Page 2 of Skinwalker's Bane
Most of the usual people were at the table now. Cai and Ségolène. Corin and Peter. Dennis and Lizette. Anselm Bannister—one of the few Patricians Adam knew well, yet he barely behaved or looked like one after working for Noa’s Institute for so many years. Gelin and Liya had arrived not long ago. The other half of their household, Anar and Evan, was at home with their daughter.
Perez Kimberley, the gray-streaked skinwalker whom Adam was pretty sure he was going to tap to take Lincoln’s place on Adam’s crew as deputy chief, was gripping her mug of ale with fingers turning white under the pressure. She was a smart woman. She had probably guessed she would get the promotion. The idea of stepping into a dead man’s place was unnerving her, yet Adam had to have a deputy. The crewneededa deputy—and she understood that, too.
Adam knew everyone at the table very well. He considered them all to be friends. He still hid his face as the pain sharpened in his chest despite the liters of alcohol he had imbibed to stave it off.
Lincoln was gone and Adam would have to figure out how to deal with memorials by himself now. When they all staggered back to the Beehive tonight, it would be just the three of them, not four.
Haydn nudged Adam’s side. “Hey. You’re getting old and sluggish, Wary. I’m two ahead of you.”
That stung, too. Adam liked Haydn Forney. A lot. They understood each other without all the talk that most people needed to fathom the other. However, Haydn was the Institute’s Crew Director and usually didn’t drink at public events when the skinwalkers were attending. Instead, he rode herd on all of them, shuffling off the sloppy drunks, breaking up fights before they got beyond more than a few angry words, while still allowing them to vent their energies and work out their issues. Haydn understood skinwalkers better than any person on the ship and was brilliant at managing them.
Was Haydn managing Adam now? Drinking with him, matching mug for mug, because that was what Lincoln used to do? Probably—and that was what hurt. It was a reminder that Lincoln wasn’t here.
Corin, on the other side of the big table, leaned forward. Cai Lessie, at the other end, was telling some improbable story about Lincoln and his ability to unintentionally destroy any computer he used, just by talking to it. Corin spoke underneath Cai’s voice. “You okay, big guy?”
Adam lifted his head enough to glance at Corin. He frowned. “I’m fine,” he said shortly.
Corin nodded and leaned even closer. “I could maybe help with that.”
“More ale?” Haydn snorted.
“Something stronger. Something that will work better.”
Adam hunched over his mug, staring at the frothy red liquid inside. Skinwalkers tended to be intuitive. Corin didn’t need it spelled out that Adam wasn’t drinking just to get sloppy. As the drink wasn’t working for once, Adam lifted his head. “What’ve you got?”
Corin glanced around the table. No one was paying attention, except for Haydn and Peter, who was on Corin’s other side. “It’s a powder. You can even put it in the ale.”
“A powder?” Peter said sharply, although he kept his voice down. “What sort of powder?”
Chemicals were Peter’s specialty. He had invented the goofygel mail sandwich that every skinwalker’s suit was made out of and he had steadily improved and perfected the materials of the tools and equipment they used every day in the vacuum of space. Skinwalkers would have been far more vulnerable and exposed without Peter’s skills, even though he didn’t have a formal qualification of any sort. He knew chemicals because he was interested in them, so it made sense that talk of a strong powder would perk his attention.
Corin shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve got three envelopes left. You can have one of them, if you want.” He sounded as though he was being generous.
“A powder,” Haydn said flatly. “You been using it on shift, Corin?”
Corin shook his head. “Don’t need it out there. Adrenaline does the job.”
“Then why take it at all?” Haydn asked reasonably.
Corin looked bashful and awkward. His freckled face flushed. “I’ve been down, lately,” he said evasively.
That was an understatement. Corin went through periodic bouts of mild depression over his big body and lack of a partner. He usually cheered himself up with extra calories bought with his shift bonuses, which didn’t help him find the someone special he yearned for. Six months later the whole cycle would start again.
Adam considered Corin curiously. It seemed that this time through the cycle, he had tried something different; the powder he was referring to. “It helped, the powder?” Adam asked Corin.
Corin reached into his engineer’s jacket. “Better than anything, ever.”
“Better than hot chocolate sauce?” Peter said, amazed, for fudge sauce was Corin’s sure-bet cure. He would put it on anything he ate, including salty proteins. “Where did you get it from?”
Corin held out the tiny, stiff packet toward Adam. Peter plucked it from his fingers and looked at Adam. “Nota good idea,” he said, his voice low. “Let me have a look at it, first.”
As a close examination would take days, Corin’s miracle cure wasn’t going to be able to help Adam out tonight. He sighed and picked up his mug again. His tongue had grown completely indifferent to the spices a while ago. Now he could take longer swallows and not need to breathe through the impact on his taste buds.
Haydn jerked his chin at the little packet that Peter was turning over and over in his fingers. “Let me know if you find anything interesting,” he said. “Corin, who else is using the stuff, that you know of?”
Corin shook his head, frowning. He had a fondness for a beer that smelled like coffee and tasted like chocolate and he was on his fifth mug. It showed in his bloodshot eyes as he frowned. “Don’t know?” he said, his wavering voice making it sound like it was a question.
“Ask him when he’s sober,” Adam suggested. He knew why Haydn wanted to know. Anything that might affect the sobriety and judgement of skinwalkers had to be monitored.
