And, as she hung up the phone, a whole lot of dismay. “Forty minutes,” she told him, and looked hard at the pretending-to-be healthy food bar she hadn’t quite opened yet. “That is approximately forever.”
“Leave this room to the hotel for their repair,” he said. “Come over and sleep.”
“In your room,” Garrie said, deadpan.
“Yes,” he said, as if that was all there was to it.
She looked at him. She looked at the doorway. She looked at the beds, which she could glimpse through the doorway. “Parlor, fly,” she muttered.
Impatience crossed his features and left them impassive in its wake. “Sleep,” he said. “Or wait for a knock on the door. Whichever you prefer.” And he strode through the door, leaving it open.
“Shoot.” Garrie dumped the granola back in the dresser drawer and shoved the drawer closed with a little more force than was strictly necessary. “When you put it that way...” She went to the connecting doorway and looked into Trevarr territory.
One bed, king-sized. The same giant TV stand and dresser as her own room; the same little work desk with overstuffed chairs — the only area to show signs of Trevarr’s presence, with the duster thrown over the chair and Winchester House pamphlets littering the table. Beside his gloves. Instead of the brick red chair in the corner, this room held a couch.
At the moment, the couch more or less held Trevarr — sitting in one corner with one foot on the floor and not enough length for him to straighten his other leg. Garrie had the impression — one she didn’t doubt — that he could be up in an instant.
He gestured at the bed, then folded his hands over his stomach and closed his eyes. Garrie stepped into the room — no turning back — and realized instantly that its uncomfortable warmth came from the widely open window.
Okay, his room, his choice. But she stood there a moment longer, hovering between uncertain and awkward, until a huge yawn caught her unaware and made up her mind for her. She knew better than to go into a reckoning unrested. Ghost fodder.
“Fine,” she muttered, closing the door behind her except for the merest crack to hear the room service knock. “This is such a bad idea.” She climbed on the bed, instantly succumbing to the comfort of it, wrapping her arms around the extra pillow as she rolled to her side. “Such a bad idea.”
Except she found herself perfectly content. Safe. Not worried about drifting back into that nightmare.
Glad for the warmth tucked up against her bare feet.
The what?
If that last somehow didn’t make sense, she didn’t stay awake long enough to figure out why.
~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 15
Sklayne’s Room
Keep to your center against influences of chaos.
— Rhonda Rose
Give me the soft fuzzy blue security blanket any time.
— Lisa McGarrity
Sklayne sent pure annoyance at Trevarr. To bring the Garrie here, in Sklayne’s room!
It meant hiding. It meant not being himself in any fashion.
It meant not pestering Trevarr while he tried to sleep.
He rubbed his whiskered cheek against the Garrie’s toes; opened his mouth and briefly pondered nipping.
A glance at Trevarr and he decided against it.
::Me? Find the others?:: he asked somewhat plaintively, knowing Trevarr would ignore him if he truly dozed.
Not that Sklayne blamed him. Here where the light shone so bright but the sun shone so cold; here where the food was filling but not fulfilling. Here where Trevarr had already been forced to absorb energies that stirred things neither of them could afford to have stirred.
The sleeping was good.
With all of those things — especially with the last of those things — they probably would have been better off without the Garrie after all. Even if her energies were delicious.
He hesitated, again, over a nibble on her toes. They twitched in her sleep, as if anticipating needle-sharp canines. But she slept deeply, hugging the pillow, and did not otherwise stir.
Keeping the nightmares away. Me. Sklayne.
Good enough reason to stay, perhaps. But if he was going to work with these humans who called themselves reckoners, Sklayne wanted to know more of them. More than Trevarr had brought to this place after hunting the Garrie based on outdated information and on desperation.
Those things were not enough to assure success, to acquire their quarry and end the sanctions imposed by Blood Honor and Ghehera.
::I want home,:: he told Trevarr, quiet and plaintive. ::Tonight, finish this.::
But Trevarr did not stir. Sleeping on the couch simply because it had a view of the doorway and the bed had none.
The half of the night he’d been sleeping at all, that was.
