Chapter Eighty-Eight
Cheyenne followed that tingling pull—first from between her shoulder blades, then sort of through her shoulder until she turned and it tugged at her chest again—all the way to the VCU campus. Not really a big surprise, honestly, seeing as the whole “pull a drow halfling along by an invisible string” trick had started up again when she’d thought of her school. That didn’t make it any less weird.
The pull on her senses—or the sixth sense, or whatever she wanted to call it—grew stronger the closer she got to the student center and the quad just beyond it. She passed only a few other people along the way, all of them taking their sweet time moving down the walkways because they had nowhere else to be on a Saturday at lunchtime. Weekends were cool like that.
By the time she passed the student center and stepped onto the green grass in the quad, the tug coming through her chest was almost an ache—dull, throbbing, just strong enough that it was impossible to ignore but not alarming.
“Hey, there!” A group of students wearing seventeenth-century costumes and loaded down with stage props veered around her on the walkway, laughing with each other. The one who’d called out extended a flyer toward Cheyenne. “Beautiful day, right? Come see our play in November.”
Cheyenne ignored him and picked up the pace across the quad, trying to pay attention to where she was putting her feet and where that tug on her chest was leading her at the same time. Then she passed the student message board where the walkways intersected, and the incredibly strong pull on her body whipped through her shoulder blades and almost knocked her on her ass.
“Woah!” Her Vans skidded on the sidewalk, and she spun to face the message board. The sharp pull moved back to her chest again, and it made her cough this time. “This is insane.”
The halfling glanced around to make sure no one was watching her, but why would they be? She was just another student on campus, stepping toward the message board to check out all the flyers and posters for student bands, fundraisers, local parties, and open invitations to debates or shows or clubs. Maybe the next clue was tacked up under the call for new members of the chess club.
Before she got three feet away from the message board, the tug on her body jerked sideways, almost through her black-magic-wounded shoulder. Cheyenne gritted her teeth and grunted, trying not to stumble around like a drunken idiot in the middle of campus. She noticed that the pull seemed to head right for the bench bolted into the ground just off the walkway.
Just sit down and rethink all my choices that led me to this point, because I’m now playing tug-of-war with my own magic.
Despite her sarcastic internal complaints, the halfling followed her magic—if that was what it was, and it kind of had to be at this point—toward the bench. The urgency of that pull let up a little when she reached the bench, and she sighed in relief before sitting on the cold metal seat. Her black-nailed fingers drummed on the overhanging edge of the bench on either side of her thighs, and she waited for something else to pop up out of nowhere and tell her where the heck to find the next clue. Then the cold metal beneath her, which she could already feel a little through her pants, started to warm up. In the next fifteen seconds, it got hot, until Cheyenne leapt sideways on the bench with a shout of surprise.
“What?”
There it was, beneath one of the metal slats where she’d just been sitting. A tiny corner of bright-blue paper peeked out from the underside of the bench, and the halfling pressed her lips together. I guess that’s one way to find it. Just sit on it ‘til it bites you in the ass.
Rolling her eyes, she slid off the bench to kneel in the grass and reach under the bench. Her fingers quickly found the little flap of it, and then she was pulling it out from where it had been wedged. The halfling sat back on her heels and unfolded the third physical clue. On it was just an address and a much shorter message that wasn’t even a clue.
Ask for Dianna. Tell her you’re there to pick up N-1075.
Shaking her head, Cheyenne pulled out her phone and typed in the address written on the blue piece of paper. What the search pulled up was so ridiculous, she burst out laughing as she knelt in front of a bench in the middle of the university quad.
The address belonged to a dry-cleaner’s. She shoved the newest clue into her pocket with the others and pushed to her feet. “I’m not a personal assistant.”
Shaking her head, she looked out over the mostly empty quad and reoriented herself in the direction she wanted to go. Just walk back to the car and drive across town. Easy enough.
The halfling stuck her hands into her pockets and walked back across campus, heading northeast toward where she’d parked her car in the lot beside Gnarly’s. Part of her expected that weird tug to return, to cart her off in some other direction because she’d missed something, but it didn’t. So now she got to do nothing more than enjoy her music, walk back to her car, and hope this packagewas the last thing she had to track down before she got what she needed to track that orc bastard Durg.
* * *
Just as she’d expected, it only took her about fifteen minutes at a quick pace to get to her car. Then she plugged the dry-cleaner’s address into her GPS and took off to follow the trail, this time on wheels. She half-expected the dry-cleaner’s to have some kind of irritatingly inconvenient weekend hours so she’d have to wait until Monday to finish this thing, but they were
