“Bad idea,” Tamara said from the living room.
All three of us jumped.
Tamara placed a bag on the kitchen table next to the rock. “Apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you. The front door was unlocked.” She gave me a censorious look. “Sylvie, without knowing what it does, I think it unwise to relinquish it.”
“Right, but it’s not yours, is it?” Sylvie said—and we were back to the decision Tamara had already made, namely blowing up Sylvie’s shed. “And it’s also not your friend who’s being threatened.”
A diversion seemed in order, so I grasped at the weak lead we’d come up with in the witch’s absence. “So, Tamara, we were discussing the possibility that the kidnappers were members of Sylvie’s family.”
“Mr. Crispy said something about the child being the false owner of the stone,” Lilac said. “That points to a family connection, too.” She bit her lip and nodded, her eyes wide. “I was paying attention, you know, in between blessing the water and freaking out.”
“It’s an heirloom of sorts,” I said, “and who knows about family heirlooms but family? It has to be someone in your family, Sylvie.”
Sylvie looked confused, tired, and frustrated. She didn’t argue with me, but she didn’t agree, either.
“That seems reasonable,” Tamara said. “While you sort through your suspect list for a family connection, I’m going to scry for a location. My success with pendulums and location scrying has been wildly variable, but if it works, well, then it’s well worth the bit of time it takes.” She pulled out a well-worn map of Austin and spread it on the table. “Before you start, I do need—”
My phone chirped, the sound dropping ominously into the warmth of my kitchen. When I didn’t move fast enough, Sylvie dug the phone out of my back pocket and swiped open the message.
She let out a sigh of relief. “They don’t know that we’ve found it. They’re giving us three hours to find the stone and deliver it. They’ll send the address immediately before the drop time.”
She handed the phone back to me. After scanning the message for any hint of a clue, I moved to pocket it again.
“Wait, what’s the number?” Tamara asked.
I looked but couldn’t see what she meant. “There’s no number.”
Lilac grabbed the phone. “There’s always a number, even if it’s one of those weird short numbers.” But after swiping open both messages, she frowned. “There’s no number. There’s nothing. It’s just blank.”
“Magic,” Tamara replied. “We can’t use the text to track them. But I’ll still try the old-fashioned way. I do need something of sentimental value to Clarence.”
Annoyance flared like indigestion in my gut. “He’s a cat. He doesn’t have sentimental trinkets.”
Also, I hadn’t a clue what he valued, and that made me angrier than it should.
“What does he enjoy doing the most?” Sylvie asked.
“Watching dirty movies, stealing my credit cards, and eating.” I shook my head, frustrated that there must be something, and I didn’t know what it was.
“Hang on.” Lilac jumped up and ran out of the kitchen. She returned carrying a soft, fuzzy blanket I’d picked up for Clarence on a whim. It would appear at odd places throughout the house, like the window where he watched the birds or in front of the TV.
“Perfect. Thank you, Lilac.”
“I noticed it earlier when we searched the house. There’s a lot of cat hair on it, so . . .” Lilac handed the blanket to Tamara. “I had that thing happen again, like with the rock. Anyway, I think it’s one of the few things you’ve given him without being asked . . .”
It was. The only thing.
Tamara wound a small piece of the blanket around a tiny charm that hung from a thin chain. I had the ridiculous thought that Clarence would be upset someone had snipped a piece from his binkie, and I laughed.
Sylvie rubbed my back. “He’s going to be fine. And if we can’t find him, we’ll just give them the stone.” She flashed Tamara a stern look, daring her to voice an objection.
The objection came, just not from Tamara.
No, no, no, no trade. Bad people.
“Bobby? What do you mean bad people?” I asked, trying and failing to find some visual evidence of him.
Trade stone, dead cat. Dead, dead, dead cat.
My left eye throbbed, keeping time as he continued to chant, Dead cat, dead cat, dead cat.
23
“Bobby. Stop it. I understand.” I pressed my thumb to the corner of my eye.
Dead cat, dead cat, dead—
“Bobby!”
Lilac winced at my tone, but pointed to a spot near the stove. “I think he’s there.”
“You can see him? Hear him?” I asked. Bobby wasn’t a powerful ghost, and so it was difficult for him to make himself seen or heard. But some psychic ability was required to pick up the signals the ghost was sending out. I had a touch of that skill, hence my ghostly stalkers. But I hadn’t been sure till now that Lilac did. The more powerful the ghosts—and the ghost’s signal—the less powerful the medium need be.
And then there was Clarence, who just blew them all away. No medium skills required.
Lilac shook her head. “I don’t ever see or hear them. I just get a feeling that they’re present.” She looked completely comfortable with her “feeling” about Bobby, unlike her psychometric experiences today.
“Suspect list? Family connection?” Tamara prodded. “I can’t concentrate with the racket.” Tamara turned her attention back to the charm that dangled over the map. The tip of the charm moved, vibrating.
I blinked, peering closer. The charm she’d used to anchor the snip from Clarence’s blanket was a tiny unicorn. Its little horn was pointing toward the map.
Tamara looked up and caught my eye. “It makes me happy.