For the first half of it, he had walked the hotel perimeter with Sklayne. Out in the dark, navigating the night as easily as day, assuring themselves that they knew all the activity patterns and hiding places and escape trails.
Sklayne had explored the trees, declared them officially insufficient. Then they walked the strange hard streets and learned those, too. Learned this area as a whole — the taste of it, the smell of it, the sounds. So they would know when something was subtly amiss.
Such as the smell now coming in on the breeze. Faint, that odor, but Sklayne recognized it from Trevarr’s memories nonetheless. The café...
He sat up, wrapped a prim tail around his legs, and chirped. “Mrrp!”
Trevarr stayed in his sleep place.
No such deep sleep for Sklayne. Never needed. A sip of rare pure sunlight gave restoration enough. Oh, not this sun, not this place. Keharian sun. But in this place, sucking on a wall socket did the same. Or a ride on the lines themselves. Oh so many lines and sockets to choose from — !
A new breeze washed through the window, bringing fresh stench. Sklayne flicked an ear. Was that a subsonic rumble? A glance at the Garrie found her sleeping. A glance at Trevarr... sleeping. He could reach Trevarr if he had to, but only with extreme focus.
And a willingness to face the ire if Trevarr reacted badly.
But Sklayne did not need Trevarr’s help to learn what was happening in this city. He had two beings from Garrie’s pack to target, tastes he could seek out, targets into which he could submerge himself. Not going deep, but going long.
Sklayne jumped lightly to the floor — this time leaving no mark on the bedspread to betray his existence. With half an eye on Trevarr, he strolled to the light socket near the door. Meandering slightly, as cats were wont to do... as Sklayne was wont to do, far too curious. So he’d been told.
Many times.
The Garrie slept, her breathing muffled in the pillow. Trevarr slept, as much as he ever did.
And Sklayne drew breath and exploded himself — expanding to encompass the world, shrinking down again to brush past and through it all until he was a compact density of air complete with whiskers and twitches and claws. He hesitated to see if Trevarr would stop him — and when it didn’t happen, hesitated yet again.
Not safe, perhaps, to leave this room unwatched.
But in the end, the lure of the light socket, the pop and fizzle of the snacks awaiting him, and yes... his curiosity... they all propelled him onward, searching until he latched onto the sense of the Drew person.
After all, his curiosity had gotten him into this bond in the first place.
~~~~~
Sklayne followed the tug of the Drew person and emerged from the power lines with a nearly silent pmpf!, extruding Velcro-hook claws everywhere in an effort to —
Slow down! Legs amok! Tables and chairs everywhere! Ow-dodge-yow!
A last desperate hiss-spit and Sklayne finally snagged a flowing tablecloth. Static sparked everywhere, prompting a startled outcry. But Sklayne moved on, under control and coalescing in glass cat form.
He dodged ankles and shoes and skirts, sniffed up a few stray crumbs, and absorbed the thick, heady odors of
the garlic and pasta and sauce — names snatched from the Drew person’s head as Sklayne spotted the right table and shifted to full speed, blink-of-an-eye-and-there-he-was.
A full half-circle booth, two familiar people sitting across from one another. He made himself at home on the seat gap at the end of the table. Glass cat, hidden behind a drooping tablecloth. Invisible enough.
Even as Sklayne settled, the waiter person arrived with food and conversation fell away to murmurs of thanks and “oh that looks good.” And then silverware clinking, and fresh bread breaking open — Sklayne breathed deeply of those yeasty molecules, resisting the urge to sample unseen.
The Drew person was not like the Garrie; his skills sat quiet and receptive. But Sklayne could not risk being perceived. He tucked his tail around his front feet and let his eyes close to patience.
“How’s your fettucine?” the Drew person asked, most politely.
“I love their alfredo sauce,” the new Beth person said, equally polite. “And your prawns?”
“Don’t get ’em like this in Albuquerque,” the Drew person said. “They’re way pha — I mean, they’re really good.”
