Free Pandaemonium by Ben Macallan Page B

a lot more solid, apparently, than he had budgeted for.
    Still. He stamped his feet, paced back and forth, tried not to grin as soft leather folded itself around his feet. “Well,” he said, “I suppose that’ll throw the dogs off my scent.” And then, “Are there any dogs down there?”
    “Bound to be.” I was just playing along, but chances were there’d be some werewolves among the Stranded. Or other shapeshifters, but those were the most common. I guess dog-kinds still seek out humankind for company or comfort. Cats walk by themselves, and birds can always fly away from trouble.
    “Come on, then. Let’s go and measure their confusion.”
    “Hang on. We’ll find you a jacket first, just in case.”
    “In case of what? It’s not going to rain today.”
    No, but you may not be going home today. Or tomorrow, or the next day after. You may not have a home to go to any more. Granted that he could always go to his parents, or any number of other houses, and know that he’d be taken in and looked after – but I couldn’t. My best guess said that I was being hunted twice, by Jordan and the Cathars’ mercenaries. That made two good reasons not to go to any of Jacey’s regular hang-outs. I’d just be too easy to find, and I really didn’t want to bring any more trouble down on him or his.
    “In case you need the pockets,” I said lightly. “Start lifting those boxes down, will you, tall boy? There’s a hierarchy of clothing, and jackets are the peak of the pyramid, top shelf material. Don’t ask me in what world it makes sense to put the heaviest things highest up. That’s just what we do. Really I guess we ought to get a rack and hang them, but I don’t know where we’d put it...”
    Linen jackets, leather jackets. Nothing suited, until I found what looked like a genuine World War Two sheepskin flying jacket, worn and warm and romantic. Definitely second-hand, but. He protested, and I made him try it on anyway. As soon as the weight of it embraced him, he stopped fussing. Even before he saw the mirror on the back of the door, and checked out what he looked like.
    The last of the few, that was what he looked like. Tousled and diffident and indomitable, like a mighty schoolboy.
    Disturbingly much like the boy he’d been when we'd first entangled each other’s lives.
    That was something else not to be thinking about. I opened one more box on a shelf by the door, and started filling his useful pockets with useful things.
    “Hey, what...?”
    “What? Just because we’re Stranded here, doesn’t mean we have to beg like monks. Whatever we find, whatever comes in, Reno lets us use – and most of us don’t go out much, so there’s not much use for cash, so...” So there was money in the box here, money for the taking. I wasn’t touching it, but he needed cash to feel comfortable. He could pay it back later, if it hung on his conscience. I’d show him how.
    Folding money, then, a wad of notes taken uncounted from a fatter wad, all the cash that accumulates from jackets and jeans, pockets and purses and other stranger places; and a wallet to keep it in, people are always losing wallets; and a Swiss Army knife because he’s a boy and besides you never can tell when a tool may be actually handy. And a pay-as-you-go phone all loaded up with credit, in case I lost him and he had to call for help or for a friend or for a taxi. A bubble-strip of painkillers in case of need – someone else’s need, most likely; his kind aren’t much bothered by headaches – and a notebook and pen in case he felt old-fashioned.
    And then I was about done, but apparently he wasn’t. He reached an arm above the mirror, and hooked down one of a dozen caps that hung up there.
    Tried it on, checked the mirror, jauntified the angle and turned to me.
    “What do you think?”
    “Oh, absolutely. I think you need that.” I did think it, too. He needed something that he’d picked out for himself. I didn’t think a cap would