“Home?” Zay asked.
“Home.” Because home is where the coffeepot is.
He started the car and I thought about sleeping on the way to my apartment, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw Greyson’s gaze and remembered my father pushing around in my mind.
“Greyson saw me in there,” I said. “I think he might have seen Dad in me.”
“I know.”
“You want to tell me why no one else believes me? Why don’t they believe Dad is in me and maybe in Greyson too?”
“Jingo Jingo is the expert. The Authority trusts him on these kinds of things.”
“You don’t believe him.”
“I should. I can’t think of why he would lie about it.”
“So you don’t believe me?”
“I do believe you. I just don’t know why Jingo Jingo would lie.”
Because he’s a freak? I thought. Then, out loud, “Maybe he thinks he has a good reason. Some kind of behind-the-scenes mumbo-jumbo politicking or something.”
Zayvion exhaled. “That could be.” We stopped at a light. “Ever since just before your father’s death, tensions in the Authority have been building. Each discipline seems to think they have a corner on how magic should be used. Each person believes their view correct.”
He glanced over his shoulder and merged into the next lane. “The heads of the Authority-all the leaders, not just Portland’s-are having a hard time responding to the problems fast enough. We had to deal with Dr. Frank Gordon, Greyson, your father’s murder.” He was quiet a moment. “We’re good at emergencies. Still, we didn’t do enough, fast enough. I don’t think anyone, especially not Sedra nor the voices within the Authority, expected things to come to this-to the war that’s brewing-nor knows what to do next.”
“I’d start with the Necromorph doing the Hannibal Lecter thing in the basement,” I said. “Fix Greyson. Make him into a man again and then put him on trial for my dad’s murder.”
“It isn’t that easy. The disk in his throat, and the spells trapping him as both man and beast, have affected his mind. Mercy,” he said quietly, “would be to end his life.”
Silence again. I thought about Chase, how she would deal with Greyson’s death. Not well.
“And even a merciful death wouldn’t be easy,” he said. “Death magic mixed with Blood magic, dark and light magic.” He frowned. “Impossible to Close, and hard to kill.”
“What about Chase?” I asked.
“She wouldn’t Close him. I don’t think she could kill him.”
“Creepy, but not what I’m asking. What happens to her if they Close Greyson, or, uh, kill him?”
“Her memories of him would be Closed.”
I rubbed at my eyes. “Is that your answer to everything? If it might cause pain or inconvenience, just take the memory away?”
“Sometimes it is the only thing that can be done,” he said. “Sometimes people don’t want to remember the pain, Allie.” He glanced at me, his eyes flecked with gold. He was still angry. Angry at Chase, or Greyson, I didn’t know.
I opened my mouth, but my phone rang. I dug it out of my hoodie pocket.
“Hello?”
“Allie, this is Grant.”
“Trouble?”
“Is that really the first thing you ask when someone calls you?” he asked.
I took a breath. Remembered Grant was from the part of my life that had little to do with angry magic users or stolen memories or secret organizations. Grant was from the part of my life that had to do with afternoons in a coffee shop, reading the paper, and really good scones.
“Sorry. It’s been a long day and I haven’t had nearly enough coffee.”
“Take care of half of that for you.”
“The long day?”
“Don’t I wish. Listen, I know we haven’t really discussed this part of you leasing the warehouse, but you have a couple visitors waiting for you in my shop. I don’t mind the business, but I thought you’d want to know people are looking for you.”
“Do you know who they are?”
“I think one of them is a Hound. Looks sick. The other two, a man and a woman. I haven’t seen them here before.”
“Okay, I’ll be there soon.”
“If I’m going to be your secretary, or spy boy, I’d like two weeks’ vacation and an office with a view. Oh, and a watch that dispenses dry martinis.”
“Sure thing,” I said. “I’ll get right on that. Thanks for calling.”
I said good-bye, and filled Zayvion in.
“Still want to go home first?” he asked.
I thought about it. I was damp and hadn’t gotten a shower since before the gym. But if someone was looking for me, especially if it was a Hound who was hurt, I didn’t want Grant to have to deal with that.
Note to self: set up a schedule for other Hounds to hang out at the warehouse and take in the strays. I refused to spend every night down at Grant’s dealing with Hound crap.
I groaned. “Get Mugged,” I finally said. “Do you have time?”
“Until the meeting tonight, I do.”
It didn’t take long to get to Get Mugged. The old coffee shop stood on the corner like a beacon in a grimy city. Yellow light spilled out from two stories of windows, and the street around it was lined with cars.
Zay found a place to park in the open lot next to the warehouse.
I couldn’t help it. Looking at the warehouse that still leaned a bit but-as we were told by inspectors and code officials-was sound, and knowing that a part of the building was mine, made me feel good.
I’d promised Pike I’d look after the Hounds for him. It was his idea to bring the Hounds together so we could watch one another’s backs. It was his idea to keep track of Hounding jobs and support the police through contract Hounding. He wanted better for Hounds, who too often died trying to escape the pain of using magic.
Just like his granddaughter who hadn’t survived her brush with the Blood-magic and drug dealer Lon Trager a few years ago. I’d helped Hound that case to throw Trager in jail. But when Trager got out, Pike had taken him on, alone. He hadn’t known Anthony, the kid he was trying to set straight, was being used by Trager. Didn’t know Trager was being used by Dr. Frank Gordon, the grave robber, to bind my father’s soul. Didn’t know there was a whole lot of secret-magic-user stuff going on in the background of this city.
Gruff, fair, blunt, Pike was a good man, and my friend. I still hurt when I thought about his death. The warehouse was a physical manifestation of my promise to him.
Pike had gotten his den.
I scanned the street as I got out of the car and made my way over to the sidewalk. A few people walked by, hoods up, or, that rarest thing in Oregon, an umbrella furled. Traffic drove past slowly, tires hissing against wet pavement. It felt like a pretty normal February night.
I inhaled, got that welcome-home scent of deeply roasted coffee, and something salty, like hot cheese and garlic. Grant had started serving homemade soup and sandwiches along with his baked-from-scratch pastries. If he didn’t watch out, he was going to become a sensation.
We strolled up the sidewalk to the front door of Get Mugged and stepped in.
Get Mugged was a lot bigger on the inside than it looked on the outside. An open loft took up the back half of the building, and the bottom floor was a combination of bricks, wood, and well-placed lighting. Tables filled the room, clustered by love seats and couches. The tables nearest the windows were plain dark wood, a little scuffed up. Homey.
No music played, or if it did, it was drowned out from the thrum of conversation. People sat at tables with coffee, tea, food, laptops, and handhelds, content to call Get Mugged their second living room.
I grinned. Noisy, crowded-I loved it here. Even though it was smaller than the dining room at Maeve’s place, it somehow managed to feel cozy, not claustrophobic. Plus, having the best coffee in town went a long way toward securing my affections.