“I hope he’s a better old friend than Barreto.”
“And nicer to look at.”
“And the smell?”
“That I can’t guarantee.”
We hurried down the sandy beach. A steep slope of tough, moss-covered stone and sand rose on our left, with the waters on our right. We had gone a mile when Torvus turned us onto a rocky path that led up into a forest of short trees. The aspen-like trees stood only ten feet high and were gnarled from the many winds that blew off the ocean. Beach grass sprouted up from their roots, and stumpy bushes popped up here and there.
The trail led us far enough from the beach that I couldn’t see the ocean, but I could hear the crashing of the waves. The scent of foliage battled with the odor of sea salt, creating a sickening mix of salty wood. We wound our way through the mess and arrived at a clearing a half mile inland.
A small shack stood in the middle of the meadow. Tall beach grass covered the ground except for the path that we followed. The shack was surrounded by small metal bird cages, but there was something odd about every one of them: they didn’t have any doors. A thick stone chimney puffed out white smoke, and the windows showed someone moving inside.
“Your old friend lives here?” I guessed as I was led up to the door.
“It’s a family home.”
We stopped at the door, and I studied the cages. “Did he go into a family business?”
“Yes. The Carter family has been flying the birds for generations.”
“What kind of birds?”
He grinned as he rapped on the door. “The kind that can slip through any crack.”
Footsteps approached the door, and the entrance was soon opened by a man of about forty. He had an impressive mustache on his face, one that stretched from chin to chin. The rest of his blond hair was slicked back, and his brown eyes had a keenness that reminded me of a bird. He wore a simple blouse, shirt, pants, and heavy boots. His fingers were stained black by something.
The man’s eyes widened at the sight of Torvus. “Marc! What in all the seas are you doing here?”
Torvus grinned. “Just come to check up on you, Marty.”
Marty scoffed. “I doubt that. You want something.” His attention fell on me, and his eyebrows shot up. “Who do we have here? She doesn’t look like the type you usually run around with.”
“What’s that type?” I asked him.
He shrugged. “Usually those with bigger busts and fewer brains, but there’s a sharp look in your eyes.”
Torvus gave his old friend a look of warning. “You’re not helping me, Marty.”
Marty’s smile stretched his face as he stepped aside, and he swept his arm toward the interior. “Then let me make it up to you by inviting you inside and offering my help. That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“I like to make the most of my time by visiting old friends when I need their help,” Torvus countered as he guided me inside. “But I’ll take you up on that offer of an apology.”
“Of course,” Marty mused as he shut the door behind us.
Chapter 25
The shack was made up of three rooms: the kitchen, main room, and a bedroom, with a bathroom at the back. All three rooms were covered in wallpaper, but not the flowery kind. This wallpaper was bland white and so patched that it looked like a quilt. Even the ceiling was covered in the strange decor. The plain wooden floor boards were sanded, but otherwise undecorated. Cages lined the walls to our left and ahead of us. They also didn’t have doors, and their bottoms were lined with more scraps of paper. I didn’t see any bird droppings, but the air had a definite odor of old paper and ink. It was as strong as ten libraries.
The other oddity of the room was a wooden hanger on the wall over a tall table. Dozens of pens hung on the wood, each different from the rest, though they were all black. A bookcase sat beside the table and was filled with dozens of books. Many of them had titles on the spines that mentioned birds and wildlife.
Marty led us over to the crackling fire in the hearth and gestured to the couch. A coffee table sat in front of the cushions and was covered in scraps of paper. “Have a seat. I was just making some birds.”
“Birds?” I repeated as Torvus, and I sat down.
“Deckle birds,” Marty told me as he took up a pair of scissors and a plain sheet of paper. “You can never have too many, especially when the older ones start to tear apart.”
I blinked at him. “Tear apart?”
