Page 40 of Up in Smoke

Got him with the glue and glitter?

Tuesday, June 23, 2043.

Asylum, Oklahoma.

The Alley.

Mansfield didn’t come callinguntil sometime after midnight. Aware we’d have a visitor, we’d shared the couch in the sitting room near the front door, peering through the window to check for shadows moving in the streetlights. Sandro spotted the man first, and he sighed, set his e-reader aside, and muttered a few curses.

“Good part of your book?” I guessed.

“I was also enjoying having a warm vixen keeping me company. Now I must work, and that’s not my idea of a good time.”

I put my e-reader on the end table, got to my feet, and did a tail check, pleased I’d gone the entire day without making a huge mess of my fur. “My tail will not bring shame, so I’m good to deal with some work.”

“I like how your tail’s status dictates whether or not you’re ready to cope with work.” Sandro headed for the door, and before Mansfield could reach the steps, he asked, “Busy night?”

I hurried over, wondering what sort of game Asylum’s ruler played—and what he wanted with Sandro.

Mansfield held a thick Manila envelope under his arm, which he offered to Sandro. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another. With the lull in the storms, there’s been a frenzy of activity, including Asylum residents returning to their homes to see if there was anything to salvage. What could be salvaged is being brought down, but it’s creating some drama, as we’re not going to mysteriously develop extra space. The warehouses are for survival supplies, not for antique curio cabinets they can’t fit in their homes.”

Sandro took the envelope and tucked it under his arm. “Like the music?”

I struggled to keep from reacting to Sandro’s question.

Mansfield chuckled. “I’m quite impressed. Beethoven?”

“Yes. I thought I’d go the classical route this time. Thank you again for bringing her cellar contents down. It’s not all that much, but it’s hers.”

“Yes, we’ve noticed that those on the outskirts tend to be easy to please but become very attached to the little things. I’ve included a printout of the weather forecast, as you’re probably tired. We’ve taken to closing Asylum after midnight and until six in the morning; the storms have been strongest at night. It’s cut down on accidents. We lost some of the sirens in one of the last blows, but once we can really start rebuilding, I think it’ll work out. There’ll be some residences above ground, but a lot of Tulsa will become premier commercial space with some luxury apartments. The outskirts, assuming we can build stronger buildings and the storms continue to subside, will become luxury neighborhoods. I’m looking into establishing city-owned properties for those who won’t be able to afford homes in the expanded Asylum or in the safer neighborhoods with excellent cellars. Your new deeds are in the folder, so take a chance to go over them. Swing by my office if you have any questions.” Mansfield hopped down the steps and headed off, waving his hand. “Sleep well.”

“You, too.”

Interesting. I waited for Mansfield to turn the corner before turning an ear back. “Sandro?”

“There’s a bench along the side of the house. Why don’t I recite that poem you were hoping for earlier?” Sandro gestured for me to take the lead, and I stepped down to the yard. Sure enough, placed along the side of the house, was a cast iron bench covered with wooden slats. I took care to avoid sitting on my tail and waited for him to eradicate the exterior bug—and anything that might be lurking within the envelope.

He sat with me, relaxed, and once again recited Edgar Allen Poe’s masterpiece. Like before, once he finished, I heard two pops, one of which came from the envelope. “Is that going to backfire on you?”

“No. I’m smart enough to exclude myself—and you—from my little surprises.” Sandro got up from the bench. “But let’s go back inside and deal with this in better light. That way, we can see what we’ll need to do tomorrow if anything.”

I followed him, and he led me to the kitchen, turning on the light before sitting at the table.

The Manila envelope proved to contain a ridiculous number of papers and a card, which shimmered in the overhead light. I pointed at it. “Is that the bugged thing?”

“Yes. When I find something I’ve deactivated, it glows like that.” Sandro went to his sink, picked up his dish gloves, snapped them on, and grabbed a cookie sheet from the cabinet he stored his pots and pans. He opened the envelope and dumped it out.

A sea of glitter and a round disc fell out along with a business card and a folded scrap of paper. Sandro chuckled, snagged the business card, and looked it over before showing it to me, revealing it belonged to Mansfield. He checked the scrap of paper next, snickering at what was written on it.

“Got him with the glue and glitter?” I asked.

“Apparently. There was one planted on the exterior of the house, so he plucked it off and got it all over his hand. He was thanking me for using a water-soluble glue for my bad idea of a joke.”

Snickering, I pointed at the other papers. “Can I touch those?”

“Absolutely. My little poem also purifies unwanted things like poisons or nasty things like anthrax. I have an allergy to death.”

“Strangely, so do I.” I picked up the uppermost set of papers, which proved to be a copy of the uncontested courtesan contract from the East, which had been verified to apply to all quadrants. The contract confirmed my status as Sandro’s wife. “Did you know, when I read and signed this crap, I missed that signing it made me the wife of whomever won me? What if a woman had won me?”