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“You don’t know—”
“And even then, it’s not like you did all that much,” I said, talking over him, because it was the only way to get a word in edgeways with Pritkin sometimes.
He had filched the bottle back to take a drink, but at that he lowered it and looked at me, his eyes very green next to the amber liquor. “What?”
“I just meant, it wasn’t all that and a bag of chips. You know?”
He blinked at me.
“No offense,” I added, because he was looking kind of poleaxed. Like maybe he hadn’t had a whole lot of complaints before. Which was, frankly, pretty damn understandable. But I feigned indifference. “I mean, it couldn’t have been that bad if—”
“Bad?”
“Well, not bad bad.”
He just looked at me.
“I mean, I came and everything, so that has to count for some—”
I cut off because I was suddenly enveloped in a strong pair of arms, and my head was crushed to a hard chest. A chest that appeared to be vibrating. It took me a few moments to get it, and even then I wasn’t sure, because Pritkin’s face was buried in my hair. But I kind of thought—as impossible as it seemed—that he might be . . . laughing?
Chapter Twenty-nine
“I’m glad you two are having such a swell time,” Caleb said, slamming back in a minute later.
I barely heard him. I was too busy watching Pritkin, who had slumped over with his head on the sofa arm, shoulders shaking helplessly, and what looked suspiciously like tears leaking out from under his closed eyes. “Not that bad,” he muttered, and then he was off again.
Caleb looked at him like he thought the guy might have totally gone around the bend. I wasn’t sure he wasn’t right, because Pritkin rarely smiled, and he never laughed. But he was doing it now, and for a moment, I just absorbed the image. Of all the strange things that had happened on this very strange day, I thought that might just take the prize.
And then Caleb was jerking me out the door.
“Are you lucid?” he demanded.
“Pretty much.”
“Good. Then maybe you can tell me—” He stopped, because a door closed somewhere down the corridor. Caleb’s head whipped around like a guy’s in a spy movie, and then he hauled me across the hall and into another office.
This one had boxes lining the walls and stacks of files teetering dangerously high on the only desk. There was also a trench coat on a hook on the back of the door and he grabbed it, shoving it at me. “Do I want to know what happened to my T-shirt?”
“It was wet.”
“And why was it—No, wait. Don’t answer that.”
“Because I wore it in the shower!” I said, getting into the coat, which was about five sizes too big. “We just talked, Caleb!”
“Then talk some more. Like about what we’re supposed to do.”
“About what?”
“About the fact that John may have lost his ever-loving mind, but he’s physically doing pretty damn good for a guy who was almost dead an hour ago! And people saw, okay? And by now they’ve talked—”
“Talked to who?”
“How the hell do I know? We had maybe a couple hundred people on the ground, with most of ’em still there.”
“Why so many? Can’t you just go with ‘gas leak’ or something?” It was Dante’s default excuse for the not-sooccasional weirdness that went on.
“For the restaurant, maybe. It may even be partly true in that case. But that’s still leaves us with two wrecked buildings, a trashed parking garage and four thousand pounds of dragon flesh bleeding out in the middle of a—”
