Brother to Dragons, Companion to Owls - Jane Lindskold [48]
“No.” I can hear him shake his head. “Only me an’ Bumblebee an’ Chocolate an’ Head Wolf, of course.”
“Damn.”
There is a long pause, then she whispers again.
“I thought he might be able to get them away if we could distract the Bander-Log”—she tries to laugh at her tag for our enemies and fails—“and maybe turn out the lights.”
“Monkey folk?” Grey Brother does laugh. “I wish, Abalone, but these is meaner than the Bander-Log. You think you can kill the lights?”
“Know it. From the bit we saw, they gotta be using Head Wolf’s lines and I always helped him pay the power bills. But what good will it do? Without a look inside, we can’t see where our Pack members are or even in what shape they’re in. And without that…”
She shrugs hopelessly but I feel a rush of excitement and sick terror. I remember the day that Betwixt and Between told Conejito Moreno about Dylan and how all the Jungle had seemed to speak.
Now…I don’t know if I can do it, but again, I must.
I tug Abalone’s cape. “I am a brother to dragons, a companion to owls.”
She starts to hush me, then stops. “You are, aren’t you, Sarah. But can you do it?”
“The walls have ears,” I nod, gesturing toward the looming steel shell.
“What’s she mean?” Grey Brother asks.
“Sarah thinks that she can find out what’s going on in there, without us having to go in,” Abalone explains.
I hear a sharp intake of breath.
“I’m not asking. Head Wolf make her one of us and I never thought it was just ’cause she was a cute piece of ass. If she can do it—good—but how will she tell us what she learns? We don’t have time for her riddles.”
I have been wrestling with the same problem. Now I etch the pebbles with my fingertip, forgetting Abalone and Grey Brother cannot see what I am doing because of the darkness.
“When we mean to build,” I whisper, “we first survey the plot, then draw the model; And when we see the figure of the house, then we must rate the cost of erection.”
“No time for that…” Grey Brother begins indignantly, but Abalone interrupts him with a smothered laugh.
“No, Grey Brother, she doesn’t mean that kind of erection. She’s saying that she thinks that she can draw us a plan of what she sees—like a house builder would—and then when we see what’s there we can make our plans.”
I nod happily as Betwixt and Between snigger.
“I can’t understand her when she talks that way,” Grey Brother complains, but I can tell that he is hopeful. “You stay close so I can figure what she’s telling. Can she do her hoodoo from here or do we need to get closer?”
Closing my eyes, I stretch for contact with the Jungle, but the noises will not resolve themselves into anything I can follow.
“He seems so near and yet so far,” I admit, regretfully shaking my head.
“Then we’ll sneak in closer,” Grey Brother says. “Do you need to be near an opening or just near the Jungle?”
I open and shut my mouth like a cartoon clam, unable to find an answer. Abalone recognizes my dilemma and rephrases the question.
“Sarah, is getting nearer to the Jungle wall enough?”
Relieved, I nod.
“Good,” Grey Brother growls, “then we’ll go over by one of the Lesser Trail doors. Abalone, while she’s sketching, can you check out what it’ll take to kill the lights and then hustle back to rejoin us?”
“Done. Where do I meet you?”
Grey Brother hesitates, as if reluctant even now to share the secret Head Wolf entrusted him with.
“Over behind the south face—near the sign that says ‘mical Stor’ in orange paint.”
“I know the place.” Abalone nods and with a light pat for me she is gone.
Grey Brother motions for me to follow him and I do, matching step for step as Abalone taught me long ago. I wonder again if Grey Brother hates me for the disruption I have brought his home, his people. I am glad that I do not have the words to ask.
When we reach the metal wall, I huddle against it, gripping the barely perceptible curve of the surface with my flat palms. The metal is cold and slightly pitted although it looks quite smooth. In the faint ambient city light, I can see Grey Brother watching me with just the faintest