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“Nothing like that is going to happen again, is it?”
Good question. “I don’t know. I hope not. But if it does, I think we’ll be better prepared.”
Mom gave a frustrated sigh. “Kitty, I worry about you.”
So do I. “Thanks, Mom. But I wish you wouldn’t.”
“I’ll tell you what: I’ll stop worrying about you if you stop worrying about me.”
Wasn’t going to happen, of course. We both wanted assurances from the other that everything was going to be okay. Just fine, hunky-dory, we weren’t in trouble, no way. Neither of us could guarantee that.
“I’ll be fine. Really. Everything’s going to be fine.” I didn’t expect her to believe it, any more than I believed her half the time. But she played along, because the conversation obviously wasn’t going to go any further.
“You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, won’t you?” she said. The usual gambit at this point in the conversation.
“Absolutely,” I said. After a few more empty assurances like that, I coaxed her off the phone.
I called all my wolves, every member of the pack: Was everyone safe? Had anything else happened last night? Had any of them noticed any more signs of what had attacked us?
The answer was no. But no one had been sleeping well. Mick had gone out to the woods to Change and run off his anxiety for a few hours. I berated him for that, but only halfheartedly. He wasn’t out of control if he could get himself to wilderness first. And if it made him feel better . . . well, then.
I understood the impulse.
Ben and I arrived at New Moon after closing, at a bright and early two a.m., to meet the Paradox PI team.
“Do you know what Tina’s going to do?” Ben asked.
“No, but there’s something weird about her. I think she’s psychic,” I said.
He chuckled, but the sound was nervous. “Like, she can read minds? Tell the future?”
“Nothing like that, but have you seen the way she looks at us? I think she can tell what we are. I think she really did hear that noise before it happened. There’s something going on with her.”
“I suppose if anyone can help, a psychic can. But it feels like grasping at straws.”
“They’re professionals,” I argued. “I’ll take any advice, help, or straw grasping I can get.”
“I guess it can’t hurt,” he said. I felt the urge to rap on the wooden doorframe.
The street had quieted, traffic thinning to nothing after bar hours, when the Paradox PI van—the unsmooshed one—parked on the street in front of New Moon.
Gary had the camera crew along, as usual—“never waste an opportunity to collect material for your show” was a philosophy I wholeheartedly endorsed. By the same token, Jules wasn’t going to waste an opportunity to collect data, so he got to work setting up his standard array of cameras, microphones, and sensors in all parts of the restaurant. Just in case, he said. Tina asked us to help her clear a space in the middle of the dining room. There, we set up a large round table with five chairs. Then Tina went to the van to retrieve her equipment.
“Jules,” I said while we waited for her. “What’s she going to do? What equipment does she have that you guys haven’t already used?”
Jules grumbled. “I haven’t a clue, but this is looking suspiciously like a séance. I can’t believe we’re getting suckered into this.”
Tina returned, carrying a big plastic shopping bag. Now I was really intrigued. We—Ben and I, Jules and Gary—gathered around as she set the bag on the table.
“Out with it, Tina,” Gary said. “What are you doing?”
Sheepish, she winced. “I guess it’s sort of going to be a séance.” Jules rolled his eyes. Gary just watched, reserving judgment.
“What kind of séance?” I said, keeping my own skepticism in check. “Holding hands, table rapping—”
Jules snorted. “That’s just what we need to earn a little respect, some good old-fashioned table rapping.”
“No, not exactly like that,” Tina said, still wincing, still sheepish.
