in a tone that was not at all dignified. “Who else would it be? I must speak to the babies. Put them on at once, Marc.”
“Aw, God.” The blonde sighed, shaking her head and staring at her shoes. Which were striking, Fred noticed. She herself had been known to wear flip-flops to a fund-raiser, but recognized beautiful foot gear when she saw it. These were high heels—spike heels?—with a black base, and beautiful bright flowers had been painted over them in vivid reds, greens, yellows. ¶
As the blonde began to pace, Fred saw she had no trouble walking in the teetery heels. They could have been last year’s ratty tennis shoes, they seemed to fit her so well.
“. . . yes, well, Elizabeth is on her way to meet the young lady in question, and I have more shopping to do for the babies. So would you please put Fur on for Daddy. And then Burr. And then both!”
“Cannot believe, cannot believe you’re turning into one of those guys, Sinclair. I might not ever save you again if you keep this up.”
“. . . that’s all right; I shall wait . . . Hello? Marc?” He glanced at his companion, who was rubbing her temples. “Are you having trouble hearing me . . . ? Perhaps this is a poor area for . . . Hello? Marc?” He began shouting into the phone. Perhaps Marc was trapped in a blizzard with a dying cell. “Tell my babies Daddy is calling and I have bought them all kinds of snacks and shall buy still more! Fish snacks! From Boston!”
Argh, enough. She could stare at the tourists all day; it wouldn’t make Fehr go away, it would only make everything take longer.
Her phone buzzed and she pulled it, glanced at it, then texted Jonas back: CAN’T SEE YOU NOW BUSY MAYBE LATER. Sure, like that would have any effect.
She pulled her badge and her key card, and headed to one of the side entrances for employees. Not that she was one. But being a mermaid who used to work for the NEA had its advantages: pretty much every aquarium in the world wanted her to have drop-in privileges. Her old boss, Dr. Barb, had given her an ID and the keys to the castle more or less in perpetuity.
Fred didn’t give the tourists another thought until she found herself trying to push the blonde’s nose out through the back of her head.
Tuesdays! Sheesh.
CHAPTER
THREE
Betsy Taylor, vampire queen and exasperated wife, noticed the lanky, frowning redhead at once. There weren’t many people around, for one thing, and her husband, Eric Sinclair, had gone insane; that was the other thing. Betsy was, therefore, interested in anything that did not involve acknowledging her husband’s recent insanity. Thus, the redhead, who seemed in a hurry yet was dithering outside the Big Boston Aquarium or whatever the heck it was called, caught her eye.
Leaving her insane husband to go about his insane business, Betsy followed the redhead, who looked to be in her midtwenties and was dressed in a torn T-shirt (not artfully torn, torn torn, as in, it was old and ratty and the fabric had given way due to wear and tear, as opposed to tear and tear), a pair of paint-spattered jeans (also torn torn), and (shudder!) pastel blue flip-flops. None of which Betsy much cared about; besides, you couldn’t make people care about their shoes. The accessories she appreciated were the employee ID around the redhead’s neck and, presumably, the key card to go with it. She was too old to be an intern, and wasn’t dressed like someone in corporate, but the fact that she was here after hours with ID was promising.
You picked a bad day to linger, Red. And a . . . yeesh! A bad day to skip a shower. Do all the employees smell like that?
As the redhead started to let herself into a side entrance, Betsy walked straight up to her, tapped her on the shoulder (literally speaking), and then seized her brain (figuratively speaking). “Take me inside, please. Right now, no questions.” Please had been unnecessary; the redhead had no choice. Still, Betsy hadn’t
“Aw, God.” The blonde sighed, shaking her head and staring at her shoes. Which were striking, Fred noticed. She herself had been known to wear flip-flops to a fund-raiser, but recognized beautiful foot gear when she saw it. These were high heels—spike heels?—with a black base, and beautiful bright flowers had been painted over them in vivid reds, greens, yellows. ¶
As the blonde began to pace, Fred saw she had no trouble walking in the teetery heels. They could have been last year’s ratty tennis shoes, they seemed to fit her so well.
“. . . yes, well, Elizabeth is on her way to meet the young lady in question, and I have more shopping to do for the babies. So would you please put Fur on for Daddy. And then Burr. And then both!”
“Cannot believe, cannot believe you’re turning into one of those guys, Sinclair. I might not ever save you again if you keep this up.”
“. . . that’s all right; I shall wait . . . Hello? Marc?” He glanced at his companion, who was rubbing her temples. “Are you having trouble hearing me . . . ? Perhaps this is a poor area for . . . Hello? Marc?” He began shouting into the phone. Perhaps Marc was trapped in a blizzard with a dying cell. “Tell my babies Daddy is calling and I have bought them all kinds of snacks and shall buy still more! Fish snacks! From Boston!”
Argh, enough. She could stare at the tourists all day; it wouldn’t make Fehr go away, it would only make everything take longer.
Her phone buzzed and she pulled it, glanced at it, then texted Jonas back: CAN’T SEE YOU NOW BUSY MAYBE LATER. Sure, like that would have any effect.
She pulled her badge and her key card, and headed to one of the side entrances for employees. Not that she was one. But being a mermaid who used to work for the NEA had its advantages: pretty much every aquarium in the world wanted her to have drop-in privileges. Her old boss, Dr. Barb, had given her an ID and the keys to the castle more or less in perpetuity.
Fred didn’t give the tourists another thought until she found herself trying to push the blonde’s nose out through the back of her head.
Tuesdays! Sheesh.
CHAPTER
THREE
Betsy Taylor, vampire queen and exasperated wife, noticed the lanky, frowning redhead at once. There weren’t many people around, for one thing, and her husband, Eric Sinclair, had gone insane; that was the other thing. Betsy was, therefore, interested in anything that did not involve acknowledging her husband’s recent insanity. Thus, the redhead, who seemed in a hurry yet was dithering outside the Big Boston Aquarium or whatever the heck it was called, caught her eye.
Leaving her insane husband to go about his insane business, Betsy followed the redhead, who looked to be in her midtwenties and was dressed in a torn T-shirt (not artfully torn, torn torn, as in, it was old and ratty and the fabric had given way due to wear and tear, as opposed to tear and tear), a pair of paint-spattered jeans (also torn torn), and (shudder!) pastel blue flip-flops. None of which Betsy much cared about; besides, you couldn’t make people care about their shoes. The accessories she appreciated were the employee ID around the redhead’s neck and, presumably, the key card to go with it. She was too old to be an intern, and wasn’t dressed like someone in corporate, but the fact that she was here after hours with ID was promising.
You picked a bad day to linger, Red. And a . . . yeesh! A bad day to skip a shower. Do all the employees smell like that?
As the redhead started to let herself into a side entrance, Betsy walked straight up to her, tapped her on the shoulder (literally speaking), and then seized her brain (figuratively speaking). “Take me inside, please. Right now, no questions.” Please had been unnecessary; the redhead had no choice. Still, Betsy hadn’t
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