in two fingers; I would use the same fingers to punch in the code as I made my way through the two entrance doors.
Except that Occam met me partway down the stairs and took my gobags. “Hey there, Nell, sugar,” he said softly. “You look pretty as a picture.”
“A still life with plants? Maybe a skull? Giovanni Francesco Barbieri did a painting with flowers and a skull sitting on top of a book. I sorta feel like that. Still half-dead.”
Occam chuckled and looked up at the camera in the ceiling corner. I had a feeling that if it hadn’t been there we might have kissed. My face warmed at the expression on his—just a little frustrated. Just a little needing. Just the way I felt.
My cat-man carried my bags to my cubby. Cubby was office-speak for cubicle. I kinda liked all the modern words and slang I had learned. It made me feel included, part of the team instead of the backcountry consultant I had been at first. The country hick chick I had truly been. I locked away my weapon in my desk, put the plant in the windowsill with the herbs and lettuces I grew in the office, and stashed my four-day gobag in the locker room and the food in the break room. I rejoined Occam at his desk and we drank our coffees, chatting about the weather and the cool air that was blowing in. Everything was quiet. I liked this time of day in HQ.
Half an hour later, we joined both day and night shifts in the conference room. Everyone looked more perky than I expected, even T. Laine, who had been working day and night. She had bruised-looking circles beneath her dark eyes and her shoulders were slumped, but her clothes were fresh and her hair was clean and combed. I got the feeling that she too had slept last night. Null pens were lined up on the conference table in front of her.
JoJo was dressed in bright reds, a silky skirt and blouse, with her braids up in a massive bun, full of beads and sparkly things, and a half dozen gold earrings in each ear. Tandy, who I hadn’t seen for what felt like weeks but was really less than one, looked dapper in khaki pants and a white shirt with a dark jacket. His reddish hair had been cut short and the Lichtenberg lines that traced across his skin, from the lightning strikes that gave him his empath gifts, were bright against his pale skin. He was sitting next to Jo, looking over her shoulder at the screens as they loaded up the files for the EOB/SOB (end-of-business/start-of-business) debrief.
Rick and Margot were still on the case in Chattanooga. They would be back by the full moon, to shift and run on Soulwood in safety and privacy. I’d have to talk with Esther about that, and soon, if she was going to be living at the base of the hill. She might see them at night and I didn’t want her shooting my werecats.
Occam and I took our seats and opened our laptops and tablets.
Coffee gurgled in the coffeemaker, a full pot brewing, the red bag from Rick’s place of choice, Community Coffee, on the counter. The scent was . . . was home. My second home. HQ. With friends. As if he caught that feeling, or perhaps that scent on me, Occam slid a look my way and smiled, his blonder hair catching the pale light from the windows. I remembered the texture of it in my hands from yesterday, more silky than it had been, as he continued to heal from being dead.
FireWind entered last, from his back office. As usual, he looked as if he had stepped out of a fashion magazine: crisp white shirt, charcoal pants, black jacket, black shoes. I was pretty sure he owned nothing that wasn’t some shade of black or white. “Good morning,” he said. “Clementine. FireWind. Mark current date and time and open file for SOB meeting.” He dipped his head in a gesture that told us to ID ourselves and, one at a time, we stated our names. He took Rick’s seat at the far head of the table, which I didn’t like, but I kept my mouth shut. Like my sister, I’d pick my battles.
“We have an update on the names of the deceased,” FireWind said. “Stella Mae Ragel, Monica Belcher, Verna Upton, Connelly Darrow, Ingrid Wayns, Cale Nowell, Erica Lynn