Seawitch

fountain. “Does that look to you like what we saw on the boat down in that crew cabin?”

Solis knelt and studied the red-brown figure under the blown sand and dried grass. “Similar . . . the same encircling waves . . . But what lies at the center?” he added. He took a pen out of his pocket and poked the dried grass aside. A tiny spark of oily green energy flared and died out as he moved the detritus.

Small fragments of beach glass and shell rolled around the bottom of the cement bowl, playing hide-and-seek with the tiny twelve-pointed star drawn at the center of the figure. It wasn’t as complex as what we’d seen on Seawitch, but it was similar enough to claim kinship. “It doesn’t look like the same person made it, but it’s got to be related,” I said. “I think some of the grass and stones are part of the figure, but they’re out of place now, so we’ll never know exactly what it looked like.”

Solis grunted. “I shouldn’t have touched it.”

“You couldn’t have known.” But I took a photo of the revealed sigil with my little digital camera, anyhow.

“You did.”

“No, I didn’t. I saw something that looked familiar, but I’d have done the same thing. It just looks like trash. At least you didn’t touch it with your hands. That’s probably blood.”

“What else did you see?”

“Excuse me?”

Solis stood up. “You weren’t near the fountain when I tripped over you. What were you pursuing then?”

“Oh. Um . . . this will sound pretty loony.”

“I’m prepared for that.”

“All right. What I saw . . . might have been a dog.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Really. How did you see it? I saw no dog and I am hardly blind to something of that size.”

“Well, it was not exactly . . . here. I mean it was here, but only partially.”

Solis continued to stare at me without saying another word. His tight-clinging aura flicked out whips of aggravated orange and red, but he didn’t let it show on his face.

I sighed. I couldn’t have dodged this particular push coming to shove once I’d dived for the Grey aboard Seawitch, so I had no one to blame but myself for this corner I was in. I didn’t like it, however, and I wasn’t pleased to be risking this tenuous partnership so soon with the big reveal of just how freakish I was. “Do we have to do this here? It’s kind of public.”

“Where do you prefer? I tell you, I will not let this drop.”

I resisted an urge to roll my eyes. “So it’s better for me to get it over with. Yeah, yeah. I know. But you aren’t going to like my answers—that is what I’m telling you.”

“I understand.”

“My office?” I offered reluctantly.

He glanced at his watch. I did the same. It was five fifteen. He looked skeptical. “Closer will be better.”

I waved in the direction of the waterfront. “Something here? Not likely to be very private, though.”

“Agreed. But there is privacy to be found in the open. Let’s take a walk along the shore, then.”

I raised my eyebrows in amusement. “How romantic of you, Solis.”

He snorted and turned away. “At the boardwalk by the marina in five minutes.”

We drove separately to the parking lot next to the marina and shops and met up again on the shorefront walkway. Without a word we turned together and started strolling north along the shoreline and away from the buildings. The fog had burned off here long ago and we would have been a curious sight on the strand if there had been anyone looking: tall, skinny me dressed for urban hiking more than beachcombing, and older, shorter Solis in his suit and overcoat in spite of the pleasant warmth of the early-summer afternoon.

When we were inconveniently distant from the last building, Solis spoke. “So. Tell me what you saw or how.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that,” I replied, not looking at him but still walking and keeping a moving eye on the area around us.

“Then explain. We’re stranded here until the rush hour is over. I see no reason not to put the time to use.”

“Well,” I started with a sigh, brushing my sea-breeze-tangled hair out of my eyes, “you’re aware of how I seem to attract strange things. . . .”

From the corner of my eye I saw him nod. He, too, was keeping his gaze on the scenery more than looking at me. That was the way this was going to go: talking without looking at each other, as if we didn’t have to acknowledge anything unpleasant if we didn’t see the truth in the other’s face. It felt strange; I’d never been totally honest with Solis but I’d always tried to keep my evasions small and cleave to omission more than outright lies. It’s a bad idea to get in the habit of lying to cops.

“I see things most people don’t. These things see me, too. That can be . . . troublesome.”

“What sort of things?”

I shot him a desperate glance, then turned my head away again, letting the wind off the surf blow my hair into my face and hide my expression. I don’t manage fear very well—I get angry, aggressive, or snarky instead—and here I had no choice but to be afraid. “Do I really have to say this?”

He nodded. “Sí.”

I took a deep breath, not because there was much to say but because it was stupid and annoying to heave the words out, and turned so my face was less obscured by my hair. “I see ghosts. There. OK?”

“Ghosts.”

If the chips were down, I might as well go all in. “And other things,” I said. “Monsters, magic, things that go bump in the night . . . all that stuff.” I didn’t feel much better having said it.

“So . . . you say that such things are real?”

“I wish they weren’t and I wish I wasn’t saying that, but I am. Most of the . . . paranormal is the best word for it . . . paranormal things aren’t strong or active or any kind of threat to regular people. Every once in a while, though, they are. Do you remember the Mark Lupoldi murder?”

“I will never forget it.”

“Did you ever really buy the explanation I gave you for how he was killed?”

“No, but the case didn’t go to trial, so . . . the rigor of proof was never needed.”

“But it bugs you still, doesn’t it? Like all the little odd things about me and my cases bug you.”

He nodded.

“That was one of the cases where the paranormal became dangerous. One of those moments when what should be impossible happened anyhow. And that’s pretty much where I fit in the world: working with the stuff that logic rejects but that exists nonetheless.”

“Are many of your cases like that?”

“No. Most are the routine investigative stuff, but there’s plenty of the other to keep me busy while a lot of my colleagues are looking for new lines of work—what with the Internet making it easier to invade anyone’s privacy. . . .” I slammed the lid on my gripes with that particular aspect of modern living.

Solis ignored that last bit and nodded, his expression thoughtful. I wondered if he actually believed me or if he was just doing a great job of humoring the madwoman. “You are implying you saw something at Reeve’s home that was . . . paranormal. That you see such things frequently.”

“Constantly, in fact.”

He turned his head suddenly and frowned at me.

“It’s always here. Most of it’s like air,” I explained, waving my off hand through the salt-scented breeze. “Most people can’t see it until it’s so thick they choke on it. But I see it all the time. And I can look harder at it to see more if I want, but then I tend to get a little . . . ghostly myself.”

He almost covered it up, but I still saw the rapid flicker at the corners of his eyes as he repressed the impulse to widen his stare in surprise. “You saw that at the boat and again at Reeve’s,” I said. “You almost said something, but then you caught yourself. Didn’t you?”

He hesitated—I’d never known Solis to do that. Then he tightened his mouth into a stubborn line, looking angry, and took in a long breath through his nose.

“Oh, damn it. Just look. Look at me. Look as hard as you can. This isn’t some kind of illusion,” I shouted, and