The Beast

“This is the Northway.” Mary hit her directional signal. “It’ll take us through safely.”

Up the exit ramp. Into what little traffic there was at ten o’clock at night.

And then there it was on the horizon, like a different kind of sunrise, the city’s skyscrapers dotted with lights in random patterns.

“Oh, look at that.” Bitty sat forward. “The buildings are so tall. When mahmen took me over the river to the clinic, she made me hide under a blanket. I didn’t see anything.”

“How did . . .” Mary cleared her throat. “How did you get food? You lived in a pretty rural area—there wasn’t much within walking distance, was there?”

“Father would bring home what he wanted. We got what was left.”

“Have you ever, you know, been to a supermarket?”

“No?”

“Would you like to go to one? After we drive through here?”

“Oh, I would love to!”

Mary kept the speed at fifty-five as they went through the forest of buildings, the highway much like the lanes of the cemetery, fat curves bringing them close to the vertical stacks of countless offices before turning in another direction for yet another view of steel and glass.

“Not all the lights are off.”

“No.” Mary laughed. “Whenever I drive around here at night, I always make up stories about why someone forgot to hit the switch before they left. Were they rushing to meet someone for an anniversary dinner? A first date? The birth of a baby? I try to make it good things.”

“Maybe they have a new puppy.”

“Or a parakeet.”

“I don’t think a fish would be worth the rush.”

Annnnnnd that was the silly discussion as Mary made the wide loop through Caldwell’s financial district to hook up with a four-lane motorway that took them back in the direction they’d come from. The Hannaford she was heading for was about three miles away from Safe Place, and when she pulled into its parking area, there were only a few straggler shoppers going in and out of its brilliantly lit entrance, some with bags, others with carts, the ones yet to buy empty-handed.

After she parked, Mary and Bitty got out.

“Are you hungry?” Mary asked as they walked toward the automatic doors.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, let me know if you want anything.”

“There’s food back at Safe Place.”

“Yup, there is.”

Bitty stopped and watched the doors opening and closing. “That is so amazing.”

“Yes, I guess it is.”

As they stood there together, Mary thought . . . God, how many times had she gone in and out of an entrance like this, head buzzing with lists of things to buy, or stuff she was worried about, or plans that were coming later? She’d never given much thought about how cool it was that the doors regulated themselves, riding back and forth on little runners, neither too fast nor too slow as they were triggered by people.

Through Bitty’s eyes, she saw what she’d taken for granted in a totally different light.

And that was so amazing.

Without thinking, Mary put her hand on the girl’s shoulder—it just seemed like such a natural thing to do that she failed to stop herself. “See up there? There’s a sensor—when a person comes into the eye’s field of recognition, that’s what makes them go. Try it out.”

Bitty stepped forward, and laughed as the glass parted for her. Then she inched back. Leaned in and waved her arms until they separated again.

Mary just hung on the periphery . . . a big smile on her face, her chest full of something so warm that she couldn’t bear to look at it too closely.

* * *

Standing just outside Throe’s bedroom, Assail turned about to confront the female who’d made the inquiry of him—all the while wondering what level of complication this was going to result in.

But it was only the maid who had been transporting laundry as he had come up the mansion’s back stairs—and the doggen’s eyes were wide and a bit frightened, hardly a suggestion of trouble even though his presence had been discovered where he should not have been.

Assail sought to reassure her by offering an easy smile. “I’m afraid I am a bit lost.”

“Forgive me, sire.” She bowed deeply. “I thought that the mistress’s guests were arriving closer to dawn.”

“I am early. But there is naught to worry about. Are the main stairs that way?”

“Indeed.” The maid bowed again. “Yes, sire.”

“Problem solved. You have been most helpful.”

“My pleasure, sire.”

He paused before he pivoting away. “Tell me, how many are expected?”

“There have been six bedrooms prepared, sire.”

“Thank you.”

Striding off, he left her in the hall, making a show of pretending to take note of the decor as he strolled with his hands in his pockets. As he approached the main stairwell, he glanced back. She was gone—and given her station in the household, it was unlikely she would say anything to anyone. Maids were little more than washer/dryers who needed to be fed—at least in terms of the hierarchy of staff.

She was more likely to be rebuked for interrupting the butler, even though she had news that was pertinent to the household.

Assail proceeded down the main stairs on a saunter. After all, the best disguise in a situation like this was to be out in the open—and he was prepared, his story set.