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“Tim is worth ten times what he’s getting paid. I wish we could offer him more money, but the Supe Community isn’t wealthy.” I picked up a charred piece of wood—it looked to be from the dining table—and tossed it to the side. “So much for that table. If Menolly hadn’t remembered seeing it, Wilbur probably would have died. In a sense, my seeing Wylie’s thoughts inadvertently saved Wilbur’s life.”
“You’re right. The Hags of Fate have a way of weaving their webs, don’t they?” Camille headed into the living room, which was smoke damaged but still fairly intact. “I’m going to check through Wilbur’s desk.”
As she rifled through his desk, Shade and I looked down into the stinking hole that had been the basement. The stairs were gone, and the drop looked precarious. The ceiling of the basement was on thin ice. I didn’t trust it not to cave in. And then, an image flashed through my thoughts. Menolly, holding something, as we knelt beside Wilbur in the torrential rain.
“Come on!” I headed down the back steps, which had managed to survive the blast, over to where we’d laid out Wilbur the night before.
Shade followed, while Morio stayed inside with Camille. “What did you think of?”
“Last night, Menolly found something that Wilbur had been pointing to. In all the excitement, she set it aside and we never bothered picking it up. I want to see what it is.” I hurried over to where Wilbur had been stretched out on the ground. After a moment of scouting around, I saw it: a small black bag, right near where Menolly had been sitting. “There!”
Shade cautiously picked it up and turned it over in his hands. “Feels awfully heavy for such a small bag.”
“Open it.”
“I think we’d better have Morio check for traps or magical spells. He has that ability.” Shade motioned toward the house, and we headed back. When we got there, Camille was sitting at the desk, absorbed in a handwritten journal.
“What did you find?” Morio said. He was flipping through a sideboard.
“I don’t know, but we wanted you to look it over first. You have the ability to decipher magical traps?” Shade held up the bag.
Morio frowned. “Some. Give it to me.” He set it on the coffee table and sat down on the lumpy sofa. A waft of dust rose up and I coughed, waving away the slightly stale scents of beer, rotting fruit, and cigar smoke.
Camille glanced up. “Wilbur is one strange puppy. He recorded everything, which can only help us. He seems to have had a pathological need to journal every aspect of his day. And trust me, you do not want to know all of his secrets. There will never be enough brain bleach to cleanse out some of the imagery he’s left me with.” She shivered.
“Like what?” I was a sucker for bad gossip, but more than that, the more we knew about Wilbur, the better.
“Like, Wilbur was expecting company four nights ago. Apparently he thought some old friends were showing up, from his time in the special ops. But he calls them Mango and Trent and refers to them both as ‘he’…not Van and Jaycee. Here he said they contacted him via phone call to let him know they were in town and would like to meet up.”>I stared at him, stifling a laugh. Camille rolled her eyes, and Menolly snorted. Smoky eyed Martin, frowning.
“I suggest Shade take him down to the Wayfarer. Menolly, I can take you.”
Shade swiveled around on his heel. “Me? Why me? Why not you?”
Smoky shrugged, a half grin on his face. “You are from the Netherworld. Ghouls are undead. It makes sense.” He stood back, pushing back his trench and sliding his hands into his pockets. His hair whipped around, almost dancing.
“I see.” Shade’s lip quivered, and the two dragons locked gazes. Shade was older than Smoky, but he was only half dragon, and that made a difference. After a moment he let out a little huff, then laughed. “Fine, then. I will take the ghoul.”
“Whoever takes the ghoul, fine, but if I’m going down there, we have to get moving. I need to get back before sunrise.” Menolly walked over to Smoky. He opened his trench and she slid her arm around his waist.
Shade rolled his eyes. He strode over to Martin and, without ceremony, swept Martin under one arm. Martin stiffened, stared at him, sniffed, and then went limp. What the hell? Ghouls couldn’t go comatose. They might shut down and sit still for hours until ordered to do something, but there would still be an unearthly light in their eyes. But Martin—he looked like he’d fainted.
With a laugh at our incredulity, Shade said, “I’m part Stradolan. I have many hidden talents.” And then, without another word, he vanished. Smoky followed, taking Menolly with him.
Morio grabbed Camille to him and gave her a sound kiss. “Let’s get home, wife. This weather is abominable.”
On the walk up the road to our driveway, Camille caught up to Shamas, who was walking a few yards ahead of us. She slid her arm through his and laid her head on his shoulder.
“Thank you,” I heard her say.
“For what?” Shamas inclined his head, and his arm snaked around her waist. But his hand stayed well off her butt, which was a good thing by the look on Morio’s face as he watched.
“For helping us. For putting out the fire on Wilbur’s house. Wilbur is a pain in the ass, but he’s helped us in the past. I don’t believe he betrayed us. At least…I hope he didn’t.” She hung her head.
Shamas reached down and kissed her hair. Then, with a glance over his shoulder at Morio and me, he gently disentangled himself from her, pulling back.
“It’s okay. I understand why you were angry at me. I just hope…that at some point you can forgive me and accept that I only want to help you. And…Delilah and Menolly, too. I’ve got a lot to learn, still, but I’m trying.” He touched her hand, then turned around and walked up to me.
I stared at him, still not particularly impressed. “Yes?”