Sklayne yawned. Rudely. It would have been loudly, if he’d had his say. Oh, ho hum. Boring people. Enough of this. He slipped boldly into the Drew person’s thoughts — and so he learned that this restaurant was called Original Joe’s and that the food was Italian and that the Drew person was desperately nervous.
That, at least, had some amusement value. Sklayne settled in to eavesdrop.
Never should have done this lunch thing. The easy and very natural interaction from the Winchester grounds had grown strained and awkward, and panic sweated Drew’s palms. Big mistake. Should have stayed with the others. The awkward wouldn’t have been obvious if we’d just stayed with the others...
“Sorry about foisting myself off on you,” he heard himself saying. “But I really think Garrie needed to get some rest. I’ve never seen her so whipped after — well, you know.”
Beth peeked up at him from over her glass — one of the clear sodas, he couldn’t remember which. No caffeine, she’d joked, but her laugh had been nervous. Her cheeks had taken on a high flush, and he’d already realized she was one of those women who, although not a classic redhead, had subtle coppery redhead undertones in her freckles and hair and whose pale, thin skin showed every flush of emotion.
Damned cute.
He cleared his throat and pushed a prawn around his plate. “How about you? You okay, now?”
“Better,” she said. “I’d be better if I wasn’t here.” But even as he dropped his fork, she looked up in horror. “Oh, no! I meant, not here as in still working. You know. Busy. Not having any time to think about it.”
Be chill, man. Pick the fork out of the ravioli that had come with the prawns, wipe down the handle. “Sure,” he said, and his voice squeaked a little. He took a sip of his tea and tried again. “I mean, yeah. I get that. But you must be used to this sort of thing. You said you’d been seeing them all your life.”
“Hearing them,” she corrected him. “I rarely see them any longer. And today — that was different. They’ve never come after me before, not ever. Don’t tell me you’re used to that?”
“Sure,” Drew said again, trying for casual. Except then he had to add, “Not quite like that. Usually Garrie can see them, or she knows what’s going on. And usually —” He would have said that usually, Trevarr wasn’t there. And that Garrie was much more in control, herding spirits around as necessary — not wrung out like some old dishrag, practically carried out of the café.
He would have said. But he remembered Garrie’s warning, so he stuffed a prawn into his mouth instead.
Beth might still be a little shocky and a whole lot overwhelmed, but she still got it. “Ah,” she said. “Rhonda Rose Rules.”
“Hey, yeah!” His admiration that she’d held onto that factoid in spite of the circumstances confused her, so he waved his hand to dismiss his words. Erasing them. “Right, I mean. Y’know, Garrie’s the boss. She’s the real deal. The rest of us... we do our thing. Maybe we argue with her. But bottom line... she’s the one with the goods.”
She forked up some fettucine, chewing thoughtfully. “Okay,” she said after she’d swallowed. “The thing is, I don’t want to be in the dark. This is my house, and I love it. You’re just visiting.”
“Hey, I get that.” He couldn’t help a smile, a big one. He realized suddenly that it was his goofy smile and he quickly went for the napkin cover-up, as if he’d somehow gotten sauce on his chin.
Well, probably that, too.
“Surely you can at least tell me more about yourself,” Beth said. Her flush seemed to deepen just a little. “Where you’re from — not from around here, I guess?” Hope lilted her tone.
“New Mexico,” Drew said, gratified at the disappointment on her face. “Well, I don’t know about Trevarr. I haven’t asked.”
“I can see why,” Beth muttered. “He’s... imposing.”
“Is he?” Drew did his very best to sound surprised at that notion.
Beth took a few careful bites of her lunch, washing them down with equally careful sips of her soda. She tucked a long — very long — stray hair back around the hair sticks; she’d never really gotten her hair back under control after the parking lot incident. Then she said, “What is it you do, then?”
“Do?” Drew echoed, and then winced. Could not possibly sound more stupid...
She gave him a quick smile. She had a dab of sauce on her chin, and it made him feel better. Maybe it was okay if he wasn’t perfect.
She said, “Garrie is your big talent, right? But you must do something? You and Lucia and Trevarr?”
