“I’m so sorry. One stupid rat, and I . . .” I stopped, puzzled by the look between the two.
Brynner cocked the Deliverator and held it easily, scanning the shadows. “There are no rats in this house. Scorpions, sure. No rats.”
At the mention of scorpions I panicked, trying to find my messenger bag. Rats I could live with.
He glanced to Aunt Emelia. “When did you last lay the barriers?”
“Spring. Bran and I redid them. Olive oil, amber, salt. Everything.” Aunt Emelia stopped her crushing hug. “Where did you hear the rat?”
“Under the floor while I was translating. Like the sound at my door last night.”
Brynner walked over to face me. “You heard something at the motel and you didn’t call me?”
“I heard a rat. Did you lay the salt outside my door?”
He nodded and handed the Deliverator to Aunt Emelia. “Is the crawl space hatch in the back bedroom nailed shut?”
She shook her head.
“Good. I’m going under the house to see what it is. Put that in the gun safe?” He didn’t wait, sprinting down the hall toward the bedrooms.
Aunt Emelia walked over to the kitchen and deposited the Deliverator on the counter. Then she took out a bottle of bourbon and poured a shot. “Here, you look like a mess. I’m sorry, we work to keep our boundaries up so the house is safe. One day with the boy home and there’s already a damned meat-skin under the house. Probably just a spare, nothing big.”
I shook my head. “Drinking on the job is strictly prohibited.”
From under our feet, Brynner shouted a muffled rant of curses, then the floor shook as something slammed into it.
I took the shot glass and downed it, gagging as the burning warmth hit me. “I’m sick of hearing meat-skins and shamblers and walkers and spares. I’m good at translating, I’m not used to this.”
She refilled it from the bottle. “Don’t you worry. There isn’t one field operative alive who didn’t start out confused and scared. Scared is fine. It keeps you alive. Confusion we can help with, once the boy gets back.”
Brynner returned, wearing cobwebs, dust, and a scowl. “There’s a gap in the barriers five inches wide by the back porch. I’ll get some salt and fill it in. Want to see our uninvited visitor?”
I hadn’t drunk nearly enough alcohol to prepare me for what he held up. In his grasp, a severed hand writhed, fingers clawing back and forth. He waved to me with it. “Say hello to your admirer, Grace. He’s not much to look at but can be handy in a pinch. I’ll be back once I’ve disposed of him.” He turned toward the kitchen and made it nearly two steps before a sharp whistle made him stop, and me take another gulp of liquid fire.
Aunt Emelia put her hands on her hips. “Boy, what have I told you about burning the dead in my good oven?”
Brynner froze, his shoulders hunched, and looked at the floor. “Not to. I’ll use the grill out back. Don’t worry, Grace, this one won’t be making any more trouble.”
I downed another glass and held it up for a refill.
By the time Brynner came into the living room, the sun had tipped downward and the bourbon had me warmer than the evening chill could touch. He’d showered and changed into a cotton shirt that stretched nicely over his frame.
The front door swung open and Bran bustled in, a pizza box in hand. “How’s my favorite woman in the world?”
Emelia shook her head. “We had an incident while Grace was working. Nothing major. Be a dear and put that Deliverator away.”
Bran took the gun off the table and gave me a thumbs-up. “Did you get it? Was it a big one?”
His question hung in the air unanswered. Which was answer enough.
Aunt Emelia lit the fireplace, and when it roared and popped, she plunked me down on the couch in front of it. “Boy, get your father’s manuals. You have work to do.”
And if it weren’t for the never-ending bourbon in my hand, I’d have died of embarrassment at the thought of him schooling me. Brynner left and returned with a leather binder the size of an encyclopedia. Inside, hand-drawn sketches of co-orgs filled the pages, with a dizzying array of names.
The BSI version I received in mandatory training showed simple naked corpses. The drawings decorating Brynner’s book would give me nightmares for months.
He sat beside me, making me feel like a schoolgirl studying— or not studying,