“Would it have killed me?”
He wants to say yes, but he’s honest even when he’s cranky. “Not as long as she stopped after you blacked out,” he says finally. “But who knows if she would have stopped.”
She would have stopped. Something in the way she jumped us, the way she threw her punches; it was all just practice, just a test. It was there in the tone of her voice and the way she gave up. It amused her to have lost.
“We’ll get our answers in the morning,” I say, pulling back my quilt.
“I just don’t like it. And I don’t feel safe in this house. I’m not going to be able to get any sleep. Maybe we should sleep in shifts.”
“Thomas, nobody’s going to hurt us here,” I say, pulling off my own shoes and getting into bed. “Besides, I’m sure you could stop her if she tried. Where did you learn that spell, anyway?”
He shrugs into his pillow. “Morfran’s taught me my share of the black.” His mouth sets in a firm line. “But I don’t like to use it. It makes me feel pissed off and slimy.” He looks at me accusingly. “But she didn’t seem to have a problem with it.”
“Let’s talk about it in the morning, Thomas,” I say. He grumbles a bit more, but regardless of what he said about not feeling safe, he starts to snore thirty seconds after the lights go out. Quietly, I slide the athame under my pillow and try to do the same thing.
* * *
Jestine is in the kitchen the next morning when I go downstairs. Her back is to me as she washes dishes and she doesn’t turn, but she senses I’m here. She doesn’t have her cap on today, and about two feet of dark gold hair falls down her back. Streaks of red cut through it like ribbons.
“Can I make you something for breakfast?” she asks.
“No, thanks,” I say. There are croissants in a basket on the table. I take one and tear off a corner.
“Would you like some butter?” she asks, and turns around. There’s a large, dark bruise shadowing her jaw. I did that. I remember doing it, doubling her over. When it happened I didn’t know who she was. Now the bruise is staring at me like an accusation. But what do I have to feel bad about? She attacked me, and she got what she got.
She walks to the cupboard and gets a saucer and butter knife, then sets a pot of butter on the table before ducking into the refrigerator for jam.
“Sorry about your face,” I say, and motion vaguely toward the bruise.
She smiles. “No you’re not. Not any more than I’m sorry about pulling the air out of your lungs. I had to test you. And frankly, I wasn’t that impressed.”
“I was jet-lagged.”
“Excuses, excuses.” She leans on the counter and slides a finger through the loop of her jeans. “I’ve been hearing stories about you since I was old enough to listen. Theseus Cassio, the great ghost hunter. Theseus Cassio, the wielder of the weapon. And the moment I meet you, I kick your ass in an alley.” She smiles. “But I suppose if I was dead it’d be another story.”
“Who told you the stories?” I ask.
“The Order of the Biodag Dubh,” she says, her eyes flashing green. “Of course, of all the current members, Gideon has the best stories.”
She tears off a piece of croissant and pushes it into her cheek like a squirrel. The Order of the Biodag Dubh. Until a few days ago I’d never heard of it. Now here it is again, and pronounced correctly. It’s a struggle to keep my voice from rattling.
“The order of the what?” I say, reaching for the butter. “The Beedak Dube?”
She smirks. “Are you making fun of my accent?”
“A little.”
“Oh. Or are you just playing dumb?”
“A little of that too.” Giving away too much would be a mistake. Especially since what I’d be giving away is that I know approximately jack squat.
Jestine turns back to the sink and plunges her hands into the water, finishing off the last of the plates. “Gideon’s gone out for some things for lunch. He wanted to be back before you woke.” She drains the sink and dries her hands on a towel. “Listen, I’m sorry if I gave your friend a scare. To be honest, I didn’t think I’d be able to get one over on you.” She shrugs. “It’s like Gideon says. I’m always running in with my fists first.”
I nod, but Thomas is going to need more of an apology than that.
“Who taught you magic?” I ask. “Was it the Order?”
“Yes. And my parents.”