by Ware Wilkins
Her face goes pale and she shakes her head,her eyes open wide. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry, Sadie. Dr. Winston’s--”
“Dying. Yeah. And tell Commissioner Biscuit he doesn’t need to send you visions of sad stuff.” There’s a lump forming in my throat. The oven dings and I put on padded mitts to get the tools out. “Thanks, me too. He always said he’d leave the business to me, but I can’t take it over. I’m not a dentist.”
“What’s he going to do, then?”
“It goes into his estate, and after they sell everything off, we get the money.”
She sits up. “We?”
God, why is Dr. Winston so amazing? How have I not managed to appreciate him until now? With an official timer on his life, I know there will be waves of pain and nostalgia and regret in my near future. “He wants to make sure you’re taken care of, too.”
“But… why?”
“Because he thinks of me as family, and I think of you as family, so I guess that makes you his family by proxy.”
We don’t say anything else, because I’m sure we’re both struggling not to cry. I finish cleaning and pack up.
“See you at home?”
“May I ride with you? I can just come in with you in the morning and get my car then. I’m craving Tiffany’s, and Doug paid me in cash, so my treat?”
After the cats and the bomb Dr. Winston’s dropped on me, I can’t even feel guilty that a cupcake with my best friend sounds enormously enticing. When there’s this much stress, it isn’t okay to ignore it completely, but it is okay (I think) to take a small break from reality. Self care, or something like that. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
We hop in the car and it takes a few tries to get the engine to turn. “You really need to get that looked at, Sadie.”
“I know. I needed it looked at months ago, but--”
“Nope, I know. If it breaks down before you can get it fixed, you can use my car.”
I reach over and squeeze her hand. “Thanks.”
We sit in comfortable silence as I wind my way toward Tiffany’s. I took Abe there before we went to the parkway. The memory of his body, pressed hot on mine, stirs a restless guilt in me. You’ve probably wrecked that, anyway. Dr. Winston is trying to protect Abe from you, not the other way around.
Inside, Tiffany is busy behind the counter. It’s the end of the day and she’s getting rid of the remaining goods. “Oh, hello girls!” She beams at us and looks fondly at Ingrid’s belly. What is it about the promise of new life that makes us feel, just for a moment, awash of feel-goods?
“Hey, Tiffany! Thanks for sending something home with Sadie the other night. It hit the spot!” Ingrid starts looking at the remaining offerings in the case.
“You’re welcome, sweetheart. How did your date go, Sadie? Abe’s such a handsome young wolf.” Sometimes there are benefits to living in a town where all the paranormals know everyone’s business.
“It went… well. Wellish?”
“She slept with Benji last night,” Ingrid says, her breath fogging the glass near some artfully frosted cakes. Sometimes there’s a downside to living in a town where all the paranormals know everyone’s business, too.
If knives could shoot from my eyes, they’d be lodged firmly into her back. “Okay, can we not tell the entire town about my slutty behavior?”
Tiffany tsked as she pulls a cake out and puts it on a plate. An entire cake. It’s decorated in piped swirls of red and orange. “Sadie, boys don’t buy the cow if the milk is free.”
“Tiffany, cows that don’t get milked die.” I don’t know if that’s true, but I always assumed that it must be real uncomfortable if there’s no one taking care of the full udders. “Besides, I’m not interested in being bought. Gross.”
“I did always think that comment was strange,” Tiffany says thoughtfully.
“And you were in desperate need of a milking,” Ingrid teases, taking the cake and two forks and going to a table.
“Both of you can kindly go to hell, thank you,” I grumble, joining Ingrid at the table. “Let’s stop talking about my milking last night.”
“This analogy has gotten weird,” Ingrid agrees before shoving a giant bite of cake into her mouth. The expression of bliss on her face is almost worth forgiving her for bringing up Benji.
I take a bite and, yeah, that’s good. I doubt Tiffany uses any actual magic when baking, but sometimes it is so light and fluffy and delicious that I have to wonder. “This is so good. Thanks!”
