“What?”
“On the restaurant. Did you see it?”
“Yeah,” I said. “It was-”
A blow to the gut doubled me over, stole my breath. I almost retched. Amaya hadn’t moved.
Before I could straighten up, something hit me again. The jaw this time. It felt like a cross between a fist and a cinder block. I was catapulted backward, my feet might even have left the floor. I landed hard on my back, the breath pounded out of my lungs.
Amaya sipped his drink, still comfortably ensconced in his chair.
“There’s magic on your shirt where I hit you,” he said. “Also on your face. What color is it?”
I raised a hand to the side of my face, dabbed at the corner of my mouth. My hand came away bloody. The residue of his spell shone on my stomach. It was dark purple, the color of desert mountains at dusk, and it was as opaque and glossy as wet paint.
“What color?” Amaya asked again, his voice like a hammer.
“Purple,” I said.
“And what color did you see at the restaurant?”
“Green. I owe you an apology.”
“You certainly do.”
I climbed to my feet, crossed to the bar and filled a glass with ice and water. Then I walked to the chair next to his and dropped myself into it. “The magic on the restaurant was transparent as well; it was like looking through the glass of a wine bottle. Does that mean anything to you?”
“No,” Amaya said. “You’re sure it wasn’t a trick of the light?”
“Pretty sure. I saw the same thing at the airport, on James Howell and on the cockpit panels.”
He glared. “So, you lied to me yesterday.”
I said nothing, but stared back at him.
He flashed a grin, though it faded as quickly as it appeared. “The same myste who struck at the airport issued this warning to you.”
“Apparently.”
“Very interesting indeed.”
“I need more information, Mister Amaya. You said last night that the dark mystes were capable of doing some terrible things. I’d like to know what you meant.”
Amaya regarded me for another moment before getting up and walking to the bar. He unstoppered a glass decanter and poured himself more tequila. “Some things are not mine to tell,” he said. “But I can give you another name.” He smiled back at me over this shoulder. “Someone a bit more accessible than Regina Witcombe.”
I pulled out my pad and pen, drawing another grin.
“You know, they have devices now, things that you can use for taking notes, taking pictures, even making phone calls.”
“Well, maybe after you’ve paid me for this job, I’ll be able to afford one.”
“His name is Gary Hacker. He lives outside the city, on a small plot of land on the outskirts of Buckeye.” He gave me the address. “He won’t want to speak with you. Tell him I sent you.”
“What should I talk to him about?”
“Like I said, it’s not my story to tell. But he’s a were, and I think you’ll find what he has to say pretty illuminating.”
“All right.”
“Don’t take a lot of time with this. You’ve only got two more days until the phasing starts.”
“Do you really think I need you to tell me that?”
A small laugh escaped him. “Probably not.”
I drank the rest of my water and stood. “Thank you for the name.” I patted my gut. “And for the lesson in magic.”
“Your friend, is she all right?”
“How’d you know it was a she?”
Amaya grinned. “I saw you on the news, remember? You were angry, ready to take on an entire army of weremystes. And I saw as well the way you came charging in here, despite my guards, despite my reputation. We do those things for the ones we love, and I happen to know you are in love with the blogger Billie Castle.”
I didn’t like that he knew her name, that he had found it so easy to learn so much about me, but I probably shouldn’t have been surprised.
“She’s alive,” I said. “But she’s not in great shape.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Truly. I know what it’s like to have your enemies strike at loved ones.”
Pain lurked behind the words; I wondered what had been done to him. “Thank you,” I said, unnerved by the sympathy I felt.
I walked toward his front door, curious about this new name he had given me and belatedly aware of how lucky I was to be leaving his home alive.
It seemed he was thinking along the same lines. “Jay.”
I halted, faced him.
“I don’t care who’s in the hospital or how many times you’ve been blown up. Don’t ever come to me in anger again.”
Another warning. This one I was likely to heed. I nodded and let myself out of the house.
I returned to the hospital and managed to get in to see Billie for a few minutes. She looked better than she had; she had more color in her cheeks, and she admitted to me that she had eaten a bit.
She begged me to bring her something from Solana’s, until I reminded her that it had been destroyed by the explosion.
“Then anyplace. I want fajitas, Fearsson, not braised beef tips.” She made a face, and I laughed.
“I’ll do what I can.”
“I also want to know why all the nurses keep referring to you as my husband.”
I winced, rubbed the back of my neck. “It was the only way I could get in to see you. They don’t allow just anyone in this part of the hospital, and I wasn’t willing to wait until they moved you. So . . .” I shrugged.
“So you claimed you were my husband?”
“Yeah. I don’t know your Social Security number, by the way. That really is information you should share with the man you marry.”
Her laughter was like the sweetest music.
“I think Kona would say that you’re a piece of work.”
I nodded. “Yeah, she would.”
Before we could say much more, her nurse-a different one-shooed me away, telling me I was welcome to come back in the morning during regular visiting hours.
I would have liked more time with Billie, but at least I knew that her condition was improving and that she was being taken care of, even if it was by Nurse Ratched.
I went by Nathan Felder’s house, where I picked up my check, and then made my way home. I only stayed long enough to grab a change of clothes before driving out to my dad’s. I would have to make the trip back into town first thing the following morning to keep my appointment with Patty Hesslan, but I didn’t feel comfortable leaving him alone for too long.
When I got to Wofford, he was out in his chair, sitting in the dark, wearing the same clothes he’d had on the day before and smelling a bit ripe. I saw no evidence that he had eaten anything.
I fixed him a bowl of cereal, filled a glass with ice water, and sat with him as he ate and drank, listening to him rant about the burning and the pain and how he didn’t matter. He mentioned my mom again, and told them to stay the hell away from “the boy.” I smiled at this; I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t that I found it amusing in any way. Far from it. But I was touched that in the deepest throes of his madness or his suffering-whatever this was-he took it upon himself to protect me.
The rest of it sounded like so much nonsense, of course. It was the same stuff I’d heard the day before, and two days before that. He was flinching again, but the food and water seemed to help, and I took some comfort in the fact that he appeared to be no worse than he’d been yesterday.
I didn’t like to overuse his sleeping medication-the doctors had warned me that, given his history as an alcoholic, he could develop an addiction to the pills. But he wasn’t going to sleep in this state without some help.
Once the pill took effect, I put him to bed. I showered and shaved, lingering in front of the mirror to scrutinize the deepening bruise along my jaw, the purple under my skin blending into the fading purple glow of Amaya’s spell. At last, exhausted, I settled down on the floor of my dad’s room, as I had the previous night. Weary as I was, though, I lay awake for a long time, reliving the explosion at Solana’s and thinking about the spell I’d felt prickling my skin. There had been two spells, of course, one working at cross-purposes to the other. The first blew up the restaurant; the second protected me from injury, despite the potency of that first casting. I couldn’t imagine the power and skill necessary to weave two such spells together, although I thought it possible that Etienne de Cahors might have pulled it off, had he still been alive.