Turning on the faucet, I thrust my hands under the water and splashed my face with very cold water. I waved my hand in front of the paper towel dispenser, wiped my face and with a deep, renewed breath, left the bathroom for the exam room.
Dr. Clayton was there already and didn’t look up as I came in. I re-positioned myself in the squeaky plasticky chair again and lay back as if nothing were amiss. He rolled his stool to my side. He looked down into my face and we stayed that way for about five very uncomfortable seconds until I realized I’d forgotten to open wide. “Did you see anything?” I asked, using just my tongue and vocal cords to form the unintelligible words.
He picked up his metal instruments and peered inside again, but rather than earnestly examining, he lifted his chin and looked down his nose, as if this time suspecting that I was not quite here as a patient after all. I jammed my hands into my pocket and fingered the Fae Phone, ready to call for my backup if he did or said one threatening thing.
But he merely sat back and dropped the instruments onto the table. “I found nothing that might be causing you pain.”
“Huh,” I said. “Well, that’s strange.”
“Not so much,” he answered. “Your jaw’s probably just sore from getting a pounding. Next time, you might want to duck.”
“Roger that.”
He rolled out of the way and stood, lifting my armrest as he did so, and I slid off the chair and to my feet. He made a few notes on my file. I was almost out of there, and I couldn’t be more relieved.
“I’m always happy to see a patient,” he continued without looking up, “but I’m afraid you’re not going to be happy.”
His glamour was gone, and so was his smile. I steadied myself against the counter behind me, groping one hand for something I could use as a weapon, but my fingers only found a pen. I grasped it tightly.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I took a breath, prepared to lunge.
“But I’m going to have to charge you a full office visit fee.”
What? “What?” I dropped the pen.
“I don’t really have a choice,” he said. “You can see Rebecca at the desk on the way out to settle up.”
“Right,” I said.
He held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Gemma. You have a cleaning scheduled in a few months. I’m looking forward to seeing you then.”
He squeezed my hand. Hard. I lifted my chin, and did the same.
Then I practically ran out to the reception desk.
Rebecca quoted the fee and I gave her my credit card as Denise walked out. “Gemma!” she said. “I thought I heard your name.”
“You did. Hey,” I asked, “do I get a goody bag?”
“Silly rabbit,” she said, “those are for kids. Why are you in today, anyhow?”
Oh, well. “I had a toothache,” I said. “Or, what I thought was a toothache. Dr. Clayton assured me my teeth are still perfect.”
“Isn’t he wonderful?” she asked, and her eyes glazed over as she stared over my shoulder. Rebecca had frozen as her eyes caught whatever Denise’s had. I turned to find Dr. Clayton leaning in the doorway of the exam room I had exited, smiling at the three of us.
I wanted to lunge at him again, this time on the offense. Messing around with his glamour, luring Denise under his spell, turning kids into jaded, far-too-mature small adults, screwing with the Olde Way. My fists balled and I itched to close the distance between us and land a hard uppercut to his chin, banging his teeth together hard enough to pulverize them into enamel dust.
Turning back, I saw the two women were still zombies. The corner of Denise’s lip-glossed mouth was so slack, she was almost drooling. Rebecca’s eye-blinks were slower than I thought possible. I swiveled my head around, and realized too late that I’d forgotten to pretend to fall under the glamour spell, like an obedient human.
Avoiding his direct gaze, I nodded a calm acknowledgment at him, then forced myself to take slow, deliberate steps when I walked out the door.
>=<
“He’s making toothpaste.”
After I’d fled Dr. Clayton’s office of doom, I’d managed to keep my wings under control in the few more seconds it had taken to sign my credit card slip and get the hell out. With every step I’d taken away from that place was an increased sense of security and calm.
Svein had caught up with me quickly, which meant he’d seen me leave, which meant he’d been watching the door to the office building every second. He walked along with me, matching my pace, and didn’t badger me for details. He knew I’d give them, and he was waiting until I was ready to speak. And when I was ready, the first thing I said was, “He’s making toothpaste.”
