“Can I ask you a question?” She leaned back in her seat.
“Always,” I replied.
“Have you gotten into a lot of fights?”
“Maybe. What’s a lot?”
She’d already continued. “It’s not the first time I wanted to beat the crap out of him. But when I hit him, it didn’t even hurt. Is that normal? I never punched anyone before. When Marcus hit me, I hit him back with a lamp. I never dared use my fists. I kind of liked it.”
“Okay, Hope. Slow down.”
“It’s kind of liberating.”
“Hope. Hey.”
“I wish I’d hit him some more.”
“Hold on there!” I grabbed her hands to get her attention.
Hope blinked and shook her head like she was coming out of a trance. “What? Oh.”
“Hitting someone isn’t a joke. If you get to know me, you’ll find out I joke around a lot. It’s a coping mechanism. But I never forget actions are serious.”
Hope nodded. “Okay.”
“I’ve been a marine and a cop. Not the best at either. But I learned you only take a conflict up a notch to end it.”
Hope thought about that. “That makes sense.”
She’d almost seen me and Nat in action in that respect. We put Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber down, but that’s as far as it went.
“You have a lot of pent-up aggression. Today, you got to let some of it out. Marcus was abusive and that’s wrong. And you’ve been going through a divorce, which is one of the most stressful situations a person can experience. Marcus deserved what he got.”
Although I’d created a little monster.
“You’re right.” Hope pulled her hands out of mine. “My dad taught me that fighting is a last resort. I forgot that for a minute. It just seemed like there were no consequences, so . . .”
“If there’s a next time, it will probably hurt. A lot. Maybe it was the adrenaline this time.” Or maybe it was the shield coin. “Maybe you got lucky and hit him just right. But next time you could just as easily break your hand. No more fights. Okay?”
“Okay.”
The pop of a high-caliber pistol was a familiar sound, but by the time I heard it, Hope was slumped over the console between the seats.
Chapter Eleven: Fiery Temper
In the next moment, my Glock was in my hand and I was assessing the parking lot. There was movement, but details were hard to see. Black on black. I felt Hope’s neck for a pulse. Her heart was beating strong. I checked her head for blood. No wounds.
The shield saved her life.
I slid out of the car, staying low, scanning the shadows. A dark figure dashed across a patch of light and I had him. I ran after him but he was already a hundred yards away. I raised my gun, but there were people on the other side of him.
Always be sure of your target and what’s behind it.
I had no shot.
But I had options.
I called up my power, whispering “Tine” and threw a thread of nearly-invisible fire after the gunman. I wanted to set him ablaze from head to foot, but the thread would have to do.
Disarm first, then disable.
I bent the flame but missed. Using fire magic was fun but took a lot of practice because it was far from perfect. I sent out a second thread and this time I hit him in the hand with about 400 degrees of disarming. He flinched and dropped the gun. He slowed for a moment but took off again when he saw me gaining on him. He cradled his hand in his other arm and disappeared around a stand of myrtles. It took me maybe fifteen seconds to get to the trees. I hesitated going around in case he was waiting to ambush me and took a quick peek. There wasn’t anyone close. Keeping my gun down, I stepped onto a patch of grass by the street. There were restaurants nearby and a few people. Nobody in black clothing, running away.
It was more important that I return to the car. The gunman could be doubling back. No shadowy figures in the lot. Hope’s shoulder just visible over the dashboard. I found the gun where it had fallen. As I reached for it, a flare of blue light traced the edges of its components. The light expanded, filling in the spaces. When the light faded, the gun had vanished.
What the squirreltude was going on?
With the tip of my shoe, I felt around the spot where the gun had been. It was definitely gone. I started toward the car. Hope was going to wake up with a massive headache and lots of questions. She was going to wonder how she’d been shot in the head without dying.
Unless she didn’t know she’d been shot.
I remembered being hit in the shoulder by the rock earlier. It was possible I’d been shot at instead, and that possibility was chilling. But it gave me an idea.
I went back to the myrtle trees and rooted among the roots until I found a stone the size of a golf ball. Hope was groaning as I opened the passenger door. I slipped the rock down the side of the seat and helped her sit up.
“What happened?” She reached her hand up to touch her head.
“Careful,” I said. “You’re going to have a bump.”
She moved her fingers through her hair and sucked air in through her teeth in a hiss. “Ow! Oh.”
I reached down the side of the seat and felt for the rock.
“I’m sorry, Hope.” I showed her the rock. “You were hit in the head.”
You were shot in the head.
“It came out of nowhere.”
It was actually a bullet.
“It might have been an accident.”
Except it wasn’t.
“I think it’s our cue to go home.”
That’s for sure.
Hope said, “That’s for sure.”
It was kind of ironic that my connection to a race of beings who couldn’t lie was responsible for so much lying. But there was no benefit in letting Hope know another attempt had been made on her life. Whoever the gunman was, he wasn’t one of the Tweedles. He was shorter, for one thing. And faster.
There was no benefit in telling Hope about the shield coin either. I was just glad she hadn’t punched Marcus a second time, since it might have used enough power from the shield to let that bullet do more than give her a bump and a headache.
