Changer's Daughter (54 page)

The Changer finds Katsuhiro and Anson outside the guardroom on the ground floor, unable to get beyond the half dozen armed men who have built a semifortified position by overturning furniture and the like.

Anson is watching the corridor at their back while Katsuhiro trades shots with the guards. Two Nigerians he doesn’t know watch each other warily. The woman holds a knife.

Perhaps Anson’s own gift for shapeshifting makes him hold his fire when the owl flies into the corridor from an empty room. Perhaps he just figures an owl can’t do much harm, but he does smile when the owl resolves into the human-form Changer.

“Naked as a jaybird,” Anson says, “and twice as welcome, eh? Eddie or Dakar send you?”

“Eddie,” comes the laconic reply. “He’s getting tired of shooting shadows and wants to know when you’ll finish messing around in here.”

“We have a problem,” Anson says. “Six problems. We can’t get around them, and all the other ways out of the building take us across an awful lot of open ground.”

“Six?” the Changer asks. Then to Katsuhiro, “Susano, do you have an extra gun?”

Katsuhiro never looks away from the room he is watching, but he nods. The Changer, ignoring the Nigerians, who are staring at him with astonishment close to terror, walks over to Katsuhiro and accepts a handgun.

“It’s loaded already,” Katsuhiro says, squeezing off a shot. “Be quick. I’ve ammo enough, scavenged from the dead, but I cannot shoot forever without something jamming.”

“Of course.”

The Changer walks back the way he had come, pausing only to stare at Teresa and Taiwo. “See you later,” he says in soft menace. They don’t see him wink at Anson as he passes.

Returning to the empty room through which he had entered, the Changer contemplates shapes. He’s getting tired, but there are still floodlights operating inside the compound, so he prefers to travel quickly and in a shape smaller than a human.

Shifting back into an owl, he grasps the handgun in his talons. When he is outside the guardroom, he finds a sheltered spot cast into deep shadow by the spotlights glaring on the open area around the building. Then he shifts back into a human and crouches low.

Creeping around to the door, the Changer thuds his shoulder against it, making a loud noise. A shrill scream from within tells him that Katsuhiro has taken advantage of someone’s momentary inattention. No one on the wall has noticed him, so the Changer checks the doorknob. It turns easily.

Someone must have seen the turning, because the metal-jacketed door is shot at from within. That was stupid; the door is bulletproof, and the resulting ricochet wounds someone else.

Listening to the anguished sobbing, the Changer hazards another thump, gambling that nerves within are beginning to fray. It’s easy enough to be valiant holding your own against one man. It’s not so easy when suddenly there is an enemy at your back.

Again there is a shot, and this time Katsuhiro calls out—in Yoruban so the guards within are meant to understand his words—“Throw the grenade now! I’ve got this side covered!”

Grinning sardonically, the Changer heaves a rock through the already cracked pane of glass set high in the guardroom door. The sound of shattering glass is completely drowned out by screams and gunfire. He waits patiently. After a moment, Katsuhiro calls in Japanese:

“I think I have them all. Mind checking?”

The Changer, still watchful of his back and of the men patrolling the wall (though most of their attention seems to be for the darkness without, from which death comes with uncanny ease) obliges by opening the door, standing back, and then, when no further gunfire ensues, dropping low and peering through. He sees six men, dead or dying.

“All clear,” he says, “but hurry.”

The two Nigerians, herded by Anson, come quickly, but Katsuhiro hangs back.

“I thought I might get my sword while we have the upper hand,” the Japanese explains.

Anson sighs and mutters something about Katsuhiro’s change in philosophy being too good to be true, but he doesn’t protest. The Changer studies Susano.

“Or, knowing that I am here,” he says, “you hope that I will get your sword.”

Katsuhiro shrugs, not at all embarrassed. “It’s in the master suite,” he says, and gives directions. “I would owe you much if you would help me.”

The Changer nods. “Yes, you would.”

When Katsuhiro bows, accepting the debt, the Changer shrugs his shoulders preparatory to shifting shape one more time.

“See you outside,” he says, and is gone.

Stinky Joe is the first to push out from under the spell with which Louhi has ensorceled the Other Three Quarters Ranch. From his favorite perch in Tugger’s hay rack, he drops onto the horse’s broad back. The athanor horse does not open his eyes, does not even shudder his skin, just stands there splay-legged, so deeply asleep that his nose brushes against the sawdust bedding in his stall.

Stinky Joe takes a few worried licks at his shoulder. He might not be one of the Cats of Egypt, steeped in magic, but he is cunning, streetwise, and very, very old. Within the time it takes to shake the last persistent cobwebs of sleep from his brain, he has resolved to find Frank.

Entering the ranch house, the cat finds the same unnatural stillness that had reigned in both stables and barnyard. The clouded leopard sleeps before the cold fireplace, looking like an exotic rug. A pair of ferrets coil on an ottoman. Birds that should have awakened with first light continue to drowse with their heads beneath their wings.

Worried now, Stinky Joe streaks toward Frank’s room. He leaps over the menagerie sprawled around the sleeping saint and lands squarely on Frank’s chest. But for a slight “oomph” of exhaled breath, Frank sleeps on.

