child.”
I knew he couldn’t tell me the identities of the patients, but I was curious. Could it be Harris and Willow? Orvah was practiced in various parts of the world, but had a particularly strong roots in parts of Haiti.
The doctor continued. “The child is having similar complaints of non-specific pain in her legs and head. The adult is having serious memory problems. In fact, he has no memory of the day in question at all. It is a blank slate. I want you to think very carefully about that day and try to tell me as much as you can about what happened during the incident. I’ll give you a clipboard and some paper.”
By the time he came to get me, the back room was quiet except for the contented clucking of roosting hens. I’d written up a list of every detail I remembered. Dr. Jean-Baptiste read over the list quickly once and then more slowly while I stared at him from the comfort of the leather chair. He tapped the middle of the second page. “You don’t mention the man in the scary suit with the magic marks on it.”
Scary suit? I frowned and tried to think. I couldn’t remember. “Sorry. I don’t remember anything like that at all. Could she have made it up?”
He scratched his temple where the feathers were probably itching and began to shake his head, tiny movements that barely moved the chicken feet. “I don’t think so. She was pretty descriptive about that. She believed he was hurting her father. What I’m wondering is whether you share symptoms with both the child and the adult. I think something’s affecting your memory. And I am wondering if perhaps the memory problem and the headaches are related.”
I motioned around to the racks of spice bottles, the distinctive musk of goat, heavy in the air. “So do you think you can figure out what it is?”
He smiled brilliantly. “Have you not noticed anything different about the room since you came back?”
I flicked my eyes around the room again. “It’s … um,
His chuckle was genuinely amused, but the intensity of his profession was still underneath. “Yes, that. But you’ve also been sitting in the middle of an active casting circle for the past ten minutes. You truly didn’t feel it when you walked in?”
No. I hadn’t, and I should have. What the hell?
Apparently, my shocked look was enough. “Well, that is certainly interesting.” He typed a few notes onto the laptop. “I can tell you this. You have been affected by powerful magic. It’s interfering with your memory and it seems to be both long- and short-term. I don’t know if it has anything to do with your leg pain. But when you walked back in the room, you had to struggle to get through the circle. That you don’t remember it is very interesting indeed. Unfortunately, I haven’t determined how to unravel the spell yet. I’m going to take the details to some experts I know and see what they can come up with. For the moment, I’d suggest caution, rest, good nutrition, and some memory enhancement and protection charms. Then, with some time…”
Eww. I wasn’t liking the sound of that. “You don’t sound particularly hopeful.”
He shrugged. “It is difficult. There are not many practitioners with the level of power to create such a spell. I should be able to determine a signature. But I cannot. Somehow the caster has tangled their magical signature with those of many, many, others. This is not a spell that can be worked by a group, but if I did not know better, I would swear it had been. Too, there aren’t many spells I don’t at least recognize the base of. It’s like figuring out a word from the Latin root. I haven’t found a base I know yet. That’s the best I can tell you right now. And I won’t lie to you. I can’t tell you when … or if … I will.”
Great. Just great.
6
Two nights later I woke because my skin was burning and freezing water was lapping at my body. The sun was coming up. It was freaking cold, but the sunlight was burning every inch of exposed skin that wasn’t soaking wet. I was lying on the beach outside my house, in my pajamas with gulls calling a raucous good morning as they dipped and dived through the air above me.
What the hell?
The last thing I remembered was going to bed at 10:00 P.M. I rose, hurrying across the beach to the house and into the bathroom.
How did I get outside? When had I left my bed? What had I done?
I didn’t know.
Worse, the dreams I’d had were so incredibly clear. I could remember those. The light scent of floral perfume, the sight of that couple hurrying from the opera house to the safety of their car. The sweet, coppery taste of blood laced with fear that filled my mouth and made me shiver. Desperate and terrified, I checked every inch of my clothing for bloodstains. Nothing. No hint on my teeth or gums. Knees weak with relief, I sank onto the toilet and cried until I was gulping huge mouthfuls of air and the floor was covered with soggy yellow tissues. My head hurt worse than ever, but I was afraid to take yet another aspirin because I couldn’t remember what I’d done last night.
What was happening to me? What was I going to do? I’d been following Jean-Baptiste’s advice. It wasn’t working. Nothing was working.
I might have stayed in the bathroom feeling sorry for myself, but the doorbell rang. It’s not a loud bell, but the sound sent a flash of searing pain through my skull. I winced and began limping my way to the door.
The bell rang again—and my temples pounded—again, so I grumbled out loud, “Hold your horses. Jeez, I’m coming.”
I opened my front door and there was Rizzoli. If he noticed my swollen red eyes, he didn’t mention it. Instead, he smiled at me and shook his head as though supremely amused. “You need to cut back on the sauce, Graves. You look like hell. And why are you limping?”
“Been this way since the bomb blast at the school.”
Disbelief was plain on his face. “Shouldn’t you be healed by now? I mean, vampire blood
I snuffled back what I couldn’t blow out. No tissues next to the couch. I’d have to fix that later. “It didn’t fail. There were two bombs. Neither of them was a dud.” I lowered myself carefully into my favorite recliner and rested my head back into the poofy pillow. He took a seat on the couch, which, while not terribly comfortable, was a pretty white print that matched the wallpaper. “I left you a message about that.”
“I know. I got your calls. And I’m sorry I haven’t come by sooner. The brass…” He paused, trying to come up with a polite way to end the sentence. Apparently there wasn’t one, so he changed tacks. “Why did you ask about other bombs in other places?”
I tried to remember. There’d been a reason. An important reason. Crap. “What day did I call?”
He sighed. “You don’t remember?”
“Just give me some background, okay? Sometimes if you give me some clues the memory resurfaces.”
“Your message said you’d been back to the school, and that you’d gone to see Heather Alexander. She told you she couldn’t talk to you.”
I sat up straight, and it made my head pound. “The guard. The guard at the school said something.”
“What? What did he say?”
I tried to remember, but it was useless. I barely remembered going to the school, let alone specifics of a conversation. I wouldn’t have been able to come up with as much as I had if Rizzoli hadn’t prompted me.
His dark eyes looked me over carefully from head to foot. “You really are in bad shape, aren’t you? What do the doctors say?”
I threw up my hands in frustration. “Nothing. They say nothing. Because they haven’t got a freaking clue.”
He winced. “That sucks.”
“Yeah. It does. But that’s not why you’re here, is it?”
His expression grew weary and I realized I wasn’t the only one who looked bad. Rizzoli’s normally a good- looking man if you’re into dark Italian-American types. Every time I’d seen him his suits were well cut, fit him perfectly, and no wrinkle dared appear. Not today. The charcoal suit was still good quality and well tailored, but it