“Oh, that. Sure. Hey, um...” He mimed wiping off his own chin and her blush flared to life; she quickly dabbed at her face with her napkin, shooting him a quick visual query to see if she’d gotten the spot. A little seed of pleased warmth surprised him — just that small gesture of trust. He swallowed hard and said, “I can get the history of a place. That’s how I knew about the trick door in the séance room, when that dad guy was about to charge through the no-floor door.”
Understanding lit her face. “You’re the one!” Her fork sagged to her plate, forgotten. “Carolyn said one of the tourists had an uncanny knowledge of the house. That’s why the office wigs wanted to talk to you all.”
“Office wigs?” Drew put down his own fork. Her eyes were such a blue... They caught the light when she widened them, so expressive.
Hello. Drew, dude. Lives in San Jose. You don’t. Dump some ice water down your pants.
Fortunately, Beth was oblivious — or pretty good at pretending she was. She offered a dismissive little nose-wrinkle. “Management. Big wigs. Therefore, office wigs. I know, I know... it’s dumb. But it works for me. So you can really do that?”
His turn to color up. No one ever paid attention to what he did. It wasn’t flashy, not like Garrie. When she introduced the team to a client, their eyes drifted right over him.
She’d always said not to mind it. She’d said it made the team stronger, because they could work without so much scrutiny. She’d said it let them exceed everyone’s expectations. But this once...
There were those clean, clear blue eyes, looking right at him. And it felt good.
Ice water, dude. Seriously.
“This place opened in nineteen fifty-six,” he said, easily slipping into reading mode — this place sang with the pride of its history. “Things didn’t go so well in the seventies, but they hung in and now it’s generally packed. Lots of family business, definitely family-run — there’s pride all over the place. The Hideout upstairs is new with the remodel in late two thousand seven... these tables and booths are new, too, but the layout is basically the same. New bathrooms, if that matters.”
“Trust me,” she said. “That always matters.” But she had that wide-eyed look... the one usually reserved for Garrie.
Not to mention enoug
h surprise to add a little bite. “You didn’t think I could really do it, did you?”
She didn’t hesitate, honesty in her reply. “I didn’t realize you’d get that kind of detail.” She returned to her dinner for a bite or two. “What about the others — what do they do? Or does that come under Rhonda Rose Rules? And just who is Rhonda Rose?”
Okay, who is Rhonda Rose definitely came under Rhonda Rose Rules. “A friend of Garrie’s,” Drew said vaguely. “But she... moved on.”
Rhonda Rose had been a ghost. A seriously got-it-together ghost, what Garrie called a cohesive spirit. One of a kind, really. And she’d stayed with Garrie for years, until one day... she hadn’t. Moved on, was all Garrie ever said.
Garrie never ventured an opinion on exactly what that meant — couldn’t bear to, Lucia had told him. But Drew didn’t think that Rhonda Rose had dissipated or been dissipated or even just gone beyond. No, he thought she’d decided to go around the world in 80 days. Or something.
He realized that Beth was watching him. Not impatiently, but as if she appreciated his pondering. As if it, too, told her something.
Drew tore a piece of warm, crusty bread into tiny little pieces. Careful about his words, but pushing ahead. “Lucia feels things — what the spirits are feeling, or the echoes of what someone felt. What some people feel, too, if they’re emoters.”
Beth’s eyes widened. “It must be very hard for her.”
“You gotta understand —” he had quite a pile of crumbs by now —”She acts all sudden and shallow sometimes, but she’s really not. She just has to do that, to deal with the rest of it.”
She smiled, quite suddenly. “You must be a good friend.”
“Ha,” he said, but oh, that warm, pleased spot was happy. “Ask Lucia about that. Don’t bother asking Quinn, though.” Quinn hadn’t quite accepted him yet, no question about that. At the bemused look on her face, he added, “Quinn stayed in Albuquerque. He’s our research guy. He wanted to be with the books.” He hadn’t wanted to leap to Garrie’s beck and call, that’s what — proving his independence after a fling that had been over for a year. Get over it already.
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