A chill coiled down her spine like a long, creeping snake. She shuddered, watching the space around the door. She listened. No sound. No footfalls. No opening of the door. Nothing.
She forced herself to release her pent-up breath, blowing out long and slow. Then she flicked the lock open, her hand darting out and jerking back as if she expected something to grab her.
This is crazy. She was acting crazy.
But as with the lock, she shoved the door, then braced herself for something to jump at her. But the restroom continued to be silent.
She stepped out of the stall and looked around. White sinks that could have used a better scrubbing lined the wall beside the stalls. Gray and white tiles covered the floor and walls. A trash can threatened to overflow with crumpled brown paper towels. A paper towel dispenser hung on the wall—with an empty roll inside. And nothing else.
No child in rainbow clothing. No one.
She frowned, still searching, looking under the half-closed doors of the other two stalls. Had she imagined everything?
Was that part of the nausea and the strange ache in her head?
Great, hallucinations were just what she needed—as if she didn't have enough to contend with. Jackson, her new and still changing life, Maksim.
Oh no, Maksim. He was probably wondering what happened to her. Well, that made two of them.
She glanced around one more time, realizing that some of the bone-deep chill had left her. As the coldness seeped away, so did some of her fear.
She didn't want to stay there any longer, however. She hurried to the door, her sandaled foot slipping, and she caught herself on the door handle. Water, she immediately realized. Probably from people washing their hands, and being forced to shake them dry, because there were no towels.
She looked down. Yes, water. But not splattered drips like one would expect from wet hands being shaken dry. Each puddle had a form, a distinguishable shape.
Small, wet footprints.
She yanked open the door and dashed back into the restaurant, pausing just briefly to get her bearings. Spotting Maksim, she beelined right to the table.
"I–I just realized that I need to get back to the center," she told him without any pretense of composure or good manners.
She expected him to argue, to ask if she was okay, to tell her to have a seat and finish her meal. He only nodded, his thoughts clearly miles away.
Some of her anxiety faded at his distant reaction. He'd been trying to win her over, to charm her. What happened?
Then she reprimanded herself. She didn't want his interest in her. He just made her altogether too stressful life even more so.
"Okay," she said. "Let me give you some money toward lunch."
"No," he said, his voice sharp and abrupt. Then he added more softly, "I've got it."
"You're sure?"
He nodded again.
"Okay. Thank you."
Another nod.
She hesitated, feeling like there should be more to say, but then she gave up. She couldn't take any more weirdness. She just needed out of there.
"Bye, then."
"Bye." The word was mumbled vaguely as if he was back to that place miles away.
Maybe he was experiencing the same strangeness that she had. Maybe. But she didn't care, honestly. She wanted to be back at the center, surrounded by the noise and bustle of the children, back to worrying about finances and volunteers and new programs. Not feeling—frightened.
Maksim watched Jo weave her way through the maze of tables like a professional barrel racer. He should have stopped her, tried to get inside her head again, but he'd been too stunned. What had he just happened?
Not anything he'd ever experienced before. He'd entered Jo's head—and there had been nothing. Just a blackness. Not an emptiness like she didn't have any emotions, any memories. It was a like a veil, a thick haze that he couldn't see through. He couldn't reach through.
"Are you done, sir?"
Maksim frowned at the waiter, taking a moment to comprehend his question.
"Oh. Yes. We're done."
The waiter picked up the plates and told Maksim he'd be back with the check, but Maksim already paid no attention to him. What was different about Jo? He'd never had that happen. So was it about her? Or maybe it was him.
Maybe his powers weren't working correctly. That had never happened before, either, but he supposed it was a minute possibility.
To check, he focused on the waiter, who was now heading back to the kitchen, his hands full of dirty dishes. Maksim concentrated, then ducked into the kid's head for just a brief moment. Long enough to know the kid was bored, ready for his shift to be done. He needed to stop at Walgreen's after work for some condoms. Which he hated to use. But he did want to get it on with his new girlfriend, a girl he'd met last week at a place called Krazy Korner. And she wouldn't do it without a rubber.
Maksim stole back out, before he got a clear look at the kid's impression of the girl. Just a brief snippet of short shorts and tall, black boots. Maksim didn't want to stay too long. He didn't want to mess up the kid's head too much, which it invariably did.
As it was, the poor guy had dropped one of the plates he was carrying the moment Maksim had hopped in his head. The remainder of Jo's salad spread across the flagstone, a jumble of greens and dressing and broken glass. Much like the muddle of thoughts going on in Maksim's own head at the moment.
So his powers weren't faulty. The kid's brain had been like an open book, or more accurately a wide-screen television. The images had been clear, easily accessed like channels flipping to offer one glimpse after another of his thoughts and feelings. So why hadn't that happened with Jo?
Maksim didn't wait for the waiter to return with the bill. He was now busy cleaning up the mess of the dropped plate and wondering what had just come over him, and why his head felt so strange. And Maksim didn't have time to waste—even though technically the mess was his fault.
Maksim stood and fished in his pocket. Pulling out a hundred-dollar bill, he dropped it on the table. That would more than cover the meal and compensate the kid for the extra mess.
Maksim strode out of the restaurant, heading north on Dumaine Street. He didn't slow his pace until he reached the row of shotgun houses lining both sides of the street.
He stopped in front of the one painted pink with faded green shutters the color of mint ice cream. The trim work was pale yellow. Leave it to his sister to live in something that looked like it should be out of a fairy tale. Or an Easter basket.
He rooted around in his pocket for the key. Once inside, the gingerbread house colors didn't end. The front room was lavender with gold brocade furniture, leading into a short hallway the color of blue cotton candy.
He dropped his keys onto the coffee table and headed down the fluffy blue hallway, walking into the one somewhat palatable room in the whole place, Ellina's study.
He flipped on the light. At least the walls here were a tolerable shade of deep orange that was only mildly reminiscent of living inside a pumpkin, but did manage to look decent with the dark oak bookcases and desk.
Across her desk were all the notes and papers she'd been working on when she disappeared. His sister was a writer. Research books about the occult. With a distinct focus on demons. Go figure.
But he didn't go to her desk. He'd been through all her notes so many times in his search for her that he knew they wouldn't have the answer he needed right now. Instead he went to her bookshelves, scanning the titles. Demons For Dummies. Nice, Ellina. Demonic and Loving It. Maksim shook his head. The Everyday Guide to Demons.