Page 21 of Darling Beasts

Chapter Thirteen

Gabby

“Welcome to the Ranch!” said Dad’s campaign manager as we stepped into the entryway, the heavy walnut door clomping shut behind us. “You’ll be staying on the second floor.”

I smiled thinly and glanced around, wondering where everybody was. No Dad, no Talia, not even a smug-faced Ustenya.

So. It happened. I was working for my dad, the one thing my siblings and I swore we’d never do. This was different than what we’d imagined, but by different it was also worse, and I wouldn’t have Diane at my side.

Diane. I was still reeling from the news. I felt horrible for getting her fired, but honestly, she didn’t seem too shaken up.These things usually work out for the best, she said. Also, the timing was terrific with Bill having retired in May.

“Oh. How nice,” I’d answered through my teeth, having forgotten about Bill’s retirement because I was an awful person who thought of Diane’s husband so infrequently, he could’ve been a fictional character from a book I neglected to read in high school.

Diane assured me that her firing changed absolutely nothing. We had a fifteen-year history, and she was there for me, night or day, but already I knew I’d leave her alone. Who wanted some old employer calling on the reg?

“Can you believe a Gunn has only one bag?” Tony the driver said to Ivan. “I don’t even need a luggage cart.”

“A light traveler,” Ivan said. “I love it.” Dad’s campaign manager reminded me of a vampire—white skin, black hair, an extremely pronounced widow’s peak. He might’ve been thirty or a hundred years old. It was impossible to know.

As I started to explain the light luggage (total lack of personal style), a prickly sensation washed over me. Something, somewhere, wentclick, click, clickity, click, nails on terra-cotta tiles. My vision clouded for a second and then cleared to reveal a white creature with pointed ears and a curled tail.

I staggered backward, sending a six-foot-tall candelabra crashing to the floor. Tony grabbed me before I went down, too. “Hey, hey, I’ve got ya,” he said.

“Are you alright?” Ivan said, and I was shocked to see his skin could turn an even more translucent shade of white. “I’m so sorry! I should’ve locked him up. Nobody warned me you were scared of dogs.”

“You know this creature?” I asked, attempting to regain my composure.

Ivan chuckled nervously. “Yeah, I mean, we’re not friends or anything,” he said. “But we are acquainted. It’s a Jindo.”

I made some kind of face because what the hell was a Jindo? It sounded like something my PBS might dredge up.

“Korea’s Fifty-Third National Treasure,” Ivan said. “I believe they’re in the spitz category?”

I snuck a glimpse of the Jindo. While it gave off dog-likevibes, it also seemed wilder, more feral, like some cross between a coyote and a white fox. “So it’s a dog,” I said to confirm.

The men exchanged concerned looks.

“Don’t worry,” Ivan said. “He’s friendly. Well. Notfriendly. He’s actually pretty aloof, but I haven’t seen him attack anyone.”

“Oh. Okay.” I pushed back my bangs. “Does he have a name?”

“Good question.” Ivan checked with Tony, who shrugged.

“Doesn’t it say Frosted Faces on the collar?” he asked.

“That’s the name of the rescue organization.” Ivan looked at me. “It’s your dad’s dog, so you’ll have to ask him.”

I stared at Ivan, unsure where exactly this conversation had derailed. “I think you might be confused?” I said. “My dad is extremely anti-pet. He doesn’t believe animals belong indoors. Maybe someone’s missing him? Should we put up signs?”

“It’s definitely your Dad’s,” Ivan said, and I contemplated whether I’d just lost my mind. “I thought a pet would be good for his image. They make great running mates. Get it?” He cackled, sounding exactly like Count von Count fromSesame Street. “Remember how Raphael Warnock borrowed a beagle when he ran for Senate?”

“Sure,” I lied.

“A lot of people credit the dog with his win. Long story short, we got this guy a few days ago from a place that rescues senior dogs.”

“A senior dog for a senior person,” Tony said, chortling to himself.

“He’s not that old,” Ivan said, and I wasn’t sure who he was talking about—the dog or my dad. “Somewhere between eight and ten, and he’s quite spry. The rescue folks were wary about your dad’s lack of experience—”

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