Joe butts his head against Frank’s cheek and is rewarded by a stirring. He butts again, hard enough to bruise, and Frank mutters a string of nonsense syllables. Reluctantly, for he views Frank as one of his many charges, Stinky Joe unsheathes the claws on his right paw and whacks Frank soundly on his rather prominent nose. This time, Frank’s eyelids fly open, and he sits up so rapidly that Joe must jump to one side.

“What the heck!” Frank expostulates. “Joe? What’s wrong?”

Even as the cat explains, Frank notices the light streaming in through the gaps in the window curtains, feels the stiffness in his muscles, and realizes that he has slept far later than he had intended. Usually the animals will not let him oversleep—being far too aware that he is the one who feeds them—so Frank realizes that Stinky Joe is telling the truth. Something has bollixed both him and his many-headed organic alarm clock.

Pushing a still-sleeping jackalope to one side, Frank swings his feet to the floor. Shuffling into his slippers, Frank hurries to the room where Wayne should be sleeping. The door is open, the room empty, and the young coyote who was guarding the door gone.

“Damn!” Frank curses. He’s about to hurry outside to see if there is any sign of Wayne, when Stinky Joe yowls, drawing his attention to the door that is always kept closed. It is ajar now, and when Frank hurries inside he sees that the mouse cage is empty. The ground squirrel remains in his cage, staring up at Frank from mismatched eyes that are empty of anything but vague curiosity about the lateness of breakfast.

Moving automatically, Frank fills the rodent’s food dish and checks that it has sufficient water. Then, closing and locking the door behind him, he heads outside. The haste is gone from his pace. He no longer expects to find either Wayne or the mouse. He just hopes he won’t find Shahrazad a crumpled heap of lifeless fur in some corner.

“Wake the others,” he tells Stinky Joe. “Start with the dogs. I need them for tracking. I’ll need a raven or jay to do some scouting.”

Stinky Joe blinks at him, catlike, considering whether or not to take orders, then flicks the broken tip of his tail in acknowledgment. After all, breakfast will be further delayed if Frank doesn’t have help. He does ignore Frank’s priorities, waking the felines first and delegating them to help him wake the others. It is far below his dignity
ever
to deal with dogs.

Meanwhile, Frank has gone outside, ignoring the cold November winds that whip through his pajamas and chill his feet through his slippers. One of the trucks is gone. That’s simple enough. He also finds the marks of the griffin’s talons and hind paws in the snow, side by side with the marks of small coyote paws. The snow coverage is scattered, so he cannot read the full story; however, he sees enough to draw some uncomfortable conclusions.

Sending a jay to warn the werewolves and unicorns, he goes inside. Tugger can feed the horses. It’s long since that Frank rigged something to that purpose. The other animals can wait a bit longer. He needs to phone Arthur.

“Pendragon Productions, Chris Kristofer speaking.”

“Chris, Frank MacDonald. I need to speak with Arthur.”

“Arthur Pendragon,” the King’s ringing baritone says a moment later. “How’s the situation?”

“Bad,” Frank says bluntly. “You might want to leave Chris on the line to save you from having to brief him later.”

“That bad,” Arthur says. There’s a click, and the sound takes on the slightly hollow sound of a speaker setting. “I’m ready. Both Chris and Bill are with me.”

Succinctly, Frank sums up his discoveries. The long silence on the other end tells him that his auditors fully understand the seriousness of his report.

“How,” Arthur says, and it is evident that he is struggling to sound mild, “did Louhi manage to accumulate so much power without your noticing?”

“I’m not a wizard,” Frank says. “She is. I fed her and cleaned her, but otherwise had little contact with her once she seemed settled into being a mouse. If she was hiding something from me, I’d never know.”

“But what about...” The King pauses. “Wait. I think I understand. The Cats of Egypt and the Raven of Enderby, all of whom are magically inclined, have been away from the ranch for over a month now.”

“And the less magical cats for at least ten days,” Frank adds. “She may have grown bolder without them present.”

Bill Irish chimes in. “Can you check her cage, find out if there’s anything to indicate how she did this?”

“I can and will,” Frank answers. “I can take this phone with me to that room. Meanwhile, I’m worried about Shahrazad. Can you contact the Changer?”

Arthur clears his throat awkwardly. “I’m afraid I can’t. He’s gone to Africa on some business for me. I’ve been meaning to tell you, but the last time we talked, the werewolf’s murder drove everything else out of my mind.”

“Africa?” Frank asks.

“Nigeria. Several of our people, including Eddie, have been out of touch, and there’s been some strange windstorm. The government’s denying visas, so I needed someone who could...”

“Right.” Frank sighs. “Damn. I was hoping we could get him here in time to track her down. As I said before, my guess is that she went after Louhi with the griffin. If we could find her, we should find them.”

“If they stole Frank’s truck,” Bill reminds, “you can report it to the police. They might find it—especially if you say that the thieves are dangerous, y’know, make up something about them assaulting you when they took the truck. You should be able to fake it.”