directed at the paramedic. She had already flashed her badge and federal ID when she arrived on the scene moments behind the paramedics, so it was no secret that she was an FBI special agent.
“Is he in your custody?” she asked.
“He can be if that’s what it takes,” Constance replied.
“Constance!” I appealed again, louder this time. “Felicity! Both of you. All of you. Listen to me. I’m fine.”
She turned to face me and shook her head as she shot me a concerned look. “Rowan, what I walked into here a few minutes ago doesn’t exactly inspire me to believe that.”
“You know what it was as well as I do,” I told her, trying to skirt around specifics in the presence of the paramedic. If I started talking about ethereal visions, then she might very well change her assessment of me. I glanced over at my wife and continued. “You too Felicity. Especially you. I don’t need to go to the hospital.”
“Row,” Felicity replied. “Cally and I performed CPR on you. I think I know what I’m talking about.”
I looked back at her with pleading eyes and spoke in a deliberate tone. “You know what it was, Felicity.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“I am,” I stated, lacing my voice with all the confidence I could muster. “And, I don’t need to go to the hospital.” Once again I repeated a declaration I had already made over a half-dozen times in the past fifteen minutes.
She stared at me for a moment as if visible evidence that would dispute my claim would suddenly appear. As it was not forthcoming, she finally turned her gaze away and closed her eyes.
“What would you like to do?” The paramedic asked, addressing Agent Mandalay. “Am I taking him or not?”
“It’s up to you, Felicity,” Constance told my wife. “If you want him to go to the hospital, I’ll make it happen.”
I didn’t say anything more. The two of them had allied with one another almost as soon as Constance arrived. Once that happened, my opinion became instantly moot. Arguing with them had accomplished nothing so far, other than provide fuel for my headache.
Felicity finally let out a heavy sigh, and when she spoke, her normally lilting accent thickened, underscoring her words with a serious edge. “No. If he’s wrong, I’ll just kill him later, then.”
CHAPTER 15:
The shrieking whirr of the blender was biting into my skull as Felicity repeatedly pulsed it on and off. I rubbed my temples and watched on, as in a quick motion, she popped off the lid and added yet another ingredient to her homebrewed hangover remedy.
I slid my hand back around to the base of my neck, brushing it gingerly against my flesh. It was still throbbing, and I wondered if I must have hit something on my way down when I blacked out earlier. What little memory I had of the incident was all but completely out of focus, but I did seem to recall falling forward, not backward. I pulled my hand away and inspected it for blood but found none. Apparently, there was no wound even though it felt like there should be. Whatever it was, I just wished it would go away.
My friend groaned as he opened one eye and looked at me. He was sitting at the breakfast nook, or to be accurate, he was sprawled in a chair next to it. He had one elbow planted against the tabletop, and the side of his face was pressed into his loosely doubled fist.
I was sitting across from him, nursing a cup of coffee and staying out of it. I’d been on the receiving end of the Felicity hangover treatment before, and while it seemed to work, I knew what was in it, and moreover, what it tasted like. I didn’t envy him one bit.
Besides, I was too preoccupied to get involved. I was still busy wishing that the aspirin I had taken would actually do some good for my own headache. I knew they wouldn’t really, but if they worked their usual chemical magic, they would at least dull it a bit. Eventually.
Agent Mandalay was positioned diagonally across from Ben, standing with her back against the wall and watching him intently. We were down to just the four of us now, Cally and RJ having shuttled the twins back to Nancy’s house after helping us re-arrange the vehicles. It was a good bet that they shouldn’t be present for what was about to transpire, so we had ushered them out as graciously as we could under the circumstances. Still, we had to promise to give them an update as soon as we knew anything.
“Yo, Kemosabe,” Ben eventually croaked, barely loud enough to be heard over the whining blades.
“Yeah?”
“Why you got a freakin’ potato in a shoebox?”
I hadn’t paid much attention to it, but the physical remnants of Felicity’s recently dissolved binding were still adorning the table.
“Leftovers from a spell,” I replied.
“What kinda spell? Potato salad or French fries?” he chortled.
“A binding actually.”
“Binding. You mean like yer shorts?” He found himself amusing again.
“It’s like a magickal version of a restraining order,” I offered without acknowledging his attempt at humor. “Basically, it’s supposed to keep an individual from doing or saying whatever it is the spell is directed toward.”
“‘Zit work?”
“Depends,” I replied, avoiding the recent details. “Sometimes they backfire.”
“Then you make potato salad, right?” he chuckled.
“Yeah, Ben. Whatever.”
The pulsing whine of the blender’s motor came to a halt, and I looked up to see Felicity pouring a healthy measure of dangerous looking liquid into a glass. In a quick flourish, my wife settled the pitcher back onto the base and quickly dropped the lid onto it before stepping over to the table.
“Drink it,” she demanded, planting the full glass in front of Ben. “All of it.”
“What is it?” Ben muttered as he turned and gave the glass a one-eyed stare.
“It’s an old family hangover remedy,” she replied. “Just drink it.”
“I’m drunk,” he mumbled. “I’m not hung over.”
“You’re both,” she told him. “But you won’t be either one after you drink this.”
He turned his head farther, and I could tell he was trying to focus on the collection of bottles, cans, and cartons my wife had lined up on the counter during the preparation. He finally gave up and rolled his head back forward.
“What’s in it?” he asked, his voice still a gravelly rasp.
“Never you mind what’s in it. Just drink.”
“No thanks.” He closed his eye and slumped down even farther.
“It works, Ben,” I offered.
“Mebbe so, but I’ll pass.”
Felicity pushed the glass closer to him then gave his shoulder a light slap with the back of her hand as she adopted an even more stern tone. “Aye, drink it or I’ll be sitting on your chest and pouring it down your damn throat.”
“I don’t think she’s bluffing, Storm,” Agent Mandalay offered from her vantage point.
“Yeah, well ah’m fuckin’ bigger’n she is,” he told her.
“Maybe, but I think she’s meaner,” Constance returned. “And besides, I’ve got a pair of handcuffs she’s welcome to use.”
Ben opened a single eye again, then both. After a moment, he dropped his hand down and pushed himself back up in the seat. He wasn’t fully upright, but he was moving in the right direction at least. He wrapped his large hand around the glass and lifted it, inspecting the contents with bleary eyes.
“Bitch,” he muttered.
“Which one?” Constance asked with a thin smile.
He looked at her and then cast a wobbly glance up at Felicity who was still standing over him.
“Both of ya’,” he replied.
