“Well, the next time one of them is choking your girlfriend,” Izzie said with a lopsided grin, “I’ll be sure to remind you to test out your Taser theory before we try anything else.”
Patrick shot her a wounded look, but Izzie couldn’t help noticing that Joyce was hiding a smile while she pretended to take a sip of water.
“Come on,” Daphne said, getting up from her chair and nudging Izzie’s shoulder. “Let’s help out with the arts and crafts, already. This was your idea, after all.”
Izzie slid off of the chair and sat on the floor between Daphne and Patrick. It felt like a faintly ridiculous way to end such a stressful evening, but if carrying portable versions of the markings could help make the days to come a little less stressful, it was worth it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Patrick’s sleep that night was fitful and full of unsettling dreams. When he woke, squinting in the glare of the morning sun slanting in through the bedroom window, all that he retained of the nightmares was a confusing jumble of imagery—menacing figures formed from living shadow, rooms engulfed in flames hidden deep beneath the earth, and the sense of being pursued by unseen eyes everywhere he went.
Something shifted on the bed beside him, pulling the bedsheets taut, and it took a few startled seconds before Patrick remembered that Joyce had insisted that he share the bed with her when they had finally turned in, deep into the small hours of the morning. They had been too tired to do much more than collapse on the mattress and hold each other until they fell asleep moments later, but Patrick had felt an unfamiliar sense of security and contentment in that warm, drowsy embrace.
Joyce snored loudly, almost a honking sound, and rolled over in her sleep.
Patrick smiled as he slipped out from under the covers, careful not to wake her. She probably needed the sleep. They all did, for that matter. But having been roused from slumber himself—quite possibly by her snoring, he realized—he knew that there was little chance that he’d be able to fall back asleep himself.
Dressing as quietly as he could manage, carrying his boots in one hand, he padded across the hardwood and into the hallway in socks, closing the bedroom door behind him. There was no sign of movement from upstairs, no sound of footsteps in the guest room or running water in the upstairs bath, so it seemed likely that Izzie and Daphne were still asleep as well.
Patrick considered making breakfast again. He had purchased supplies at the grocery store the day before in anticipation of doing so. Standing in the doorway to the kitchen with his boots in his hand, though, he couldn’t shake a creeping sense of claustrophobia. Staying holed up inside for the sake of protection was one thing, but with the coming of day it would be safe to go back outside, and at the moment the idea of getting out and stretching his legs a bit was too appealing to ignore.
And so, after brushing his teeth and splashing some water in his face, Patrick stomped into his boots, pulled on his quilted jacket, and prepared to go for a walk. But before leaving he made sure that he had the Ziploc bag of sea salt in one pocket and the wooden disc engraved with a copy of one of his great-uncle’s markings in the other, with his holstered semiautomatic clipped to his belt. He wasn’t anticipating any trouble by daylight, but preferred to be prepared.
At the last moment he realized that Joyce and the others might wonder where he’d gone if they woke up before he returned, and, considering the heightened stress that they had all been under lately, it would probably be a good idea not to let them worry needlessly. Ducking quickly back into the kitchen, he penned a hasty note and left it in plain view on the counter, then headed back to the front door.
Patrick had lived alone his entire adult life, never sharing a place with a roommate, and it had been some time since a date had ended up staying the night. It was an unfamiliar sensation, having to take someone else in his living space into consideration. An unfamiliar sensation, he thought as he stepped outside and closed the door behind him as quietly as possible, but not an unpleasant one.
Patrick’s first instinct was that donuts were in order, island-style donuts, to be precise, and for a hot minute considered going to get them at his favorite donut shop in town. But that was in City Center, all the way across town on the other side of Ross Village, too far to walk if he wanted to get back home any time before lunch. And he wasn’t much in the mood for driving, either, which limited his options to the offerings in this corner of Oceanview. But there was a bakery owned by another Te’Maroan family about a half-dozen blocks south on Mission that also served island-style donuts, and while they were not his absolute favorites, they would do in a pinch.
Sunday Mass at the Church of the Holy Saint Anthony was still in full swing, and as Patrick walked up the sidewalk past the building he could faintly hear the sound of the old pipe organ playing in the sanctuary, and the faint hum of voices raised in song. He was sure that most of his surviving aunts were probably in their usual pews, as they had done since he was a little boy. Like most Te’Maroan families, the Tevakes were nominally Catholic, while still adhering to the traditional island beliefs, and didn’t see any contradiction between worshipping one god in the church while honoring others in the home. It hadn’t been until after the death of his great-uncle that Patrick had begun to question any of it,
