“After my shower I want to go to sleep,” I mumbled.
“And since you didn’t pack, you have no right to make fun of my taste in sleepwear.”
“Like that would stop me.”
Nola paused. “I don’t think I have anything left from John that would fit you, Zayvion.”
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “I have some spare clothes in the car.”
“Good. Get in the shower, Allie,” she called over her shoulder.
Like I was going to do anything else.
Zayvion picked up his empty bowl and mine, and put them both in the sink, manners that spoke of either a strong female influence in his upbringing or a long life of living alone.
For the life of me, I did not know why that man was here, with me, at the only place in the world I considered a sanctuary. But I was glad. Grateful even.
I was such a sap.
I watched as he started the water, rinsed bowls. Relaxed, he moved with the kind of easy grace I’d seen in people who do Tai Chi in the park. Unselfconscious. Comfortable. At home in a kitchen away from the push and pull, the want and denial of magic and city living. Or I could be just hoping he felt that way, hoping he’d like this place and Nola as much as I did. And hoping she would like him too.
Jupe galumphed into the kitchen and bumped my legs with his ox head. I scratched him behind the ears. Satisfied, he trotted over to give Zay the sniffing of a lifetime.
Traitor. I’d been the one walking through garbage and peed on by a cat. I should be the most interesting person in the room to sniff. So much for loyalty.
I headed down the hallway to the bathroom. Jupe, who usually likes to follow me around when I visit, trotted off after Zayvion, which was actually fine with me. Nola’s house didn’t just look like an old farmhouse, it was an old farmhouse, and the rooms were on the small side. The bathroom was no exception. If Jupe had decided to hang out while I showered, I would have kicked him out anyway. I needed every inch of space I could get to breathe in there, and Jupe took up acres of exhale room.
I turned on the shower and shucked out of my shoes and clothes. I ached in weird places and itched. The back of my throat hurt, so the Offload from the spell I’d worked on the kid was starting to kick in.
I used the toilet, then washed my hands. I glanced in the mirror and winced at the red mark by my eye that fingered out like thin red lightning, down the arc of my cheek to my ear, along my jaw, then down my neck. At my shoulder it spread out even more, webbing down my arm to finally merge into a more solid red from my elbow to my hand. It was like the mother of all burns, but when I touched it, it didn’t hurt, didn’t feel hot, didn’t feel any different than my non-red skin. My left arm wasn’t red at all, just ringed by black bruises that were beginning to look like black tattooed bands around my knuckles, wrist, and elbow.
Maybe I did need a doctor. I’d heard of magic leaving marks, especially back when it was first being discovered and used thirty years ago. But those marks were open wounds that quickly festered, resisted medical intervention, and claimed the lives of the wounded. There had been a lot of trial and error before magic was considered mostly safe to use.
My father had been on the forefront of making magic accessible and relatively safe to the general populace. The iron, lead, and glass lines he patented, the Storm Rods that pulled magic out of the infrequent wild storms, the holding cisterns beneath cities—he’d had a hand in all those things.
So while magic was not harmless, most people believed that if they limited their use, or hired a good Proxy service to handle the price and pain, then the benefits outweighed the cost.
I moved my arms around, flexed my fingers, wrist, elbows. A little stiff, including the stupid blood magic scars on my left deltoid, but nothing serious. No open wounds.
I decided to take a wait-and-see approach. I stepped into the hot water and moaned.
Heaven.
I let the water sluice over me for a good ten minutes, my eyes closed, breathing in the warm and clean of it all. Then I stopped soaking and started scrubbing. All of Nola’s things were natural, organic, and nonmagic. Her soaps smelled like oatmeal and honey, her shampoo eucalyptus. I used every soap she had available and came out of that shower feeling one hundred percent warm, clean, and sleepy.
Nola knocked on the door. “Allie?”
I wrapped the towel around myself and opened the door.
Nola handed me a folded pair of sweatpants, a T-SHIRT, and panties.
“The underwear are new—I’ve never worn them. The pants will be too short, but the T-shirt should be comfortable. Want to talk?”
“Sure. Am I sleeping in the coatroom?”
Nola’s mouth quirked up. “Yes, you are sleeping in my quaint and comfortably cozy guest bedroom.” She stepped into the bathroom and gathered up my filthy clothes.
“Nola—you don’t have to. I can get them in the wash.”
“So you have more time to think about the things you’re going to self-edit before you talk to me? I don’t think so. I want every detail. Especially the ones involving that man out there. I’ll get these washing and meet you in your room.”
She shut the door and I slipped on the clothes she had brought me. The sweats were too short, but I rucked them up to my knees and they were comfortable. The T-shirt was soft, roomy, and had a giant cartoon cow sleeping in a field of daisies on the front of it. Not my style, but I didn’t care. I was dry, warm, and grateful nobody was shooting at me.
Still, when I walked out of the bathroom rubbing the towel over my head, thinking short hair had some advantages—it dried fast—I was a little uncomfortable to come face-to-face with Zayvion. It’s not like we were dating, not like we’d done anything more than get a little handsy in the car. But still, the sweatpants-slob look is something I usually save until after the first month of seeing someone.
“Um,” I said.
“I was just heading to the bathroom,” he said. Those Zen eyes were calm, unreadable.
“Right.” I moved out of the way, both disappointed and relieved he hadn’t said anything about the cow outfit.
“Nice cow,” he said just before he shut the door.
Terrif. I padded off to the bedroom, and took a deep breath before actually stepping through the door. The room was small, but if I focused on the one wall that was almost all window, and kept the door open, I was pretty sure I was tired enough I could handle my claustrophobia and get some sleep. I didn’t care that it wasn’t even five o’clock yet. I was tired.
Nola knocked on the door frame and walked into the room. “So. Tell me what’s been going on.”
I pulled the handmade quilt down and crawled up to the head of the bed. Nola sat on the foot of the bed. She was still wearing her overalls, but had kicked off her boots. She held something in a towel in her hands, and at first I thought it was a cup of tea. Then it meowed.
“You mean Jupe hasn’t eaten her yet?” I asked.
Nola petted the kitten’s little gray head. “No. Poor thing. She finished off an entire can of tuna. When did you get a kitten?”
“She’s not mine. I found her when I found the kid.”
“Talk to me about it.” Nola scooted across the bed so she could lean against the footboard and sit with her legs crossed up. The kitten mewed again, and Nola put her in her lap and petted her. The kitten fell asleep midpurr.
I heard the pipes in the old house thrum and figured Zayvion was taking a shower.
“I don’t know how to explain it,” I said. How was I supposed to condense the last two days—days that felt like months—into something that made sense? Where should I even start?
“How did your dad die?” In typical Nola fashion, she cut right to the heart of the matter.