“Toothpaste,” Svein repeated.
“Toothpaste that I think is wrecking kids’ teeth. It’s sucking the innocence right out of them. And by them, I don’t just mean the teeth.”
I described the children I’d seen in the waiting room, children completely uninterested in playing and having fun. I told him how Mindy’s mother had said she loved the toothpaste and never missed a brushing. “There was one boy who was normal,” I added. “This kid Brian. I think it was his first visit. But Clayton made sure he got goody bag toothpaste, and made him promise to use it every day.”
“You’re sure about all this?”
“I’m sure of everything I saw, but I want to make sure my theory is correct. I want to go back. Just one more time.”
“Why? What else do you think you’re going to find?”
“Brian’s sister has an appointment next Wednesday. If Brian shows up also, I’ll want to get a good look at him. If he’s undergone a personality change, I’ll know I’m right.”
“Why aren’t parents noticing?”
“Well, I figure first of all, how can parents be expected to make the slightest connection between toothpaste and personality? Besides, I was thinking when I was in there that for the most part, parents want nicer, quieter, better-behaved kids. If they suddenly have them, they’ll consider themselves lucky, or think they did something right in raising them. They’re not going to take a son or daughter to a therapist and say, ‘Hey, my kid’s not acting up enough. Can you do something to make him more disruptive?’”
“Excellent point.”
“And I found his evil laboratory.” I yanked up my shirt and, while Svein unapologetically checked out my abs, I pulled out the squashed toothpaste tube and handed it to him. “You might want to have the guys at The Root run some tests on this. I’m no chemist, and even if I were, I doubt I would have learned anything in college about innocence essence.”
Svein took the tube and peered at the label. “Seem like pretty straightforward ingredients.”
“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure Clayton would not list ‘innocence essence demolisher’ on there.”
“Good work, Gemma,” Svein said, drawing a Ziploc bag out of his pocket and sealing the toothpaste inside. “Great information, great evidence score. You’re going back next week?”
“Yeah. Problem is … “ My voice trailed off.
“What?”
“He’s kind of on to me.”
He stopped short. “How?”
“It was nothing he did and everything I did.” Filling him in on my not-quite Charlie’s Angels performance, I caught myself feeling disappointed in myself for possibly not impressing him. Which was very stupid, because I didn’t give a crap what Svein thought of me.
“He caught you in the lab?” Svein interrupted.
“Well, he caught me leaving the lab. I said I was looking for the bathroom.”
“Imaginative.”
“Look,” I told him, “if you don’t like the job I’m doing, you can always do it yourself. Oh, no, I forgot. You can’t.”
As the words fell out of my mouth, I knew they’d bounce hard against a nerve, but Svein managed not to let it show, even when I forged ahead with my story and ended at the part where I forgot to pretend the glamour affected me and Clayton was well tippe
d off that I wasn’t a fully gullible human.
“So, mission accomplished,” he said. “You don’t need to get back in there. The next time you go in there is after we outline a plan for you to take care of Clayton and his lab.”
“But I’m not done,” I argued. “The toothpaste thing is only speculative until I make a better connection. I need to see Brian again, and see if he’s changed after getting the goody bag toothpaste. Once I do that …“
“Clayton won’t stand for that. You already faked one toothache. You have no record of being a dental hypochondriac, and even if he didn’t think you were up to something—which he clearly does—you’ll never get away with faking another toothache. Even if you ate nothing but candy bars and didn’t brush or floss at all, I’m not sure you can induce a cavity in less than a week.”
“I’ve got this part figured out,” I told him. “I have a plan.”
“What can you possibly do? Make an appointment for Mr. Avery McCormack and go in with him?”
