Once There Was: Chapters 6–11

Carefully, because I didn’t want to alarm him, I reached out a hand, so that his tails brushed against my fingertips. Each time they touched me, I felt the bracing rush of something powerful run through me, heard the muffled and indistinct whisper of a word in my ears.

It was painted an unassuming shade of beige and marked with a vinyl sign backlit by flickering neon tubes.

There were cobwebs under the eaves, and clots of dust in the corners of the sign.

A moment later, a slinking shadow emerged from the foliage and padded down the sidewalk on shaky, scrawny legs.

He was feral—a gray, mangy coat; white socks; and ribs that showed through his skin.

He’d been prowling this neighborhood since I was a little girl, always hungry, always wary of anyone who tried to get near. He must have been ten years old at least—ancient in feral cat time.

Occasionally a dead sparrow would show up on the doorstep—one of those inscrutable cat gifts that are at once both horrifying and touching.

After her dad died—aneurysm, out of nowhere—she sold their farm and moved to Oakland, where she found work as a vet tech.

I saw him struggle for English words, and then lapse into Farsi—not just with me, but at the grocery store, or with clients.

Fluorescent tubes lit the room in a stark, flat wash.

“Now you sound like your dad,” said David. “I get it. It’s hard to let go. But it’ll only get messier, the longer you wait.” He paused, a wistful look on his face.

The woman left the room with a curt nod, and shut the door behind her.

“It’s said that the only way to procure a carbuncle ruby is for the carbuncle itself to willingly give it to you. And the carbuncle will only give its stone to an honest soul.”

They’re not a reward, though they can be rewarding. And they’re not a punishment, either, though they can be punishing. They’re not here to save us or damn us. They don’t explain themselves. They just enter our lives one day, and then there they are—full and complete and unequivocal.

Most of the light in the hallway seemed to emanate from the walls, and as I stepped out of the elevator, I began to see why.

“In an earlier life, this was part of a missile silo,” he said.

In another, a white stag with golden antlers looked up from a patch of heather.

He looked up the long hall, at the rows of enclosures teeming with strange and impossible creatures.

He watched the serpent undulate across the enclosure, several inches above its leafy floor.

I thought I saw something move, a flank, maybe, long and sinuous and predatory.

The man wore a white doctor’s coat and walked with a proud, shuffling gait, like a small king surveying his lands.

He glanced over and looked me up and down with obvious disdain.

Dr. Batiste gave me a dismissive look. I think he was about to make a snide comment, but before he could speak, something whipped through the air inside the enclosure and smacked the glass, hard, just below my face.

Legend says that the manticore has a scorpion’s tail, a lion’s body, and a human face. I’d say that’s roughly true, except for the face. It has skin, two eyes, one nose, and one mouth, more or less in all the places you’d expect.

As its paw came to rest on the floor, the manticore let out a high, soft mewling sound. The muscles of its leg twitched. It took another step, and again it uttered a quiet wail.

Another whimper, coming just as the paw splayed out onto the floor.

Looking closer at the manticore’s paws, I could see tiny triangles of black keratin extending from each toe.

He looked at the manticore, which was still watching us with placid malice.

A shaft of light caught on something round and red, and it blazed as bright as fire.

Overhead, banks of radiant lights gave the illusion of sunshine, and a leaf-studded mesh canopy cast a dappled shadow on the ground.

Horatio looked like a spectator at a sports game, his hands in his pockets, an expression of rapt attention on his face.

I felt like something intimate and private was taking place, like the carbuncle was confessing some personal secret, just by giving me her attention.

And he pointed to a shadow, hunched over and skulking under the bed.

So when I need your father’s help, I simply tell them Sturges is sick again. He’s been my cover for all the others, all these years. My poor, dear, incontinent cover.

It was just Sturges then, and he had a skin ailment.

I made discreet inquiries, and Jim—your father—was recommended.

Electric golf carts loaded with gardening tools or boxes of bulk foods trundled down worn side paths that led off the main road.

A herd of sheep grazed a low knoll behind a wire fence.

He ran his fingers along its pristine contours.

“He’s proud, but at the end of the day, he’s also fair. There’s housing here on the estate, free of charge. Meals included. Full benefits. And not to be crass”—he smiled—“but I pay well.”