“I thought that vampire was gay,” Tiffany muses. “And I feel bad for Abe, now. I could tell he was really into you, dear.”
I shove another bite into my mouth, irritated that the topic is unwilling to die. While Ingrid and Tiffany don’t mean any harm, I’m still trying to wrap my head around how quickly I said yes to Benji. It feels… off. I mean, he’s great looking. Way out of my league, really. But I hadn’t been remotely close to making a decision. The magic that I felt leaving Ms. Nickles’s was too potent.
It rumbles inside of me still, the edge dulled with last night’s activities, but there nonetheless. I’m going to have to start learning how to keep it under wraps, and fast, because having a reserve of power makes the desire to cast a spell even harder to resist.
“How was work?” I ask Ingrid.
“I liked it! It was so nice to have a point to my day. I wish he had room for another employee.”
“Yeah, me too. I hate the paperwork.”
Tiffany comes over and places two glasses of milk in front of us. “Since you’re already giving it away, Sadie.” There’s a twinkle in her eye and the only thing saving her is that I am eating a gloriously decadent free cake.
“You’re both hilarious.”
Tiffany pulls up a chair next to mine. “So, Sadie, I have a favor to ask.”
Fae don’t ask for favors often. When they ask, they mean it; it isn’t something that they take lightly. Her request makes me sit up straighter. “Yeah, what can I do for you?”
“It’s Dale.” Dale is her husband, though I’ve only heard of him. Unlike Tiffany, he prefers to live his life completely away from humans. “He’s got a toothache something awful, and I’ve convinced him to get some help.” She leans in, whispering in a conspiring breath, “His breath is dreadful, too, so I’d love some help with that.”
Pieces fall into place. With my new access to magic, that means I’ll need fuel. But finding an excuse to open shop that won’t lead to everyone being suspicious was a monster problem I hadn’t figured out how to tackle yet. Oh man, “monster problem.” And I need monster teeth! But that’s neither here nor there. What’s here is Tiffany putting an excuse in my lap, neatly wrapped and covered in frosting.
“She’d love to,” Ingrid says, cutting me off. She wipes a smear of frosting from the side of her full lips and shoots me a don’t you dare argue look. I wasn’t going to, but it piques my interest that she’s suddenly into this idea. She used to comment all the time about how glad she was to have the dance job, so she missed all my clients and the blood. She reaches in her bag and pulls out a small notebook and pen. “What nights are best for Dale?”
Tiffany and Ingrid begin working out the details like I’m not even there.
“What are you charging, Sadie?” Tiffany shoots me an awkward glance. I need bones, even though I know it will be just as much a fight now as it was before. Maybe moreso, with the pack’s knowledge of what I am.
“Same as before. Money for most things, but if I pull a tooth, I keep it.”
Ingrid share’s a frown with Tiffany, but if they’re going to push for this, then that’s my price.
“Okay, we’ll see Dale next week.” Ingrid takes another enormous bite of cake. “We should be getting home. You’ve totally and completely spoiled my dinner in the best way. Thanks for the cake!”
The brownie is up and bustling to clean her shop before I’ve set my fork down, too. “You’re welcome, sweethearts.”
I guess that means cake is d
one… and I’m working nights again.
There’s an odd thrill that I feel in the pit of my stomach as Ingrid and I head back out to the car. There were so many good reasons to not pick back up my dentist gig. But having access to teeth sends my heart racing and the magic in me zapping around, eager.
When we’re headed back toward our apartment, Ingrid’s hands rubbing soft circles on her belly, I broach the subject. “So why am I helping Dale out?”
“Well, he can’t go anywhere else now, can he?”
“So far as I know, I’m the only person who’s ever offered this service to paranormals in the history of forever. They’ve been doing fine without me.”
She sighs. “I’m worried about you.”
