Whatever. I wasn’t on a date. But I could see why Sal had seemed so concerned. The reflection looking back at me was one nightmare short of a hospital visit—or a padded cell. I shouldn’t have treated him like that.
So you keep saying. Any chance you’re going to change?
Probably not. Nonetheless, I felt enough remorse that I vowed to at least count to three before I snapped at him next time. And maybe if I asked nicely, he’d rewrap my hands. I peeked under a soggy edge, and on impulse went ahead and removed the gauze, turning my palm up to inspect the worst cut.
Impossible.
I yanked the wrappings from my other hand and stared. The skin around the cuts was inflamed, swollen and red, but the cuts themselves were angry puckered lines—not open wounds. More like raw, fresh scar tissue. Cauterized? But I thought . . . ?
He lied!
I whipped open the door and stopped. Sal was seated on the couch with Pebbles perched behind him on the backrest, her amber eyes catching the light from candles on the coffee table. He’d lit candles? And folded the sheet and placed it neatly off to the side. But he’d lit candles?
I inhaled slowly. One. Two. Thr—
He gestured for me to stay silent, and I had to start the count again. One. Two. I knew to be quiet! Three.
“Wh—”
“Please, come sit down.” When I didn’t move, he sighed, “I will explain.”
He’d turned off all the lights except a small one in the kitchen, and the flickering glow of the candles across his face was disconcerting to say the least. Suddenly self-conscious of being in pajamas, I approached slowly. Too slowly for him, because he rolled his eyes and pointed to the other items on the table. A big glass mixing bowl, two glasses of water, a notepad and a pen—all that was missing was my old tarot deck.
“Are you planning to scry my future, or channel automatic writing?” I was somewhat relieved to see him grin, and settled at the far end of the couch, drawing my legs up in front of me.
“I could not find your divination cards.”
Seriously? Snooping, spying . . . I squeezed my eyes shut and pinched the space between them.
“Are you hurting again?”
“No.” So ungrateful. “Thank you for taking care of me. It was really . . . kind . . . and,” I held my hands out across my knees, “You must have given me—”
“Seawater and honey.” The smallest shake of his head told me not to contradict him, but his eyes lingered on my hands. “I wish I could have done more.”
“You—”
“We have much to discuss. Do you feel well enough?”
Why didn’t he want thanks for my hands? I curled my fingers to hide the marks. Maybe he was embarrassed that he’d scarred me. The cuts would have healed on their own in a few days. A cobalt blue angel popped into view beside him, and Pebbles’ head pivoted from me to him. Could she sense it?
“Lila?”
“Sorry, yes. Start talking. Wait, did you say seawater?”
He raised his eyebrows and nodded like I’d missed something obvious. Just like Eileen. Joy-joy, it was contagious.
“Look, I—”
“You display quite an eclectic range of reading material in your home.” My mouth snapped shut and he continued, picking up the notepad and pen. “Written language was an unpredicted achievement for your species.” He wrote something on the pad. “You developed such nuances of description . . . it is an innately human gift, I think.”
He tilted the pad toward me, and I unfolded my legs to lean towards him.
Do not speak aloud of what I write. Attempt to talk normally. They will notice silence.
I met his eyes and nodded. Here it was. The big reveal. Unless he’s putting on a show.
He wrote something else.
I cannot help you if you do not trust me.
“Alright fine.” I scooched closer so I could see in the dim light. “You want to talk about books? Who’s your favorite author?”
“I do not have to tell you, do I?” He was better at this play-acting scenario, his voice low and teasing, his hand quick across the paper. “Douglas Adams, of course. Dolphins are quite intelligent, you know.”
My modulators do not transmit information on sensory stimuli other than as it relates to my health and location. Sensory Enhancers do transmit.
“Of-of course, I know. I grew up watching Flipper reruns.”
“Do you read the books you purchase? The records seemed incomplete.” When my Visual Enhancers were reclaimed, my Female Giver conferred a modicum of privacy.
I grabbed the pen and notepad from him.
“Don’t be a smartass. If what you’re really asking me is why I rarely finish books . . . ” This was much more difficult than it seemed when he did it, and my hand throbbed at the pressure of the pen. “It’s because I have trouble concentrating. I get distracted.”
On purpose? She loves you? Then why no name?
He frowned at the words and scratched a reply.
“Yes, you certainly do.” Not important.
I tried to take the pad back, but he held it to his chest.
“Are you ready to discuss the phenomena that distract you?”
I blinked. Was this a trick?
“Lila, you have spoken aloud about what you call angels, and we have documented an increasing number of electromagnetic and micro-gravitational exceptions in your vicinity—so refusing to acknowledge your experiences is to your detriment.”
“I-I’m not comfortable with where this is going . . . ”
He grimaced and jotted on the pad. They already know what you wish to hide. Your cooperation was a condition.
Pebbles purred in my ear, and the angel hovered briefly near Sal’s writing hand before disappearing. Okay . . .
“Well, it’s only fair that first you tell me why any of it matters. Why are you even here? This is Wilmington, for God’s sake.”
“Why are you here?”
“I was born here.”
“Yes, and lived here until you were ten-years-old.
