The voices switched to strategy. She needed to ease up a little. Was she going to move this hunk of muscle into a bed all by herself? Going to cut the phone wires and hold them at gunpoint all night long?
She needed to try a bit of cunning here, soothe her bitch sister and that faithless fake-Irish guitar player. Maureen wasn't mad at them. Maureen was just protecting this poor man who came to her for help.
"Jo, why'd you attack him?"
Glare met glare. "Thought he'd killed you, dammit! You had that fight at The Cave. Then we came in and saw all the blood . . . ."
"David, get her some ice to hold on that lip. Wrap it in a dish towel."
Jo glanced over to the gun and back to Maureen's face. Suddenly, she was five again, and Jo had found her playing with Dad's pocketknife. Such a pretty thing, and it cut so clean into the soft yellow wood of the scrap of lumber, such smooth pine-smelling curls. Trouble was, she didn't know to cut away from her body, away from her other hand.
She rubbed the thin white scar running from the knuckle of her left thumb all the way across to the center of her wrist. Memories. Maureen dropped her gaze.
"Sorry I hit you. Had to stop you, fast."
Take a chance, she thought. Can't watch them all night, going to fall asleep sometime. Relax, people, it’s just your little helpless hopeless wallflower sister.
Maureen stood up, scooped up the gun, and tucked it back into her jacket pocket. Then she moved away.
"Brian's sleeping in my bed tonight. I'll sleep out on the couch."
She looked around, finally pulling her focus away from crisis. The kitchen was a fucking mess: bloody towels, Brian's bloody clothes, melted slush, tag ends of bandages. The place looked like a M*A*S*H scene. It was time to pick up, mop up, get rid of the evidence. Besides, some physical activity might serve to calm things down. Nothing like mopping the kitchen floor to bring you back to reality.
She hauled clothes into the bathroom, running water in the tub to soak out blood before the stains set. She emptied his pockets first, and stared at a roll of bills about as big around as her fist. The outer one bore Ben Franklin's smiling face. Her hands shook at the thought of holding a whole year's wages in one lump.
Maybe it was reaction, but she felt like shit. The tendons in her right arm had turned to red-hot wires. She must have strained something with that punch. A headache centered about two inches behind her right eye and an inch below the scalp.
She moved back to the kitchen--mopping up bloodstains, David helping. Jo held that cold towel to her lip, gathering trash. Brian suggested using the black trash bags--opaque, he didn't want anybody seeing all that blood and asking questions. He didn't have enough answers.
Just one big, happy family. Just two women with their boyfriends on Friday night.
"Stay away from Brian, Jo. Not just cleaning up, I mean stay away from him permanently."
Jo's eyes widened. Such a look of innocence, you'd think she was an actress. Maureen thought she'd better get some clothes on Brian. Then maybe Jo'd quit running her eyes up and down his legs, across his chest, measuring his biceps.
Jo shook her head. "I don't need your new boyfriend, Mo. David's going to be staying here. He's gonna move his stuff in tomorrow. You don't like it, don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out."
Maureen felt her skin prickle like she was charging up for a lightning bolt.
* * *
The lights flickered. Brian wondered if he was the only one who noticed. Both of them were doing it. Neither of them knew what she was doing.
He hoped they got this settled before they burned the apartment down around their ears or blacked out half of Maine. It was the most dangerous thing in the world, power in the hands of the ignorant. Like giving that pistol to a child just strong enough to pull the trigger.
Rage. Fear. Sexual attraction. Powerful emotions caused powerful responses. Whether they knew it or not, those were two powerful women. If they weren't balanced, one would have torn the other to shreds.
He was too groggy to handle it now. He tried to remember that pain was optional. He could use his left arm now, just stunned nerves. If he could get this background noise calmed down, maybe he could get some serious healing meditation going.
He was going to need to move again in the next day or so, fight again in the next day or so. Fiona never gave up on anything in her life.
And he made a mental note to never even think about touching Maureen's emotions again. Charged up the way she was, it would be like bringing a ten-pound hammer down on TNT. She'd notice, oh yes. She'd fry his eyeballs.
"Can't go back to my hotel. Following me."
Maureen paused and ran a cold towel over his head again. Her touch spread energy and soothing--unsuspected power. That woman needed some training. He'd better take her to St. Theresa's Abbey before Dougal got his hands on her.
"Stay here," she said. "If Jo can move her boyfriend in, so can I."
The lights flickered, and Brian felt the hair rise on his arms. It was a feedback loop, Jo reacting to Maureen reacting to Jo reacting to Maureen. He'd better get those two separated before they reached critical mass.
"Just tonight," he said. "Stay here tonight. Ask you to find me an apartment, tomorrow. Furnished. Buy some things. Find money in my jacket."
"I saw it." Maureen glared at her sister, at David. "If you don't mind, I'll find a place big enough for both of us."
Brian knew his brain was only functioning at half power, but some signs were printed large enough to read. One was, the look between Jo and
