Becca was just smiling at her. She was going to be absolutely no help. Jo turned her head and cleared her throat, worried about smoke on her breath. She wished she could go inside and brush her teeth, but even she knew certain moments could be lost forever and must be taken when offered.
Jo had very little historical data to rely on as to whether she was a good kisser. Apparently, there was some art to it. But this was only their second kiss, and she wanted to do her best. She tried to do what came naturally. And she enjoyed it, very much. She worried whether Becca was enjoying it too, and to Jo’s consternation, their lips popped apart as she yawned. Not a subtle, suppressible yawn, an irresistible jaw-cracker, and then Becca was doing it, too.
They leaned against each other and indulged in a mutual, whooping yawn that ended in a tired giggle, and Jo was not a woman who giggled. Her performance anxiety fled and she was filled with both relief and a creeping, numbing exhaustion.
Becca scratched Jo’s back lightly. “I’m useless in a kitchen, other than making cocoa. I make dynamite cocoa. Are you game?”
“I’m game. Then we sleep.”
“Then we sleep. Perchance to dream.” Becca accepted Jo’s hand to help her to her feet. “Sorry, I went into Shakespeare mode for a moment earlier tonight. I must still be there.”
Jo followed her to the silent house, hoping dreams would leave Becca alone for the night. Pam Emerson was due early in the morning for a brief check-in, and Jo wanted to stop by the archives at the UW Library for some research. She hoped to learn more about John William Voakes, and about Mitchell Healy’s aborted political career.
Jo was willing to trust fate would grant them at least one peaceful night before the craziness began again.
Chapter Eighteen
Jo dreamed of smoke, and even from the depths of sleep she clenched the arms of her chair like a vise.
Thick clouds of white swirled around the Lady of the Rock, hiding the cloaked woman and the girl kneeling beside her. Jo coughed into the bend of her arm, her eyes watering, and tried to see the Lady’s face through the gray billows and choking stink.
The statue swam abruptly clear and sharp into view. The Lady’s head turned slowly, the stern face shifting down to look directly at Jo. Her pointing fingers lowered protectively to spread over the girl’s vulnerable back.
The stone lips moved. “Save my daughter.”
It was Madelyn Healy’s voice, and the deep cathedral voice of the Lady, the voice of Artemis herself, for all Jo knew. Fear sliced through her and she jerked awake.
The living room was roiling with smoke.
The small lamp they had left lit near the entry was dark, casting the room in heavy shadows. The tiny lights from the radios were blurred by a shifting fog that stung Jo’s sinuses, galvanizing her with an atavistic, cellular awareness of danger.
Becca was thrashing on the couch even before Jo gripped her shoulders. She came awake with a wrenching gasp.
“Fire,” Jo barked. “We have to get out of here.”
“I’m running!” Becca flapped Jo’s hands off her arms, scooting off the couch. She coughed explosively. “Jesus, Jo!”
“I don’t see flames.” Jo bent and snatched up the Spiricom, then wrapped Becca’s hand in hers. “Stay low and breathe shallow.”
They inched around the furniture and made for the two stairs leading to the entry, adrenaline singing through Jo in a painful rush. The darkness in the room hung like a heavy curtain barring their way, but there wasn’t far to go. Jo listened so hard her scalp twinged tightly, and she heard it seconds before they reached the front door — the faint, low buzzing of a drill.
Damning caution, Jo grabbed the latch of the door and pushed. It budged half an inch and caught.
Someone was barricading the door, their way out. Someone who apparently was still kneeling on the other side, finishing his work.
“Jo?”
“Stay behind me.” Jo was dimly grateful she hadn’t removed her boots before falling asleep. She unleashed a powerful kick. The heel crashed into the door, but it held fast. The whirring sound on the other side cut off. Jo was caught up in a paroxysm of coughing. Becca clenched her forearm, and she straightened quickly. “All right, head for the kitchen. The side door.”
Jo pushed Becca in that direction, and hoped very much she could trust her memory of the large room, the layout of the furniture. The smoke was thick enough now to make visual navigation impossible, but she remembered where she left the bag holding her gun and Consuelo’s music box. She kept one watering eye on Becca’s progress as she moved as quickly as she could into the living room.
“Uh, no, negatory on the kitchen.” Becca was apparently back in crisis mode. Her voice was loud but unafraid.
Jo whirled and saw the red light fluttering through the crack beneath the swinging kitchen door. She heard the crackling of flames for the first time.
“Jo, the south window,” Becca called. “It’s big enough!”
Jo found the bag and snatched it before joining Becca. They groped toward the far wall.
Her fumbling fingers found the catch at the top of the long window and turned it. Jo pulled up the wooden frame with one titanic heave, and punched the wire screen hard. It clattered outside onto the lawn, and Jo heaved the Spiricom and the bag after it, freeing her arms to help Becca.
Becca lifted one leg over the window ledge. “This won’t be pretty,” she grunted, “but I’ll make it.”
Jo helped Becca clamber through the window and drop to the sloping grass outside, a fall of some six feet, and jumped after her. The fresh air hit Jo’s face in a welcome rush as she landed on all fours beside Becca. The impact was enough to punch the breath from her aching lungs, and she hovered for a moment, head down, until she could take in air again.
She reached out and grasped Becca’s wrist.
“Okay,” Becca gasped.
Jo hauled them both bodily to their feet, and they ducked away from the eaves of the smoking house. Jo was fully erect when she saw him.
“Becca, get the gun,” she snapped, and she was running full-bore one second later.
“What?”
Jo could hardly stop to explain. The man had made it to the top of the porch stairs, and he hadn’t heard her yet, he wasn’t even hurrying. Jo caught a quick impression of a slender figure in dark clothes carrying a toolbox. She targeted it and went airborne, sailing off the top of the steps and tackling the man halfway down.
Jo was gratified not to take the brunt of the landing this time, her second trip down these wretched stairs. She crashed solidly on top of the man and he flailed beneath her, even before their bodies tumbled to a halt on the front walk.
They were nearly matched in size and weight. While Jo was fairly muscular, their stalker was thin and sinewy, almost wasted. But unlike her opponent, Jo wasn’t practiced at personal combat. He bucked under her, smacking Jo in a place that might have incapacitated her, had she been male.
“Wrong gender, asshole,” she hissed in his ear. She snarled her fingers in his ragged hair and jerked his head back, then absorbed a painful punch in her side from his elbow.
They grappled on the concrete, and he twisted out from under her. Jo’s chest burned with old smoke and she devoted herself to simply hanging on to the prick, not letting him get away. He got off one smacking punch to Jo’s brow that almost dazed her, but her arms wrapped around him in a death grip.
He twisted and rolled and he was on top of her, gasping harshly. His small gimlet eyes were slitted. Jo felt his cold hands wrap around her throat, and she heard a crack.
The man’s head snapped back and he stiffened. His hands around Jo’s neck went slack. He started to tumble to the side and Jo encouraged this, growling and throwing his sagging body off hers to sprawl on his back on the sidewalk.