Cassandra went back into Sustenance. When I saw her rise to her full height, I realized the manager preferred that we leave as soon as possible. But it was hard to deny that regal command in her slashing hands (How ’bout I just cut off your head, you uncooperative peasant?) and her tone of voice. The snacks turned up just before the cops.
I wolfed down my first cookie, watching with interest as five squad cars pulled up, forming the spokes of half a wheel with Sustenance at the hub. A couple of nice officers began interviewing the hysterical moms, shortly after which two cars pulled away and headed off in the direction Desmond had taken.
A ruckus behind me distracted my attention. A small man with a pointy nose and enormous ears waving from behind his straight black sideburns came rushing out of the café followed closely by the manager.
“I have been banging on that door for a solid fifteen minutes! Don’t tell me you didn’t hear me!”
“I am so sorry, sir,” said the manager. He had a please-don’t-sue-us tone in his voice as he said, “Could I offer you a gift certificate for two complimentary dinners before you leave?”
Cassandra rose from the chair beside me. “Gregory?”
He came to her and grabbed her outstretched hands. “Cassandra! You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through!”
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.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
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.”
“I want to . . .”
“What about that guy, Sergeant Preston? How come you brushed him off?”
More tears welled in Cassandra’s eyes. “When I touched him, I saw . . .”
“What?”
“He has a little boy from his first marriage. His widowed mother depends on him and his three brothers adore him. And he is going to die trying to save me.”
“Wow, that does kind of put a big old stinky blanket on the budding romance.”
“Jasmine, I’m serious!”
“Oh for chrissake, Cassandra, why do you have to be all gloom and doom lately?” I had an inspiration. “Why can’t you just jump in the sack with the guy, do the happy hoppy, and wallow in regret later like the rest of us lowlifes?”
“The happy hoppy?” She smirked.
“Hey, I’m a quart low here. You want clever, you better get me some replacement blood.”
“You are such a hypocrite. I know you have never just ‘hopped in the sack’ with anyone. It’s not in you.”
“Hey, if I want a lecture on my faults I’ll call my dad. Oh, that reminds me, I should call my dad.” I pulled out my phone.
“Jasmine,” Cassandra hissed, “we are not done here.”
“Yes. We are,” I said. “We have clearly established that your recent visions suck so bad we’re going to have to take drastic steps to break them. Also that you really need to get laid.” I bulldozed over Cassandra’s shocked intake of breath by greeting my father. “Hey, Albert.” I pointed to the phone, mouthed, “It’s my dad,” and turned my back to her before she managed to reach past her civilized veneer and smack me a good one.
“Jaz? Did you try to call earlier?”
“Nope.”
“Huh. Somebody keeps calling and hanging up.”
“Probably a telemarketer. Um, could you call me right back?” As in, on his scrambled line.
“All right.”
We hung up. Seconds later we’d reconnected in a way that was safer, at least from his end. “Look, Albert, I’ve encountered a creature nobody seems to know much about. It’s called a reaver. Third eye in the middle of the forehead. Badass shield that repels bullets and blades unless you can find the sweet spot. Takes souls but only under certain circumstances. I’ve been able to get some background on them but not much. I was hoping you could call some people. Maybe see if anybody’s ever dealt with one of these things before.” I really didn’t expect Albert to be able to help me on this one. But he’d rediscovered quite a bit of his pride assisting on my last case, so I was hoping we could continue the process on this one.
“Absolutely.”
“Thanks. Talk to you soon.”
“Will do.” Funny, in our thirty-second conversation he seemed to have shed ten years. Had he really felt that useless in his retirement? If so, maybe I should talk to Evie. No way could I keep him busy enough to maintain this new outlook. Maybe she could think of something.
“Lucille Robinson?”
Cassandra wheeled me toward the white-jacketed forty-something holding my file folder in her hand. She was studying me with an air of disbelief. “How in the world does a person get eight nearly identical wounds in her hands?”
“I’ve been hanging with the wrong crowd. My mother always told me it would come to this. I guess I should’ve listened to her, huh?”
She eyed my gauze-covered fists. “What did you do?”
“Would you believe I wiped out while trying to surf the handrail at the telephone building?”
She shook her head, her ponytail waving a double negative behind her.
“Would you believe I punched a skateboarder who was surfing the handrail at the telephone building?”
“That I’ll buy.”
“Sounds like we’ve got a winner,” I said just as young black guy with the name “Dr. Darryl” stitched on his lab coat entered the picture. For a minute there he couldn’t seem to decide which one needed more attention, me or my file.
“Ms. Robinson.”
