The Only Ones by Aaron Starmer Page B

plainly.
    “That’s okay,” Martin said. “Not everyone does. I’m just happy to have finally met you.”
    “And I you.” Nigel smiled warmly. “Comfy?”
    “Yes, very.”
    “Good,” Nigel said as he leaned against the doorjamb. For some reason, he wasn’t entering the room. “Now, I’ve been told about you,” he went on. “I’m sure you’ve heard things about me too. And the truth, well, it’s not nearly as interesting as you might hope. But that’s why you’re here, right? To learn the truth? To ask me questions?”
    “Okay,” Martin said with a bit of hesitation. “But you summoned
me
.”
    “I did. And you’re here to ask me questions.” Nigel’s voice was a boy’s voice, tuneless and fresh, yet Martin felt as though it had been living inside his head forever, whispering suggestions and giving orders.
    “Okay,” Martin said. “That’s fine.”
    “I’m not a god.” Nigel chuckled. “I have a gift. The animals are the gods. And they see and hear all. Then they tell me. And then I tell you. But only if you ask.”
    “So you do talk to animals?”
    “We communicate, yes.”
    “That’s amazing,” Martin said. “I’ve read about things like that, but I wasn’t sure if it was real.”
    “Faith,” Nigel said. “The word gets too mixed up in religion. It’s really about trust, isn’t it?”
    “I suppose so.”
    “
You
can’t hear the things that
I
can. If you don’t have faith in that premise, then what do you have? You can’t exactly trust my answers to your questions, can you?”
    “I suppose not,” Martin said.
    “You want a comfortable life here?” Nigel asked. “I can make sure you get that.”
    “I just want answers,” Martin told him. “Information.”
    Nigel paused. He patted the doorjamb with his hand in a slow, steady beat. “I’ve been told that you’re a hunter,” he said.
    Martin considered his response for a moment. “I … I … trap animals, but only for survival.”
    “Animals eat animals!” Nigel announced with a final, triumphant drum to the wood. “That’s nature. Animals are delicious. I eat animals. Not friends, of course.”
    Martin wasn’t sure whether to laugh. He chose to nod.
    “Wait here,” Nigel said. He ducked around the doorway for a moment.
    Leaving was an option. Martin thought of calling out that he was feeling ill, and heading for the door. It wasn’t that Nigel wasn’t acting perfectly nice. He was. Something was just weird.
    Before Martin could say a word, Nigel appeared in the doorway again. Instead of his mug of tea, he had the head of a deer in his hands. The head was not connected to a body.
    “Dismemberment bothers some,” Nigel said, finally stepping into the room. “Let the squeamish starve. Can’t kill or dress an animal? Perhaps you shouldn’t be eating it.”
    Noses took to the air as Nigel walked toward Martin. Blood dripped from the head and left a trail across the floor. Some of the dogs were quick to lick it up. Nigel presented the head to Martin, who took it because he figured he didn’t have any other choice. It was still warm.
    “Thank you,” Martin whispered.
    “Boris!” Nigel yelled.
    The dogs stopped licking the blood and all the animals’ heads shot up in attention. Their ears stiffened. They sniffed the air. In the other room, there was a steady click that was building to a crescendo.
    Like that, the animals were on their feet. Behind Martin, there was another doorway. A mad rush to that exit ensued. Within a couple of seconds, the only ones left in the room were Nigel, Martin, and the head of a recently departed deer.
    Until Boris joined them.
    Boris’s face peeked through under Nigel’s armpit and Nigel gave him a squeeze around the neck and a healthy pat on his furry chest. Boris snorted through his giant black nose in appreciation.
    “A Russian circus bear,” Nigel said proudly. “He
can
balance on a ball, but he would prefer not to.”
    “Are you joking?” Martin said