me in danger. Would you like it if I started sending thieves and killers to your-”