“Hi, Doc. Would you believe I punched a skateboarder—”
“No.”
Clunk. All at once my adrenaline rush from the fight fizzled, my goofy survival high vanished, and the don’t-worry-be-happy bubbles in my poor blood-deprived brain burst. “I think I need to lie down.”
Cassandra helped me to the table and laid her hand under my cheek because some sadistic nurse had stuffed the pillow with concrete blocks. As I rested my head in her palm, I had my own vision. My blood-soaked corpse lay on the glowing wooden deck of the Constance Malloy. Desmond stood over it, tonguing my quivering soul while his third eye glowed brighter and brighter blue.
Dr. Darryl stuck a needle in my left hand so he could numb it, at which point I decided the entire medical profession was an oxymoron. My brain wanted to rant further, but the vision expanded.
Now the Tor-al-Degan arrived on the yacht. Not vanquished after all, just transplanted from Miami so she could finish the job she’d started. She shambled toward my failing soul, licking her chops, her pincers waving with delight at the prospective meal before her.
“Do you feel this, Ms. Robinson?” Dr. Darryl asked, pinching the skin of my numbed hand.
Do I feel it? Are you kidding me? I am in the middle of something absolutely epic. Me, Jasmine Parks, the girl who’s barely equipped to run her own microwave. I’m telling you, this guy I know, Raoul, has made a huge mistake recruiting me to fight these freaks. I can’t deal with them anymore. It’s not like they want to steal my credit card or sell me a bag of weed. Ramos wants to be emperor of the damn world, and Chien-Lung’s dragon suit could just get him there. And as if that isn’t scary enough, Creepy Reaver Dude is after the source, the stuff that makes me Jaz. And he could get it. He could do me till I’m done, and then what? Then what? THEN WHAT?
I started to shake. It wasn’t making the sewing any easier, therefore the doc did not approve. He frowned at me.
“She’s afraid of needles,” said Cassandra, shrugging when he gave her a perplexed look, as if to say, “Who can explain the human mind?”
I can. It’s a bat cave. A warren. A maze. And I’m about to get lost in mine.
Cassandra leaned over and whispered into my ear, “I saw that vision too, Jaz. It’s what they want you to see. They want the fear to mold to you, like a body cast. Because if you can’t move, you can’t fight. You were right before. We have a choice. We can change the vision. You were right.”
Was I? Big blank moment when I hoped somebody with the Big Answers (Yo, Raoul?) would jump in and give me a big yuh-huh.
Raoul’s busy, Jaz. So pick one. Are you right? Or are you crazy?
I had to be right. Had to. If not, I’d be spending the rest of eternity lying on rock-hard hospital beds, peeing into metal bowls and yelling for the nurse to pump up the volume on Wheel of Fortune.
I watched the thread pull the pieces of my broken skin together, one tiny stitch at a time, and thought it strange to be able to see yours
elf mended.
“Do you get torn up like this a lot?” asked Dr. Darryl.
“Yeah.”
“Well, as long as you’re in Texas, I guess I don’t have to worry about job security.”
Ha. Ha-ha. Hey, Doc, while you’re at it, can you stitch my soul back on nice and tight? I’m afraid it’s coming loose at the edges.
“Jaz?” I looked up, so immersed in the memory of our hospital jaunt that I was surprised to find myself sitting under the RV’s awning with Cassandra while kids yelled in the background and the smells of pulled-pork barbecue made my mouth water. She stood. “I think I’ll take a walk. Maybe it will clear my mind.”
“Okay.” I watched her go. When I looked back out at the bay, nothing had changed. The Constance Malloy sat there like a sore on the water, and nobody knew. “Bitch needs to burn,” I murmured. Checking my watch, I saw it was nearly setup time. Though we’d put the basics in place and practiced until we didn’t actively suck, we still needed some audio stuff and a couple of lights. Clearly Bergman’s area, but maybe he could use a hand. I hauled myself out of the chair, various aches and pains reminding me it was time for another dose of painkillers, and went inside to see if he needed a roadie.
He sat on the floor, his back supported by Mary-Kate. He’d returned all his gadgets and gizmos to their respective boxes. At present he clutched a small plastic cup in his hand the same way you might expect King Arthur to grasp the Holy Grail.
“I got it!” he gushed.
“Got what?”
“Our weapon! Here, let me show you.” He took a red capsule the size of an Advil out of the cup and handed it to me.
“What’s this?”
“A time-release neural jolt that will make Lung’s brain tell his body it’s had severe ultraviolet exposure. It’s hard to explain—”
“Even if you wanted to—”
Another One Bites the Dust Page 11
