Her eyes went wide as he touched her. “Actually, I would.” She looked sharply at me. “The reaver locked him in their storeroom.”
I studied Gregory thoughtfully.
“What happened to her?” asked Gregory.
Cassandra filled him in. Even though she skipped a lot it still came out sounding überscary. He started backing toward his car before she was halfway through. “Where are you going?” she asked.
“I . . . I’m sorry, Cassandra. I can’t become involved in this.”
“But . . . her dreams. They could kill her, Gregory.”
I held up my hand before Cassandra felt like she had to beg the guy. “Let him go. He’s safer away from me. It’s what I’ve been trying to get you, Bergman, and Cole to do practically since the day we met.”
Gregory nodded his thanks and took off, not even waiting for his gift certificate.
“Very interesting.” We turned our attention to the handsome, bald black man from SWAT. The van had pulled up shortly after Gregory had charged out the door and though the five guys who’d dismounted seemed pretty disappointed to have missed the fun, one had strolled over to listen in. He’d also used Cassandra’s distraction to his advantage, openly admiring her while I wondered if there was any way on earth I could hook them up.
I stood. “Cassandra, my ID is in my left front pocket. Would you show it to Sergeant . . . ?”
“Preston,” he said, his voice a silky bass that made Cassandra stand a little straighter.
Cassandra retrieved my CIA identification, allowing me to sink back into my chair before the street could spin any faster.More juice, I decided, taking a couple of generous swigs before I inhaled another cookie.
Preston took some time examining the plastic he held. When he gave it back to Cassandra, their hands brushed and she gave him a long, sad look before turning away. Was she truly shrugging off this gorgeous young ass-kicker?But . . . Cassandra . . . he’s SWAT!
“What can you tell me?” he asked. I knew it. Quick to pick up on my unspoken message but no doubt patient enough to lie still in the hot sun for hours until he got the order to pull the trigger. If these guys resembled Cleveland SWAT at all, they worked the paranormal cases. If not, oh well. I still felt I could trust them.
“Are you familiar with reavers?” I asked. He shook his head. Unsurprised, I said, “They’re killable, but just barely. I got one last night near the festival. He’d already murdered a man, but I nailed him before he could rip the guy’s soul off the good and narrow. You getting me?”
“You’re talking some high-level demon shit, right?” he asked. I nodded. “We don’t get much of that here. Mostly run-of-the-mill stuff. Coven wars. Revenge cursings. Domestic disputes over questionable potion use. That kind of stuff.”
“Well, here’s what I can tell you. I was just attacked by another reaver, apparently the first one’s floor boss. I seem to be the only one around who’s able to see these monsters’ weak spots, but I wasn’t finding one on this creep.” I gave him a full description. “You find Yale, I suggest you use the big guns. Flatten him with a steamroller. Drop a bomb on him. Do not underestimate him, okay?”
“Should I expect some weird shit to go down at the festival this week?”
“If it does, and we need backup, I’ll give you a call.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his card. Handing it to Cassandra, he said, “See that you do.”
Sergeant Preston made sure nobody else came to bother us, except an EMT who smelled of stale cigarette smoke and looked like she’d been up for the past forty-eight hours. I was the only one who didn’t wince when the makeshift bandages came off.
Desmond had marked me permanently. Four deep wounds in the back of each hand still oozed blood, but at a much less life-threatening rate. “You’re going to need stitches,” said the EMT.
For some reason a picture came to mind that I couldn’t shake. Granny May bent over her quilting, moving that needle steadily up and down as she hummed “Rock of Ages,” looking up every once in a while to smile at me as I lay on the floor playing solitaire, trying to get her cat, Snookums, to move its butt off my cards. Unexpected tears filled my eyes.
“I am?” I said.What the hell? Counting grade school, I’d probably had more stitches than a Victorian ball gown.
“She may be feeling a little shocky,” the EMT told Cassandra.
Cassandra pointed to the puddle under the table. “All that blood is hers.”
The EMT nodded. “Better bring the cookies and juice then.” I let the ladies help me into the ambulance and didn’t even protest when the EMT covered me with a blanket. Sometimes it’s nice to be comforted.
CHAPTERFIFTEEN
Thirty-two stitches, twelve cookies, and five cups of juice later, Cassandra and I arrived back at the RV. Bergman’s irritation abated somewhat when he saw my war wounds, but he still didn’t want us there, watching him do his top-secret, need-to-know-level engineering. So we dumped our gear and went back outside. Someone, probably Cole, had set five neon-green lawn chairs out front under the awning. I supposed we were now TV stars, having set off the cameras inside the Chinese lanterns, but it didn’t matter. Nobody was awake in the bedroom to watch us.
“I am beat,” said Cassandra, slouching down so she could rest her head against the back of her chair. “How am I supposed to do any readings tonight when I feel like burnt toast?”
“Fake it,” I suggested.
She looked at me with the kind of horror Granny May might’ve experienced upon hearing me utter a dirty word. “Are you kidding me?”
“Cassandra, you have to do an hour-long show plus one ‘prize’ reading afterward, and if you’re lucky it’ll be for dragon-breath. Where’s the harm in telling people they’ll find true love or get a lucky break?”
Her face pinched like she’d just bitten into a lemon. “It’s just not done by genuine psychics. It’s unethical.”
“Okay, chill. I was just trying to help you out.”
She rolled her head toward me and smiled tiredly. “It’s just been such a long day . . .” Yeah, I guess I had put her through the ringer. The fight had been bad enough, but in its own way, the hospital visit had been worse.
I’d ended up enjoying the ambulance ride in a pathetic I-haven’t-driven-this-fast-in-weeks kind of way. On the way I’d developed a strange sort of sugar rush. At the hospital I’d been transferred to a wheelchair and almost immediately freaked Cassandra out by popping a wheelie. Hey, I might as well celebrate my recent triumph, since clearly no one else would. We’d been waiting in an interim room (the hallway) for several minutes when I noted her swiping at an escaping tear. Now that bothered me.
“Are you still upset about your vision? Or was the fight too much for you?” I knew she’d seen plenty of violence in her time, but I still hated to expose her and Miles to the seamy side of my work. A thought hit me. Was I truly about protecting them? Or did I just fear the way they’d look at me when they finally figured out what I was capable of? Ouch, definitely too hot to handle until later.
She’d thought about it awhile, her lips pressed tight, then she’d shrugged. “As much as I complain about my lot, I do enjoy living. When I think of all the places I’ve been, all the people I’ve met, all the wonderful curiosities I’ve explored and how, after all this time, there is still so much to see, so much to know”—she shrugged—“I’m afraid it’s finally slipping through my fingers.”
“Your visions, I know they come true a lot, but I really believe they’re just possibilities. I think what you see is more likely to occur. But in a world where anything can happen, you have to believe we can choose things. And we can change things.”