“Cai said Ming was in Asheville,” Occam said.
“I am aware. There is no audio,” FireWind said.
“Her stance suggests she’s issuing a challenge,” JoJo said. “Or maybe answering one?”
On-screen, Ming and Cai rushed into the night. The screens went black.
“And then there is this video,” FireWind said. “Jo?”
Her reply was garbled and sounded far off. The cell screen went black again.
My house was cold, so I checked the stove and decided there were enough coals to light some kindling. I piled cedar curls and heartwood pine shavings in the center, muted mymicrophone on the phone, and opened the stove’s airflow vents with a clang.
The cell screen brightened again. “We received this from one of the city’s finest, on scene at Ming of Glass’ former clan home, recorded ten minutes ago.”
Occam and I exchanged a glance.Former clan home?I mouthed.
The video showed flames and flashing lights and people in heavy firefighting uniforms. Smoke obscured everything. There were dead bodies in the driveway and what looked like blood in pools and trailing away. The video moved from showing the drive and the dead vamps to the house, which was in flames, fire billowing from the windows. It looked like a total loss. I hoped Ming had a hidden underground lair or she’d be looking for new quarters before dawn.
The cell camera moved around more to show the barn and several outbuildings also on fire. The battle had been devastating.
“This is not PsyLED’s case. Not yet. But keep your cells close,” the boss-boss said.
I activated my cell’s mic. “Joooones,” I said, changing it from JoJo to her last name midword, “and FireWind. Yummy stole Occam’s car about five minutes past and left here, moving fast.”
“I got a feeling Yummy took my car to get to Ming’s,” Occam said.
“I see. Occam, do you wish to press charges for car theft?”
“Not unless she damages my baby,” he grumped.
“Keep me apprised. We’ll do the same.”
The conference call ended.
The flames caught in the firebox of the old Stanley woodburning stove. I added more wood. Mud was standing in front of the refrigerator, pulling out jars of veggies we had opened at our last meal together, lima beans, chicken stock, a covered pottery bowl full of the remains of a roasted boned chicken, a half jar of diced tomatoes, and a bowl of diced celery, onions, cabbage, and garlic from the garden. Competent as an adult cook in a diner, she began to assemble soup out of what we had on hand.
Tired as I was, I cleaned off a workspace and got outbuckwheat flour and spelt flour and began making fresh noodles for the soup. Occam brought in more wood, made sure the pipes were not frozen, and set the table. As we worked—already a well-honed team—Mud told us all about the goings-on in the church: whose baby had colic, who had gotten poison oak from winter firewood, and who was having marital issues. Then, proud as a peacock and trying not to show it, she told us the latest goings-on in the new women’s council, a group of women headed by my own mama as an elder for the women, created to resolve disputes in households between sparring wives, disobedient children, and abusive husbands.
The church had problems—huge problems—but they were trying to do better, be better.
Minutes before serving, Mud’s chatter ran down and the house went silent. I dropped the soba noodles into the broth and filled the mugs on the table with hot tea. I took in Occam at a glance. He was watching us from the dark near the bedroom door, leaning against the jamb, his arms crossed, wearing jeans and a Henley, his feet in socks. He looked good enough to be on the menu too. His hair was lighter than it once was, streaked with blond, and in the shadows my cat-man looked completely healed from burning, though I knew he wasn’t, not yet, not quite.
He gave a small nod. We had planned this part of the conversation on the way to pick up Mud from Esther’s.
Casually, I asked, “Mud. Has anyone at the church said anything about the devil dogs lately?”
“Nope,” she said lightly. “But if them critters show back up, Sam and the boys got plans to trap ’em.”
“Not kill ’em?”
Mud looked up fast, her wide eyes the shade of gray mine had once been. “That there would be murder.”
“I’m not accusing,” I said gently, ladling up the soup. “But if they don’t kill ’em, what will they do with them?”
Mud frowned. “Ain’t nobody said.”
I made a small sound, as if her information was insignificant. But it might be important.
