Page 1 of Skinwalker's Bane
Chapter One
The most depressing thing about Lincoln’s memorial gathering wasn’t that the man had died from a fist-sized chunk of rock passing through him at a fraction of the speed of light. The most depressing thing, as far as Adam could figure out with his mildly pickled brain, was that the gathering feltnormal. He had attended far too many of them. He even had a routine for them, that was simple but adequate—find Haydn and the other skinwalkers, drink heavily until the gathering was done. Screw polite behavior. Sod “normal”. Even printed alcohol could smother the ache if he drank enough of it.
Only, this wasLincoln’smemorial.
Adam had arrived at the Midnight Garden early, snagged three spiced ales before the servery was overwhelmed, then moved straight to his usual table. Other early guests milling about the Garden, chatting politely and softly in deference to the dead, sent him puzzled looks. He ignored them. He didn’t feel awkward about drinking alone. Besides, this was medicinal.
He had nearly finished his second mug of the stuff, his tongue numb from the spices, when Haydn’s big hand settled on his shoulder and squeezed. Haydn put two mugs, twins to Adam’s drinks, on the table. He had been holding them in one hand. He pulled out a chair.
Noa Doria slipped onto the chair on Adam’s other side. She barely had to move the chair away from the table to do it, she was that tiny. It was only her physical dimensions that were pint-sized, though. The General Director of the External Engineering Institute was a power-house of energy, drive and will-power.
She rested her hand on Adam’s arm, her black eyes huge. “How are you doing?” she asked quietly.
“Fine,” he told her.
She tilted her head and looked at him steadily, one brow lifted.
“Leave the man alone, Noa,” Haydn said. “He’s only had one mug. Ask him about slippery stuff in two mugs’ time and you might get a better answer.”
Noa gave a small sigh and smiled. “You’re both as bad as each other. You shouldn’t keep everything locked up so tight. It’ll corrode your innards.”
Adam leaned over to punch into the table’s server and order Noa’s usual, green tea and honey. He pushed it in front of her and picked up his mug. “The spice is already taking care of the corrosion.” He drank deeply, finishing the mug, then shoved it out of the way and reached for the third.
Beyond their corner table, Adam could see guests arriving in a steady stream. He knew most of them. Skinwalkers and Institute people. Bernice, the Bridge Guard sergeant, was there looking grim and sad. She and her unit spent most of their time around the Second Wall, where the Institute was located. She nodded at him, her mouth twisting into a grimace.
Adam lifted his mug a little in acknowledgement.
There were a dozen or so Patricians among all the Esquilinos and Capitolinos. The Patricians looked over-dressed and awkward, here in the Capitol. They clumped together self-consciously, their colorful and strange clothing marking them as Aventinos and Palatinos, making them stand out among all the grays and blues and browns the Plebians wore.
Adam wondered how much of the weird clothing had been made by Gelin Merritt’s partner, Liya. It seemed as though every Patrician wore her creations these days.
Haydn up-ended his first mug, draining it. He plunked it back on the table and let out a soft belch.
“You catch up,” Adam said, pushing Haydn’s second mug in front of him and getting to his feet. “I’ll get the next ones.” The bank of serveries in the middle of the Garden could produce the complicated spiced ales, while the table server handled more straight-forward beverages. Adam didn’t mind the forced activity right now. He wasn’t numb, yet. Later, when he had reached the point where moving took too much effort, he’d let someone else get the drinks. For now, squeezing between guests and strangers and waiting for his turn at the servery gave him something to focus on, instead of letting his thoughts wander back to Lincoln.
He joined the end of the shortest line. At the beginning of every memorial gathering, there was always a long line waiting to get drinks. He knew that from experience, too.
The people in front of him were Patricians and strangers. They stood stiffly and silently. Of course, they would be used to having their drinks served to them. Probably by a Plebian.
Far closer to the front of the next line over, someone waved, drawing Adam’s attention. It was Corin, his housemate. He was an overweight man with a loud mouth, as many short men seemed to have. The freckles over his nose didn’t help strangers take him seriously. Neither did his wrinkled clothing. Corin always looked as if he had been living in the same shirt and pants for a month, even though Adam knew he wore fresh clothes every day, for the dirty ones littered the floor of their apartment and hung over the backs of chairs, stools and other unexpected hooks and projections.
His slob-like ways and disheveled appearance were as deceptive as Noa’s size. Corin was an excellent skinwalker.
Corin held up his pudgy fist, as if he was holding an invisible mug. He hoisted it a little, then held up one finger and raised his brow. He was asking if he could get Adam’s drinks for him and save Adam from waiting.
Adam snorted and held up four fingers.
Corin rolled his eyes and nodded, then turned back to face the front of the line. There was only one other person ahead of him in the line and Adam realized it was the equally short, but far more slender Peter Hannah, his other housemate. Peter was there to help carry the drinks and perhaps help pay for them, so Adam stepped out of his line.
The Patricians in front of him gave him a startled look, their noses down in disapproval. Adam ignored them and went back to the table to finish off the third mug before Peter and Corin got there with the fresh drinks.
Six mugs later, Adam realized this usual tactic wasn’t working. He wasn’t numb. He wasn’t floating. His thoughts were chugging along just as they usually did, falling into the same tired channels.
Worse, the tightness around his chest was increasing, as the soft, reflective reminiscences about Lincoln continued. Everyone at the table, including Peter, was involved with the skinwalkers in some way and knew Lincoln nearly as well as Adam had, so the stories were particularly sharp and evocative.
Then he realized what was pricking him. Lincoln was usually the one to try out-drinking Adam at these things. Lincoln had always sat at this table, commiserating over the loss of yet another skinwalker. Lincoln was the one who got Adam through these. They helped each other.
Adam hung his head so no one could see his face as he dealt with the harsh truth.