Time to let this day be over.
* * *
With a sour stomach, I drove home, looking for anyone dressed in black, entertaining the thought of catching the shooter by running them over with the car. The gun had vanished but the bullet could be in here somewhere. I’d try to find it and see if Erin could get something useful from it with her psychometric powers.
We drove up the driveway and stopped under the portico outside my house. I stepped onto the gravel and felt the stress draining out of me, as if my home were a sponge, absorbing all my worries in a rush. I was behind my warded walls, generated and maintained by faithful Max, so what worries would I need to keep?
The sun had gone down but inside my house it was bright and sunny. Something roasted and flavorful beckoned from the kitchen and I remembered I hadn’t even gotten an empanada. Another crime Marcus would have to pay for.
“What’s that amazing smell?” Hope asked. She padded through the entryway with bare feet, her little nose in the air.
“Whatever it is, I want seconds first,” I replied.
Herb-roasted chicken and little beef skewers begged to be devoured. First things first. I grabbed a bag of frozen blueberries out of the freezer and settled it on Hope’s bump. She closed her eyes and held the bag in place while I grabbed plates and dished up. We made a bunch of smacking and chewing sounds over the next few minutes. There was also fresh Sangria and dishes of sorbet. Soon, we were just the right amount of satiated. Not too hungry. Not too full.
“Your cook is a wizard,” Hope said.
“You have no idea,” I replied. “Did you try the skewers?”
“No. Not a fan of red meat.” Ah. That’s right. “The rest was delicious, though.”
I gave her some Ibuprofen that she swallowed with the last of her Sangria. Sandretta appea
red and led Hope to the guest bedroom while I put the dishes in the sink.
With a flashlight, I went to my car. I searched the floor, under the seats, everywhere. The iron in the car’s frame, even under the upholstery, buzzed in my bones. Closer to the floor, where there was only carpet, the iron felt almost angry. You too, O chariot?
I looked from as many angles as I could in as many crevices as existed.
No bullet.
Back inside, I sat on the couch, turned on the TV, and lowered the volume to make sure the sound wouldn’t bother anyone. I looked through the photographs we’d taken from Marcus, working from the premise that they were fakes because Hope had been so honestly shocked to see them. If they were fakes, they were excellent fakes. The video was fake for certain. It wasn’t me in the hotel room. It certainly looked real, but Peter Jackson and Lucasfilm put together weren’t this good. Nothing fake about reality. The evening news gave a teaser for the sports segment and a slice of it referred to a cheerleader’s latest career move. I smiled.
Private investigation had a seedier side, but I’d never been hungry enough to go after adulterous husbands or runaway wives. There were guys who did that kind of thing all the time, sitting all night in a car in the dark with a camera, hoping to get photos that would break up a marriage for a paycheck. That wasn’t me, even if the marriage was already doomed. Other people relished it, and they all knew each other like a pack of rats in a sewer. One of them would know the specific rat that had faked the evidence for Marcus.
Paper and pencil in hand, I made a list. These people weren’t exactly in the contacts on my phone. Most of them preferred nicknames since they often worked as paparazzi too. Still, if I asked for Nick the Lens or Headline Joe, everyone would know who I was looking for.
While in research mode, I used my phone to search for any recent bombings. Sure enough, there had been one a week ago. The explosion had occurred in an empty warehouse. No one had been injured, but the building had burned for a while. Then it had been inspected and condemned. There wasn’t much else of note so I went back to the photos, made more notes, yawned repeatedly. After the weather, I watched Hope on television in the full sports segment. It was different watching her catch the ball on TV. The miniature version lacked the grandeur and immediacy of the live version, but it still impressed the newscasters. Their comments made it sound like Hope was the latest first-round draft pick.
I switched off the TV. It was good to have Hope here but I remembered some due diligence. A search pulled up a surprise. Hope had a police record. I scanned it, worried I had worries to worry about. She had a juvenile record that had been sealed, but the fact that she had a record at all was interesting. A girl raised by a single dad, though, might find her way into a little rebellion. On her adult record, she’d been caught as an eighteen-year-old stealing bottled water—bottled water?—from a convenience store and the owner had pressed charges. She had a disorderly from spring break a year after that. There was also an incident report from this year citing a neighbor who allegedly witnessed Marcus slapping Hope and Hope hitting Marcus with a frying pan. She’d seen the fight through the French doors while looking over the fence between their houses. There had been no other witnesses and no evidence of injury so the police didn’t issue a citation or make an arrest. Hope had told me about hitting Marcus with a lamp but not a frying pan. They must have been separate incidents. Still, she didn’t strike me—ha ha—as a dangerous person, although in the past few hours I’d already learned one thing: don’t tick off the cheerleader. She fights back. And if Marcus preferred girls who could be dominated, he had the wrong girl.
Hope came down the hall. I closed my laptop. She looked exhausted, but her face was scrubbed and her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She had on a pair of gray sweatpants and a pale blue Dolphins sweatshirt and she was wrapped in a blanket that dragged on the carpet.