I take a turn a little too quickly. Her hand flies up to grab the “oh shit” handle-- you know, the handle they put on a car’s ceiling that I guess is supposed to be for hanging dry cleaning or something. “Sorry,” I mutter. “But why are you worried?” Briefly, I wonder if she knows about the dead cats. This is followed by the thought that maybe she should be worried about me.
“You’ve been so wrapped up in the weird love triangle thing that I worry you’re using it to hide from something else that’s bothering you. And you used to be a crappy worker for Doug--”
“Hey,” I protest, though it’s only half-hearted.
“Don’t even try to argue, you know it’s true. But you used to be a crappy worker because you were working the night shift at home. Now that you’re not working the night shift and still a crappy employee, I worry. You’re all over the place with romance, and sneaking off to see Ms. Nickles--”
My heart squeezes. “You saw me?”
“I don’t have much to do,” she replies with more than a hint of warning in her tone. Don’t judge me, it says, even if she’s coming off a bit judgmental herself at the moment. “The point is, you used to tell me everything and now I feel like you’re hiding a bunch of stuff and making reckless choices. You’re the person I count on when things get stressful, and I’m stressed and need you stable.”
I pull to a stop in our complex, the engine still running. She’s not wrong. It’s not like I haven’t wanted to talk to her. But really, I could throw everything she’s said back at her. She’s been erratic since falling pregnant, and I feel like she’s always one snide remark from me away from dissolving into tears. She’s not been talking to me much, just asking favors. I need her to be stable, because in all honesty, I’m probably in over my head.
And, hammer the nail on the head, I have been hiding a bunch from her. Although, since she saw me heading into Ms. Nickles’s, clearly not as much as I thought I’d been. The words I want to say are tumbling in my head. I want to apologize. I want to warn her about the cats. I want to tell her that everything is going to be okay, and I kind of want her to say that to me, too. That we’re going to be okay. But before I can piece together my reply, my eyes lock onto a figure standing in front of our door.
Tall, slim, with shaggy blond hair. It’s a silhouette I haven’t seen in years, not since living with Oliver and spending weekend nights with Ingrid. Even then, I’d only met him once or twice. His fame in the paranormal world kept him busy enough that he didn’t have much time to spare for his daughter, much less a friend of hers.
All the things I need to say to Ingrid evaporate, and instead, all I can say is, “Ingrid, your dad is here.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Ah hell,” Ingrid curses under her breath. “I am not prepared for this.”
“I can turn the car around,” I offer. “Maybe he hasn’t seen us.”
“I mean, he’s one of the most powerful psychics in the world, Sadie. I’m sure he’s seen something if he’s here.” Ingrid sounds shrill, like she wants to laugh. I realize she’s terrified. At first, this confuses me. I mean, I know she’s not the closest with her father, but he’s never given her a reason to fear him. He’s not nice, but he’s always cordial. He’s been disappointed in her career choice, but he never disowned her or tried to shame her.
But what Ingrid said continues to sift in my brain, and slowly my assumptions give way, leaving the obvious truth. He’s here because he’s seen something important enough that he took time out of his schedule and even came to us, instead of demanding her return to her childhood mansion, to tell us what it is.
Well, damn. Now I’m scared, too. Grasping her hand, I squeeze, but not too hard. Her fingers are limp and her palm cold and damp. Ingrid’s so pale, I worry I’ll need to call one of the witch midwives much sooner than I anticipated. “Hey,” I say, opening my door. “It’s going to be fine. It’s your dad. I’m here for you.”
“So, fair warning. I haven’t, uh, told him about the baby.”
“If he’s as psychic as you claim, he knows. And if he doesn’t, that--” I glance pointedly at her belly, “is going to give it away.”
“I wish I hadn’t eaten so much cake.”
“Well, if shit gets too scary, just puke on his shoes. Your daddy will love that.”
She giggles, although it’s weak, and we leave the car. I swear, we look like we’re on death row walking toward the electric chair. He stares at us for the entire plodding and shuffling duration of our trip across the parking lot and up the stairs.
“Any day now, girls,” he finally scolds as we walk with obviously measured steps.
