“She would have to give up nearly all of her energistic energy to take so small a size, and with it went much of her invulnerability and combative prowess,” said Mister Fitz. “Though not banished, she will not prey on any more large, blond-haired men for a considerable time, presuming she is ever able to amass sufficient gold to grow. So I suppose we have not entirely failed.”
“What!” exclaimed Sir Hereward. “You never mentioned . . . I thought it was young maidens—”
“Hereward,” said Mister Fitz, adopting his didactic voice. “As I am not an entertaining puppet, you are not a trained actor. Our plan depended on you presuming yourself to be not immediately at risk. Need I say more?”
“You could have told me,” grumbled Sir Hereward. “By the way, she said she wasn’t Harquahar-Drim-Jashar, she’s Jallal-Qreu-Kwaxssim.”
Mister Fitz’s head slowly rotated to fully face the knight.
“Hmmm,” he said, after a long, drawn-out moment of silence. “I need to check that name. It was most likely an attempt at misdirection. Though occasionally two dragons will join forces . . .”
But he spoke to the air, for Hereward was already looking for the way out.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollinsPublishers
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Hoard
Seanan McGuire
Seanan McGuire (www.seananmcguire.com) writes things. It is difficult to make her stop. Her first book was published in 2009; since then, she has released more than thirty more, spanning multiple genres, all through traditional publishing channels, and has been awarded the Hugo Award three times and the Nebula Award once (so far). We’re not entirely sure she sleeps. We’re also not entirely sure she isn’t a living channel for the corn, green grow its leaves, shallow grow its roots. When not writing, she enjoys travel, spending time with her cats, and watching more horror movies than is strictly healthy for any living thing. Keep up with her online where she posts many, many pictures of the aforementioned cats. Seanan would like to talk to you about the X-Men, Disney Parks, and terrifying parasites. She can be bribed with Diet Dr Pepper to stop.
Jasmine forgot her lunch again. It sits on the counter like a brown paper accusation, her name written on the curled-down flap in black Sharpie. Its six sibling bags have all been collected by their respective owners. Jazzy is my youngest, sweet and shy and still a little unsure that she really gets to stay. If I were still in the burning and pillaging business, she’d represent a virtual village of people who needed to be set on fire. Sadly, the modern justice system, while still as inefficient and unbalanced as any process from the past, doesn’t leave a lot of room for vengeful arson.
More’s the pity.
She gets disruptive when she gets hungry. She’ll be embarrassed if I interrupt class to drop off her food. But maybe that’s a good thing, for Jazzy. She’s still having trouble accepting the idea that we really want her here. Acts of aggressive affection have been successful with some of my children in the past, and it’s not as if love is a limited resource. Not when spent wildly. The only time I’ve known love to become limited is when people place limits on it.
Human children. Of all the things I could have devoted myself to in this terrible new world, it had to be human children. I suppose it’s no different than humans keeping venomous snakes in their homes. Sometimes we have the most love for the things that could destroy us.
The house is so empty during the day. Charles finally started college this term, and he’ll probably be moving out soon; my children always do, sooner or later, once they hit the point of feeling self-sufficient. They’re damaged enough by the time they end up remanded to my care that all the work in the world won’t make them comfortable feeling like they need to depend on someone else. The rug has been yanked out from under their feet again and again, leaving them uncertain of their footing. They leave me, but they stay in touch, all of them. The corkboard next to the fridge is a collage of Christmas and birthday cards, wedding invitations and birth announcements. They don’t forget where they came from, or that, while I may not have been their first childhood home, I do my best to be their last.
I pick up my cereal bowl and coffee cup, carrying them both to the sink, where I rinse them before placing them in the dishwasher. Everyone cleans up after themselves unless they’re sick or otherwise incapacitated. Finals week counts as incapacitation for our seniors. During the week of tests and the week of study beforehand, they’re waited on hand and foot by their younger siblings, very few of whom complain, since they know they’ll get the same treatment in time.
Collecting Jasmine’s lunch, I head for the door. I’m almost there when the doorbell rings. I half stumble before stopping myself and looking around the living room. It looks like seven children and teens live here, yes: the rug is threadbare, the shelves are a mishmash of books and board games. Nothing is newer than it absolutely has to be. I replaced the television three years ago, after Peter lost his temper and punched the old one. I docked his allowance for six months to pay off his debt to the household, and he apologized to all his foster siblings at the end of his punishment, even though most of them were genuinely thrilled by the upgrade. The old television had been on its last legs before his assault, after all. Despite the clutter, everything is clean. I am a good guardian to the children in my care.
Satisfied that there’s nothing about the environment that could be used to damage my family, I proceed to the front door.
The social worker on the porch is unfamiliar to me. He’s wearing a cheap suit—I swear those things are standard issue with the job—and fashionable glasses, and he’s studying the faded paint next to the door like it holds all the secrets of the universe. I clear my throat and he transfers his gaze to me.
“Patricia, ah, Dracan?” he says, tone implying that it’s a question, even though it’s a pointless one. This is my house. I am the only adult living here, although some of my current crop of children have come of age according to human law. Who else would be opening my front door?
“Yes?” I hold up the lunch bag in my hand. “I was on my way out. We don’t have a home inspection scheduled for today. How can I help you?”
Home inspections can come at any time. They’re less common than they were in the beginning. The agency is accustomed to me now; they no longer look at me and wait for the other shoe to drop, bringing chaos and broken hearts in its wake. There is another shoe, but it’s not one of the ones they expect. I don’t abuse the children in my care. They come to me bruised and bleeding, often on the verge of aging out of a system that was never equipped to truly help them, not in the way they need, and I give them what they need to flourish. I’m a gardener of sorts. I plant and harvest futures.
The man reaches up to adjust his glasses before he says, officiously, “I’ve recently arrived at this office, and I had a few questions for you.”
Of course he did. The new ones always do. I swallow my sigh as I place Jasmine’s lunch on the nearest end table, where it won’t be swept out of sight and forgotten, and I take a step back, making space for him to enter the house. His eyes never stop moving, sweeping over every surface, taking in every detail and filing it away, ready to pass judgment on what he’s sure is somehow a hidden house of horrors. His mind is already made up. I can see it in his stance, which has never varied down all the ages of Man. He thinks he knows better than anyone else what is good and just and right, and has no room in that knowledge for such as me.