Stotts nodded. “Yes, I do.”
“Do you think my father’s ghost was there?”
“I don’t know,” he said evenly. “Do you?”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t remember?”
“No.”
We sat there, in silence, the car engine still running, which was burning gas, but it kept the heater warm. It was raining outside, and suddenly this little space, this crowded car wasn’t nearly big enough for me. I needed out. I needed to breathe.
“I’m going home now.” I pulled on the door handle.
“Let me walk you in.”
“No. I got it. Really. I just want a shower and bed. Thanks for the ride.”
“Call me if-”
I cut him off. “I will. I’ll call if I remember anything else.”
“I was going to say, if you need anything.”
Oh.
“Thanks.” I got out of the car and shuffled across the sidewalk. Someone, probably my landlord, had thrown rock salt on the sidewalk and stairs, so it wasn’t even slippery anymore. Just wet.
I held my breath and dug in the plastic bag of my clothes. The clothes were stiff and damp with sweat and blood, but my hand came out a lot cleaner than I thought it would. I pulled the key out of my coat pocket and I let myself in the building. I took my time climbing stairs until the third floor showed up.
My head spun with thoughts of my father. His ghost had touched me twice. Had he touched me again in the warehouse? Had he done more than just touch me?
Even though I could not remember, there was an echo, an emotional memory. My father had done something to me. Something bad.
And I knew, without a doubt, that whatever it was, it was permanent.
What did you do to me, Dad? What did you want to use me for?
That skittery feeling at the back of my head triggered again, like a moth wing beating at the top of my spine-like something moving away from my concentration, dodging my notice.
I made it to the third floor and stopped. Down the hall by my door, stood a woman. She looked older than me by fifteen or twenty years, her faded red hair streaked with gray and pulled back in a loose bun. She had on a forest green wool coat and high heel boots.
I’d never seen her before, but she held up a hand and waved.
“Allie?” she asked. “Are you Allison Beckstrom?” Her voice had the slightest accent that made me think Ireland or Scotland.
And sure, it might be really dumb to tell a stranger who I was, but damn it, I was tired. And a little spooked. I just wanted to get home, and she was in my way.
“I’m Allie Beckstrom.”
She closed the distance between us and stuck out her hand. “My name is Maeve Flynn. I knew your father.”
I shook her hand, aware that mine wasn’t very clean.
Her hand was warm and strong, and she shook mine firmly enough I could feel the bones beneath her flesh, but not so hard as to hurt. She had working hands, a little calloused, but her nails were professionally polished with a soft pink gloss.
“Business partner?” I guessed.
“No. More of an acquaintance than anything else,” she said. “He and I didn’t agree on many things, though neither of us were shy about our personal opinions on the use of magic. He wasn’t pleased you went into Hounding, you know.”
“I’m not at all clear why you are here to see me. Is there something I can help you with?”
She looked up into my eyes-I was taller than her by several inches even though she was wearing heels and I wasn’t. Her eyes were the same color as her coat.
“Your father was a vicious and determined man. In life. And in death. I came by to see how badly he has hurt you.”
“Excuse me?”
“I am a member of the Authority. I am here to see that his death, his spirit, has not harmed you.”
What had Zayvion said? There were powerful people watching me, waiting for me to do something wrong with magic so they could kill me. Was Maeve my killer?
I took a deep breath and looked at her. Really looked at her. She didn’t seem to be harboring a burning desire to off me. Which would put her several steps up from the company I’d been keeping lately.
“Maybe we can go inside and talk about it?” she offered.
“I thought you people were all about keeping a low profile,” I said as I walked toward my door.
“We are. But I believe that no longer suits both of our interests.”
I put the key in my lock and paused. “You aren’t here to kill me, are you?”
She laughed-and I mean really giggled-like that was the best joke she’d heard in years. “Where did you get that idea? I just told you I’m here to see that you are unharmed. Why would I kill you if I’m here to help you?”
“You’re the people who have been watching me, right? Waiting for me to misuse magic.”
“That’s right,” she said. “And we’ve seen everything you’ve done. Everything he did too.”
“Who?”
She pointed at my head. “Your father.”
“What does he have to do with this?”
“Everything.”
At my look, she went on. “There has been a… review… among the Authority. A discussion of what to do with you. Mr. Jones has been fiercely insisting you be allowed into the group, that you be allowed the teachings your father denied you.”
“Does Zayvion’s opinion have that much sway?”
“He is not without a voice among us. And he brings up valid points. If what he says is true…” She shook her head. “Well, it’s only logical for us to see that you are not judged unfairly. Are you interested in our offer?”
“To teach me about magic?”
She nodded. “To teach you the unknown about magic.”
“I suppose it will cost me if I say yes.”
“It will. The first price being to trust in me, so that I can see what sort of damage your father may have done to you.”
I so wasn’t up to dealing with this right now. I just got out of the hospital, for cripes’ sakes. I should just tell her to go away. Go back to her little club and tell them I was not interested. The problem was, I was interested. I wanted to know what my father had done to me, wanted to know what the Life and Death glyphs meant. Wanted to know what Frank Gordon had been doing to my father’s body. And to me.
And if someone in this city knew how I could keep from getting screwed over every time I used magic, I’d like to know. Even if it meant joining the secret clubhouse.
I unlocked my door and opened it, holding it so she could walk in past me.
I waved toward the living room. “Have a seat. I’m going to get changed.”
I passed the bathroom and threw the plastic bag of clothes on the floor near the hamper. In my bedroom, I got out of the hospital sweats and into a pair of loose jeans and a thick wool sweater.
When I came back out into the living room, Maeve was sitting on the edge of my couch. The blanket Zayvion had slept under was folded neatly on the arm of the couch. The food we’d never gotten around to eating was still on the table, along with the single, dead pink rose.
“Sorry about the mess,” I said.
“That’s fine,” she said in a sincere and motherly way. “And I promise this won’t hurt. I’ll tell you everything I’m doing as I do it, and you can ask me to stop at any time.”
“I’m not made of glass,” I said.
“Ready, then?”
No.
“Yes.”
She patted the couch next to her and I sat.
“I need to touch your hand or your leg,” she began patiently, like maybe she had talked a lot of people through this before.
I held out my right hand and she took it in both of hers.
No weaving of glyphs, no chanting; Maeve simply closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and opened her eyes again.
But instead of deep forest green, her eyes were shot with lines of silver. I knew, without a doubt, that she had called on some kind of Sight. And that she was using it to look into me. The weird thing was I couldn’t feel the magic, couldn’t smell the magic.