Gritting my teeth, I head up first. “Hey, Mr. Dalton, long time, no see.”
“Sadie.” It’s all I get. Fine.
“Hey, Daddy.” Ingrid tries to hide behind me as she climbs the final stair. Like an Amazon trying to hide behind a pygmy. Who is she kidding? Commissioner Biscuit’s tight bump is pressed into my mid-back, like he’s trying to launch up and peek over my shoulder. “Is everything okay?”
“Invite me in, please. I need to have a long overdue talk with both of you.”
* * * * *
I don’t offer Ingrid’s father anything because we don’t have much in the first place, and because things have always been testy between the two of them, especially after her mother died. You’d think having a powerful psychic for a dad would be awesome. Always knowing when pop quizzes were coming up, or if a boy really did like her, would be awesome. But it also meant he knew if she wanted to sneak out at night, and what she did with the boy that liked her, and more. When we were teens together, Ingrid’s largest complaint was that her dad managed to know everything about her and yet never have the time for her.
“You should have called,” Ingrid said grumpily, going to the fridge and pouring herself an enormous glass of milk. This, after threatening to puke at the sight of her father. Oh well, I’m not about to make any suggestions to her right now. I’m basically going to try to make myself as invisible as possible while Mr. Dalton fills us in on his sudden appearance.
“You should have known I’d come,” he replies nonchalantly, while his eyes drag over our apartment, scrutinizing each detail. His frown deepens and I know he’s not impressed. A flare of irritation bursts in me. I need to talk to Ingrid about important things, like finding her a midwife and the dead cats. If her father coming here ends like all their reunions end, Ingrid will be too bitter and inconsolable to have a real conversation with.
“Right. Because I’m your failure of a daughter. I’m so glad you traveled all the way to our meager apartment to remind me of all the ways I don’t live up to your genetics and expectations.” She’s seriously chugging the milk now. It’s impressive and a little gross.
He sighs theatrically and takes a seat on a barstool, though not before giving nonexistent crumbs a brush-off with his handkerchief. Good lord.
I decide to step in. “Mr. Dalton, we’ve really got a lot going on--”
“Oh, I know.” His eyes narrow. “We could start with this pregnancy and what you plan to do about it.”
Ingrid puts the glass into the sink a little too roughly. The clink of glass is loud and harsh and I cringe, waiting for it to shatter. It doesn’t, but her brow
s are furrowed enough for me to know Ingrid is aware she’s getting upset early in the game. “What do you want to know?”
“How much money do you need?”
She chews her lip while I refrain from exhaling in relief. Money would be huge for us right now. Just a little more would take a lot of the weight off my shoulders. “Well, I still haven’t seen a doctor. I don’t have insurance, but I don’t know that a… traditional doctor is going to be much help, anyway.”
Her father winces, but I don’t think she catches it. “Who’s the father? I couldn’t see him when I tried divination.”
“He’s dead, Mr. Dalton.” I move into the kitchen and rest on the counter beside Ingrid.
“I’m so sorry, darling,” he says as he softens, hand reaching out like he wants to comfort her but doesn’t know how. Honestly, he really might not know how. “That must be why I couldn’t see him.” There’s a crease in his forehead, though, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t believe that’s the reason why. He’s too powerful. Just being dead wouldn’t stop Mr. Dalton from seeing something he wanted to see.
“It’s okay. I’m mad at me for even sleeping with him. He was, uh,” she looks at her feet and blushes, “a hunter.”
My abs tense as I prepare for the explosion. Instead, he just stands there. Frozen.
“He can’t hurt her now,” I offer. My effort falls flat.
“How did you not know?” he finally hisses. “I know you don’t have my gift, but damn it, Ingie, how did you not know as a competent human being that you were fuc--”
“Stop now,” Ingrid says cooly, “or get out of my house. I’m not feeling up to listening to you criticize me. You asked if I needed money? I do. I can’t dance in this condition, and Sadie’s been more than generous to cover my share of expenses. So if you want to help, that’s a great place to start.”
