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She said she’d never seen it before! I was going to kill Jane Jameson-Nightengale.
“Would you mind if I took it back to the shop? It’s part of a personal collection, and we’ve been looking for it for some time. I can reimburse you whatever you paid for it,” I said.
He pursed his lips into a frown. “Why would you want it?”
“Personal reasons.”
He stared at me for a long time, studying my face. “Consider it a thank-you gift,” he said, pressing the hilt into my hand. “You have been a great help to me here in the clinic. And now I don’t have to get you flowers when you leave.”
I threw my arms around him in a fierce hug.
“You must really like knives,” he said, patting my back hesitantly. “Go on, have a good night.”
I raced to my desk, pulled an unbleached cloth out of my purse, and wrapped it around the blade. Three down. I’d found three Elements. Maybe if I wandered through random car parks in the Hollow, I would eventually trip over the bell.
“Thank you, Dr. Hackett!” I called.
“Good night, Nola,” he responded, sticking his head out of his office doorway. “And Nola?”
I paused on my dash to the front door.
Dr. Hackett grinned at me. “You have his eyes.”
* * *
“Jane! You’ll never believe it!” I called, racing into the shop. The door was unlocked, but I couldn’t see anyone on the sales floor, which was unusual. It was only 10:20. Someone had turned off all of the lights, with the exception of the track lights over the coffee bar. “Hey? What’s with the lights? If you close up shop, it’s a good idea to lock the door, you know!”
No response. I glanced down at the security-system panel over the light switch. It was scorched black, as if someone had zapped it with a cattle prod. In the darkened shop interior, the brass fixtures of the coffee machine dully reflected the street lamps. I reached for the light switch, and the hair on my arms rose. Before my fingers could make contact with the switchplate, I was nearly doubled over at the sudden throbbing pain in my head. It felt as if someone had kicked me across the temple with a steel-toed boot. Dizzy and sick, I swayed into the shop, bracing myself against the surface of a coffee table.
I heard a soft, wet moan from behind the coffee bar. I struggled to move my feet forward. There was someone here, someone in pain. I mentally shielded myself to keep from being incapacitated by the person’s pain.
“Jane?” I whispered, dropping the athame on the bar.
I turned the corner to find a slim male form with sandy hair.
“Zeb!” I shouted, dropping to my knees next to his crumpled body. He lay on his side, curled inward. His face was battered and bloody. His knuckles were bruised and swollen, as if he’d managed to fight back. I placed gentle hands on his shoulders, and suddenly, he was coughing and heaving, blood dribbling from his lips.
“Shh.” I pressed my hands gently against his ribs, trying to discern cracks or breaks. The blood appeared to be from a smashed lip and not any rupture to his lungs. “Try not to move too much.”
“Somebody hit me from behind,” he wheezed. “But I got a few swings in. One. I got one swing in.”
“Someone hit you over the head? How many times?” I asked. I crouched over him, examining him thoroughly.
“Don’t know,” he said.
I closed my eyes and concentrated on his body, bones, heart, lungs. He was bruised and battered, but nothing seemed torn. Still, I wanted him to be checked over. I could be missing something. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911, barking out the address and a brief description of Zeb’s injuries.
I placed my hand over his head and tried to picture his brain, the tiny networks of nerves and veins, the bones of his skull. I pictured smooth, solid bone and healthy tissue, but I couldn’t seem to settle long enough to send any energy his way. I could feel the heat gathering underneath my skin, but I couldn’t direct it outward. I shook my hands, as if they were faulty cigarette lighters, and tried again. But the magical signature was even weaker.>“I’m sorry,” he said, softly, stepping back out of range. “I can’t deal with this.”
“I know,” I told him. “It’s all right. I can barely deal with it. I’m sorry I lied to you.”
He stepped back to the kitchen table, slumping against it. “No, no, I should have guessed, I suppose. Your family took this far too seriously to be faking it,” he said, staring off into space.
A long, heavy silence hung in the air between us.
“So . . .” he started. “As far as breakup stories go, this will be different from my friends’ tales of sad-face text messages and requests that we ‘still be friends.’ ”
“Do you still want to be friends?” I asked.
