Their eyes meet, and Grayson’s widen in surprise. “Hey, I can see you!”
That’s new. Nix had always seen Grayson when they Travel—but Grayson had never once seen him. They’d wondered about it, guessed at reasons, but with no one to ask, they’d settled on the simplest: Grayson was the one steering these journeys, and Nix was only ever dragged along in his wake.
“Maybe it’s because of this?” Nix raises their joined hands. “Where are we?”
“I don’t know? It’s late, though, right? It was after 2:00 AM when I came to bed. But this tea still looks hot.”
Tugging on their joined hands, Nix pulls them toward the pile of neatly stacked mail on the counter.
Dahlia Kirwan.
“Holy shit,” Nix whispers. “We’re at your professor’s apartment?”
He knows no one can hear them. During Grayson’s last two Travels, no one had noticed him, no matter how much noise he made. They’re on a different plane. Inside time and place, but shifted one minuscule step to the left or right. Or maybe upside down.
They’re invisible except—now with their hands clasped—to each other. Given Nix is stark naked, it’s probably a good thing.
He doesn’t waste time asking why they’re here, of all places. Grayson thinks they go where The Plain wants them to go, and if that’s here with Dahlia Kirwan after the day they’ve had, then all they can do is wait until they’ve seen whatever it is they’re supposed to see.
“Come on. We’re here for a reason. Once we figure it out, we can go home and face her for real.”
A small, frazzled-looking woman wearing a white Victorian nightgown sits on an ancient, chintz-covered settee. The small living room was oppressively fancy with gilded frames filled with sepia photographs of unsmiling ancestors and a bookshelf lined with leather-bound tomes. A vase of dried black dahlias sits on a table beside the front door, under an oval mirror. Porcelain and steel knick-knacks clutter the surfaces: dolphins, kittens, and, most disturbingly, a large spider crouched on the sideboard.
“It’s weird seeing her in her nightgown. Ugh.” Grayson pretends to gag, and Nix nods in agreement.
The phone rings again, and Dahlia isn’t the only one who jumps.
It’s then that Nix notices that she’s gone as pale as her nightgown. She answers the phone without a second of hesitation. “Yes?”
“Your check-in is late.” The man’s voice can only be described as sinister. European, most likely, given the way he’s speaking heavily-accented English.
“I—I apologize, sir.” She doesn’t offer any explanation, grimacing. “There has been a recent development.”
When the man doesn’t say anything, Dahlia throws her shoulders back and grips the phone tighter. “The subject has destroyed the foci.”
“The spell is broken? I thought you said his magic wasn’t—”
“He has allies who unraveled the spell.”
“Do not interrupt me again, Ms. Kirwan.”
“Yes, sir. My apologies.” Dahlia shivers at the reprimand, even though tiny beads of sweat break out on her upper lip.
“Continue.”
“The subject’s allies from the Florida Guild are here, sir. Ignatius Parvolio, and I assume his greatest supporter can’t be far behind.”
There are sounds of a keyboard over the phone in the silence.
“Ah yes, Nimue Wyrd. A loss to our cause,” he murmurs absentmindedly. “I do not see any dispensation from the Tennessee authorities.”
Mention of Nimue’s name makes her clench her jaw, but the news that they’re here without the magical authorities’ knowledge puts a sinister smirk on her thin lips. “No? They’re here without permission?”
“Shit,” Grayson groans under his breath. “That’s going to be trouble.”
“It would appear so. If they’re in Nashville without permission, then we can…hmmm. Tell me the rest.”
“Yes, sir.” Dahlia seems more confident knowing that Grayson’s allies are in trouble. “The foci may be broken, but I am certain he’s the one. Yesterday I was able to encourage a true reading, and I know my instincts are correct. He’s the one we’ve been looking for.”