“Can’t sleep?” Me. Super-detective.
“Your guest room’s too big. It’s like trying to sleep in the middle of the stadium.”
She sat on the couch next to me, looking at the photos, my notes, not saying anything.
“You were on TV,” I said.
“I was?” She yawned. A lot of that going around.
“You have a nickname. They’re calling you ‘The Receptionist.’”
Hope breathed out. She breathed in. She laughed. “That’s funny.”
I flipped back through my notes. “Just to be safe, you’ll have to cancel your credit cards and contact your bank. I have some people to visit. We’ll see if we can get some answers.”
“Okay.” Hope breathed some more as her eyelids got heavier. “I loved when you called him Captain Poodle-Doodle,” she said.
“I’ll put that one in my permanent repertoire. And we’re going to make sure Captain Poodle-Doodle gets what he deserves. How’s your head?”
“Kind of numb.”
“Good.”
Hope was already tilted into me and she squirmed, trying to get more comfortable. She dug her shoulder under my arm and burrowed into my chest, nudging me back against the side of the couch. I found myself putting my arm around her to avoid a bruise. Her breathing slowed and her eyes closed. Thirty seconds later she started snoring so softly she was like a super-sized cat instead of a person curled up next to me, purring. She was sweet and warm and the expression on her small face was angelic.
With my free hand, I took the pen from the other and tossed it onto the table. Sooner or later Hope would get off the couch, and then we could both get a proper night’s sleep.
I’d just close my eyes for a minute.
* * *
Compassion is pain. It was nice Hope felt the safest place to fall asleep was in my arms. On the other hand, I woke up with pounding headache and my shoulder felt like it had been hit with a blond cannonball. I don’t think I’d moved at all during the night and my joints were locked up.
I slipped out from under her. She sighed and snuggled deeper into the couch. Through her hair, the bump on her head was notably purple. I crept away and returned with my healing medallion and a flashlight. Using magic created light. If Hope woke up, I’d tell her I was just getting a closer look and show her the flashlight, but getting her healed would be best. I felt responsible for the bump.
I laid the medallion on her bruise. “Leigheas.” I whispered the word as I sent my power through the focus of the medallion. A shimmering blue glow bathed her bruise and the bruise faded to almost nothing in seconds.
A sudden warmth at my center eased my discomforts, too. It was more than a sense of well-being for having done something helpful. Magic, used with compassionate intent, provides a release of feel-goods as if there were Fae serotonin and dopamine and endorphins. Healing someone also healed the healer and it wasn’t a bad way to start the day.
I briefly considered healing her wrist as well, but I wasn’t responsible for that wound, and anyway she was laying on it.
Can’t have everything. And she’s a tough little cookie.
Little motes of dust gathered around her, merging together into a faint band of white that started to turn around her body. She’d carry my Stain now for the rest of her life.
With all the delicate precision of a neurosurgeon, or champion Jenga player, I lifted the medallion off Hope’s head. I put it in my pocket with my keys and shield coin. In the kitchen, I assembled a bowl of corn flakes with fresh strawberries and banana slices for breakfast. While I stood at the counter and ate, I recharged my shield coin. This was a process of enchantment where my power went into the object to create a desired effect. I brought up a glowing blue drop of power and said, “Sciath.” The power flowed into the silver sigil inside the coin like a rechargeable battery. It took a few seconds, but when the coin reached the limit of its capacity to hold power, I felt it and ended the spell.
Gotta remember to recharge Hope’s coin too.
With shield and stomach at full, I went back out to the car. It bothered me that I hadn’t bee
n able to find the bullet. The sun was up, but I took my flashlight anyway and went over every inch of the interior. I didn’t find the bullet. Instead I found some potato chip crumbs and a tear in the upholstery on the driver’s seat.
Skunky monkey chunks. Where could that bullet have gone? Had it vanished like the gun? Finding it would help me find the gunman.
“Whatcha doin?”
I flinched. Just enough to shift my balance so my foot slipped and I cracked my knee on the frame of the door.
“Why so jumpy?” Hope laughed.
She laughed. At me. So, she didn’t laugh at my jokes, but she laughed when I hurt myself? Which only happened because she snuck up on me? And now I’m going to have a bruise on my knee after I healed the damn bruise on her head?
The blue light in my fist changed to orange.
Let’s see her laugh with her hair on fire.
I froze.
Whoa. Omigosh.
I pulled my power back so fast I almost heard it swoosh.
What was I thinking?
Had I considered harming Hope?
“Jumpy. Yes. I certainly am.” I moved my knee back and rubbed it. “Cracked it pretty good.” I laughed and it sounded worse than forced. “Heh heh.”
“Oh. Sorry, Got. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m clumsy to begin with. I’ll have to cancel that marathon I was going to run, though. If I can’t win, why bother?”
Hope laughed and it was an honest laugh that did more for me than her apology.
I turned and sat on the ground and smiled. The feeling I’d had to burn Hope went away.
But I’d felt it. The urge had been strong.
What had made me so angry so fast?
“What are you looking for?” Hope asked, trying to be helpful.
Got Hope Page 10