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Tammy spotted her sneakers nearby and walked over to put them on. Her jeans, ripped and bloody, lay beside them. They’d survived the thorny onslaught better than her poor T-shirt, the largest piece of which barely qualified as an improvised bandage. Between the damage and the blood, she wrote her clothing off as a loss. At least her shoes were still serviceable.
“Come on. This way.” Maple glided off.
“Heh. So weird having sneakers on with this dress.” Tammy shook her head and jogged to catch up with the faerie.
“Why?”
“I feel like one of those nerds at school who play D&D. The ones who take it too far and get dressed up in costumes.”
Allison chuckled. “Or someone from a theater company playing a wood nymph in a Shakespeare play.”
“With sneakers!” Tammy grinned.
“Forget the sneakers, kiddo. You turned into a freakin’ giant cat.”
“A panther, to be precise.”
“Umm… does your mother know?”
“Yeah. I showed her this morning.”
Allison bit her lip. “Did she freak out?”
“No. I’m not a were-panther. It’s a magical—temporary—shapeshift. Plus, I’m still ‘me’ when I shift.” Tammy absentmindedly kicked a grapefruit-sized violet berry. “This is so weird. Part of me feels like a dork wearing this—and part of me feels like it’s totally normal.”
“Hurry!” shouted Maple, zooming ahead. “No dawdle. Save Annie now!”
Chapter Thirteen
Starting Over
Psychometry is not exactly what you’d call an exact science.
I mean, nothing about my supernatural reality has anything whatsoever to do with science, but this psychic reading thing is a whole new ball of wax. Tammy’s wanted a cat since she was little. Initially, Danny refused to let animals into the house. Later, with all the vampire stuff going on, a cat didn’t seem like a great idea since putting animals and vampires together in a confined space sounded like a horrible plan.
I didn’t want to walk into Tammy’s room, spook the cat, and have it tear her up.
Danny objected to cats because they’re cats. He might’ve been okay with a dog. See, dogs love you no matter what. They come running over, desperate for your love and attention. Cats approach people on their terms. Allison once said something like guys who hate cats should be avoided because they’re the sorts of men who love controlling others and can’t handle anyone being independent.
Whether or not that’s true, I don’t know. I do know cats are a good metaphor for psychometry. Visions come to me when they want to, not when I need them. Still haven’t quite worked out whether it’s better for me to try to do some new age Yoga type meditation and wait for the vibes or if straining myself to extract them works better. Maybe neither approach has any effect. Objects with a strong enough imprint will hit me no matter what. There’s got to be a subconscious aspect to it, like I’m letting my mental walls down without realizing it and then whammo… I see the past.
Picking up Gemma’s handbag doesn’t stir much other than a strange, external feeling of nervous excitement. It makes me assume she did, in fact, come here willingly and couldn’t believe she’d done it. There’s hope and a little bit of fear, but it’s ‘don’t like changes in my routine’ type fear, not ‘this guy’s going to kill me’ fear.
This only proves Gemma wasn’t holding (or near) her bag if or when Carson got violent.
Various items in the bedroom, kitchen, and living room all come up fairly blank. Either I’m not as good at psychometry as I think I am… or my earlier thinking about this guy sanitizing the cabin of everything that reminded him of his dead wife is true. I’m standing behind the sofa, staring at the paused video game, trying to sort out in my head how a psychopathic killer could be emotionally affected by the death of the wife he killed when a scuff comes from outside.
It’s a sneaker on concrete.
Part of me’s expecting a ‘Heeeeeere’s Johnny!’ moment as Jack Nicholson—I mean Carson—bursts in with an ax. Of course, no matter what he does, says, or looks like, I’m not going to be too worried. He’s only mortal. Unless he’s carrying a silver dagger, it’s incredibly unlikely he’ll be a threat.
I turn toward the door, readying myself for the possibility of a fight.
The door opens… and I’m stunned.
Rather than Carson, it’s a little boy.
The kid’s maybe eight or nine. Slightly long blonde hair forms a golden orb around a cherubic face that seems too young for his size. His large hazel eyes are half-lidded. Kid seems kinda groggy like he’s just woken up from oversleeping—or he’s been drugged. As if he doesn’t even realize I’m here, he stumbles into the room and looks around.