As if I’d consider, even for a half-second, tossing my adorable and determined but essentially helpless boyfriend in front of a hell spawn. “No,” I said, disgusted. “This is better. It’s not a great plan. I mean, Clayton will still know I’m up to something. But I’ll have a legitimate reason to be in a dentist’s office, and I don’t think it will make matters any worse. Just be available next week to back me up.”
“Lot of good I did you today.”
I remembered my shaking hands in the waiting room, and my terrified stint in the bathroom, and my angry reaction at reception, and realized I got out of there unscathed and armed with information because I knew Svein was out here all along, watching my wingless back. But, unwilling to acknowledge it, or how I was glad that he was the one out here for me, I just said, “Yeah, lot of good you did.”
CHAPTER 13
The kiss on my neck was butterfly soft, and the scent of aftershave floated under my nose. “You look beautiful,” Avery said, brushing my hair back to kiss me again.
“I look ridiculous,” I replied, rummaging through a blue satin-lined jewelry box for my other faux-diamond stud earring. “Aha,” I said, lifting it only to have it promptly slip from my fingers and roll under the bed. “Crap,” I said, just a little louder than necessary, as I hiked up my calf-length violet linen sheath dress to kneel and grope the dusty floor with the other hand. “I hate dress-ups,” I said. “I hate high heels, and I hate earrings. You’re lucky I’m even going.”
“I am,” he said. “And you’re getting a free meal.”
“It’d better be good. I’m talking caviar.” My fingers found the earring and I stuck it in my ear before standing.
“You’ve never eaten caviar in your life,” Avery said.
“Well, I’m just saying it had better be an option.”
Avery pulled me to my feet and held me close. “I will demand the caterer find caviar for you if that’s your wish,” he said, bending to kiss my lips.
Grasping at T-shirt to find bare skin, brick wall rough against my back, surrendering just for a moment…
I abruptly pulled back.
“Are you okay?” Avery asked, dropping his hands and releasing me. “You’ve been jumpy since you got back from the gym.”
“I took a bit of a beating today,” I told him, grabbing a pink freshwater-pearl necklace from the top of the dresser and looping it around my neck. “I was tired and not all there, and I just didn’t have it.” I fumbled with the clasp, and Avery turned me around and took over.
“Why can’t you take it easy? You didn’t leave work so you could work yourself silly at Smiley’s and develop insomnia.”
“No,” I agreed. “I left work for a full-time arm-candy gig.”
Avery didn’t respond, but fastened the clasp at my neck, and I instantly regretted my meanness. I didn’t handle guilt well.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m a jerk and I didn’t mean it. I’ve actually been looking forward to tonight.”
In reality, I’d forgotten about this fund-raising dinner, and the last thing I needed was to totter around in black patent three-inch pumps and shake a bunch of wealthy hands. Not to mention, I could have used a few hours alone, lying in bed, maybe reading a book or watching a DVD. For almost two weeks, my waking life—and, in the instance of my first collection, my sleeping life—had been interrupted by my new obligations and self-discoveries. I may have been supernatural, but I still needed some time off.
But I needed, and I wanted, to stand by Avery tonight. I suspected there’d be a lot of check-writing potential, and Avery’s campaign deserved as many extra zeroes in his war chest as he could ask for. Besides, he was still reeling from his former aide’s betrayal, and although it hadn’t come close to a real public scandal, both CNN and MSNBC had made a couple of offhanded references to the D.C. Digger’s blog. I would have loved to wring that writer’s scrawny little neck—if I had any idea who he or she was.
“I’m looking forward to this,” I repeated, putting my hands on either side of Avery’s face and squishing it before kissing him. “You can’t get rid of me that easily. Now, hand me my wrap.”
That made him grin. “You don’t own a wrap. Do you even know what a wrap is?”
“Just grab me a hoodie.”
“Very stylish. Which one?”
“The black one, of course. You said this was a formal event.”
>=<
Under the Maple was a restaurant dedicated to Americana, just like any good politician.
