He inhaled with long exaggerated patience. "I don't know anything about any guns-at least not at my cabin."
It was my turn to breathe, and struggle to remain calm. "When we went to your cabin. . before you blew it up and tried to kill me. . I looked inside the window. There were guns, most in boxes. What were they for? What do the sons plan to do with them?"
He leaned back. "Guns? Really? In my cabin?" His expression was studied innocence. Then he raised his hands. "Sorry. A guy has to make a living."
"By selling guns?"
He shrugged. "That's so much worse than stealing and conning?"
"A picked pocket never killed anyone."
"Maybe, maybe not. Do you research your victims? Know that they don't need that last dollar to feed their families? Pay for some medication?" He leaned back against the door, looking superior. "Don't judge me, Zery. In a moral battle, right now you are going to lose."
He twisted his lips to the side, thinking. "Actually, though, I'm surprised they were still there. That whoever"-he glanced at me-"blew up my cabin didn't take them first."
"You're insinuating we would take them?" I laughed. "Amazons don't do guns, don't do technology in general."
"Yeah, I know. Rather stupid of you, actually."
We passed a sign saying an exit was coming up in one mile. I got into the right-hand lane.
My passenger had worn out his use. It was time to get rid of him.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend." His expression said he did, or at least didn't regret doing so.
"I can see that. What I can't see is how driving you back to my camp will be of any benefit to me."
He placed a hand on my forearm. Since I was driving, I didn't jerk away, just waited, tense.
"Sorry. I'm being honest; just maybe not as serious as I need to be. Go ahead. Pull over. Maybe it's time we had a real talk."
A real talk. . made me wonder what spilling my guts before had been.
I took the next exit. At a deserted roadside park, I stopped the Jeep, and without speaking we both got out.
We took up positions on opposite sides of a bird-dropping-adorned picnic table.
He leaned forward, placing his forearms on the table as he did. The sleeve of his T-shirt pulled up, revealing the bottom half of his wolverine tattoo. I made a concentrated effort not to stare at it. My fingers curved toward my palm; I wanted to lean across the table and touch the animal-see if I could feel the difference between his givnomai and mine, feel why his gave him the power to shift and mine didn't.
"Maybe you'll feel more comfortable if I tell you a little more about myself. As I said, I'm Jack Parker. I'm one hundred and twenty years old and I've known I was a son since I was twenty-two and shifted for the first time."
My eyes widened. "But your tattoo-?" I thought the tattoo gave the sons the power to shift, but if the shift came first. .
He lifted his sleeve, completely revealing the wolverine. It was the first time I'd seen it clearly and up close. It was colored exactly like he was when in the animal's form and looked just as intimidating with its lips curled and its teeth clearly visible. My fingers twitched; I hid them under the table. He gave me an appraising look. I had the uncomfortable feeling he knew of my disturbing need to touch his art.
"Got it when I was eighteen. I had no idea the guy who volunteered to give me a free tattoo was a son. Didn't know sons existed." He turned to the side and leaned toward me. "Go ahead."
I looked past him, as if his suggestion was insulting.
He smiled and pulled down his sleeve. "The offer," he whispered, "is always open."
I ignored the tingle that went from my fingers down to my toes-at least enough to keep a look of bored impatience on my face.
He patted his arm where the wolverine was now hidden under his shirt, then continued. "The night I shifted five sons revealed themselves to me-got pretty torn up in the process too." He caught my gaze. "Them, not me, nothing like a frightened wolverine who doesn't have enough sense to know he's a wolverine. Bad news."
"Why make you one, then? Whoever gave you the art had the choice, right?" I tried not to look too interested, but I couldn't help myself, I was. The sons were little more than myth to us, and a new one at that. To have one sit down and reveal so much. . it was seductive. I stiffened, realizing that sometime during the conversation I'd relaxed, let down my guard.
Aware now, I looked around and checked to make sure there was no one or thing in sight. A squirrel skittered up a tree; grabbed my attention.
Jack laughed. "Not one of mine."
I shot a stare at him. "How do I know? How do you know?"
He shrugged. "Just do. It's the magic; I can feel it. I'm surprised you can't."
I paused. "All the time or just when they shift?"
He studied me for a second. "I think that's something you should figure out on your own."
For a moment I thought he was going to do it then, change into his wolverine form, but he just smiled and patted the table with his flattened palm. "In answer to your question, I asked for a wolverine. The artist didn't prompt me or give me choices, just asked of all the animals in the world which one appealed to me, which one I'd want to know better."
"And you picked a comic-book character. Too bad you weren't a fan of Spider-Man."
"Think you would have crushed me?"
"Right under my boot."
The air between us grew tense; I could feel energy bouncing between us. Anger. Impatience. Then he laughed.
"Doesn't work that way, and you know it. I didn't pick a wolverine out of a comic; comics didn't exist yet. I simply was meant to be a wolverine or I wouldn't have chosen him."
I still wished he'd picked a spider, with my feelings for the arachnid, there would have been dual pleasure in stomping him out of existence. But he hadn't and I was stuck with him as he was.
"So," I prompted, "the sons found you and what? You started working for them?"
"Not for them. It's not a job."
"What is it?" They weren't Amazons. They didn't have our history, weren't a tribe with a high council.
"It's. . " He frowned and shook his head. "It's who I am, my history."
I snorted. "What history? You said it yourself, you didn't even know you were a son until you were twenty-two. What kind of history is that?"
He scowled. "You're a snob. Did you know that?"
A snob? I drove a ten-year-old Jeep I didn't even own and shared a house with, at times, twelve women. I had very little besides my underwear that belonged totally to me. Even it at times got mixed in with others in the wash and wound up on another body.