A live tree trunk rose up in the center of the dining room. From its branches hung glass balls, each one depicting a scene of American life. When we’d arrived earlier in the evening, I’d ventured over to look closely. On a ball hanging at eye level, I saw a horse-drawn sleigh gliding along a snowy New England road. I stood on my tiptoes to examine a ball showing a car rolling along on the Pacific Coast Highway.
The tables had been moved out, clearing the wooden floor for mingling, and a bar was set up in one corner where bi-coastal wines were being poured. When guests began to arrive, waiters and waitresses circulated with trays of ham laced with maple sugar, assorted Wisconsin cheeses, bite-sized crab cakes, and fried chicken bits dipped in gravy. Drinks included mint juleps, Manhattans, martinis and, for the non-drinkers, lime rickeys.
I tried to make a good impression on everyone, and it was a snap. I met women with rocks around their necks that I was certain would win the war with gravity and pull them crashing down on the high-polished floor. I met men with unlit cigars protruding from designer jacket pockets. I shook a lot of hands, loosening my firm grip for some of the slighter women and a couple of men, so as to appear more warm than overwhelming.
And they were all charmed. Women complimented my dress and hair, which I knew were both nice but much less remarkable than they claimed. Men fetched me drinks and hors d’oeuvres, and offered to escort me across the room, and listened with rapt attention when I said, “Avery McCormack needs your support.”
My glamour was on.
I’d practiced a lot, but I still couldn’t hold a whole room captive at once. Turned out, it was unnecessary. The two hundred or so people here mingled and laughed with each other. But every person got their turn to meet Avery, and I concentrated my glamour on each person in that crucial time when they were deciding on a financial contribution.
Unfair? Manipulative? No, not really, I rationalized. These people were here because they’d already made up their minds to support Avery. I only nudged them to support him a bit more.
The gentleman Avery and I were entertaining at the moment, Mr. Someone-or-Other of Really Important Company, clapped Avery twice on the shoulder, beamed a lingering smile at me, and let his bejeweled wife drag him away.
“This is going well,” Avery said. “Looks like you’re my secret weapon tonight.”
“You have no idea,” I told him. “Now, you’ll have to excuse me. The fifteen or so lime rickeys I scored have gone right through me.”
“Pardon,” I said, then froze.
“No problem,” he said, pushing his glasses up on his nose. His hair was still messy but mousse had made it artfully so. The T-shirt had been replaced by a navy suit, but I was close enough to him to notice some fabric pilling at the shoulder. His tie was a little wider than was fashionable. He smelled faintly of cigarettes, and his smile was unmistakable.
“We meet again,” he said, using the smooth words of a Marvel comic book villain despite the cracking, wavery voice of a social outcast.
At the moment, though, I couldn’t appreciate the irony.
“Wouldn’t have thought this would be your scene,” he went on. “Thought you were more of a loner, a fellow night prowler. But you’re a regular Miss Congeniality this evening, Gemma Cross.”
It was hard to believe I was so unnerved by this twentysomething punk, but I was. When I last saw him, perched on a fountain in the middle of the night, smoking and idly watching me, I had just completed an evening of activities that most normal people would consider illegal.
“Who are you?” I asked. “What were you doing at Watergate?”
“The question is,” he countered, “what were you doing at Watergate?”
Swallowing my fear—breathe and accept—I beckoned him even closer and whispered into his ear, “That’s between me and Mr. Nixon.”
He chuckled and I took a big step back. I mustered up my glamour mojo, and I felt my face grow warm, my skin tingling, but his expression didn’t change into that of someone under a spell. In fact, his expression didn’t change at all. I felt was back quivering insistently. I struggled to control it, contracting every muscle in my body, and I succeeded except for my shaking hands, and I nearly dropped my little black beaded purse.
“What’s wrong, Gemma?” he asked. “You seem jumpy.”
“I have to pee,” I said. “If you’ll excuse me.”
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