"I will walk out of here right now if someone doesn't start making a lot of sense," Chris swore. He wasn't the only one who'd started to edge toward the front door, I noticed.
"Ghosts aren't the only freaky things that exist," Tyler summed up before I could phrase a more gentle reply. The medium waved at me and Bones. "Meet the vampires."
Lexie let out a nervous laugh. Graham looked like he wanted to throw up. From their thoughts, Fred and Nancy were each contemplating dialing 911. Chris's mind tilted between denial and an odd sense of triumph, like he'd suspected there was more to the supernatural world but hadn't known what it was.
"There's no need to worry," I said while wondering if I'd have to stop some of them from calling the police. "We don't kill people-well, not people who don't deserve it, that is, and-"
Graham screamed, trying to run for the door. Bones had him dangling by the front of his shirt in the next blink, throwing me a sardonic look.
"Best not to mention any killing in a reveal speech, luv."
"Right." I sighed, catching Lexie and Fred as they also made a break for it. "Don't worry," I ordered, turning the brights on in my gaze. "We're not going to hurt you!"
They relaxed like I'd shot them each with a dart full of Valium. Bones whispered something I didn't catch to Graham, but he, too, soon had a glazed and compliant expression. Chris watched everything in silence and complete stillness, his mental somersaulting the only indication that he was far less calm than he looked.
"The way you move . . . both of you are only a blur," he said at last.
I shrugged. "The myths got some things right. Superspeed is one of them."
"What did the myths get wrong?" he asked at once.
"Uncontrollable need to kill, wooden stakes, exploding in sunlight, cringing at crosses, lack of reflection, and, oh, the stiff-collared capes. I mean, honestly, who would go out in public wearing one of those?"
"Fashion tragedy," Tyler agreed.
Chris continued to stare. "You forgot mind control."
"Saw that for yourself, didn't you?" Bones replied. His tone was light, but his gaze didn't waver from Chris's. "You and your crew won't remember any of this once the trap is completed, but until then, I want you to know what you're dealing with. Then perhaps one of you won't again tempt me to violence with his thoughts."
Despite the maelstrom in his mind, Chris's bearded chin thrust out.
"Don't threaten my crew."
Bones's brow ticked up. "Or you'll do what?" he asked mildly.
Chris swallowed hard. "I won't finish the trap you're so interested in," he replied. If I hadn't heard his mental prayer that these wouldn't turn out to be his last words, I'd have sworn he had balls of steel.
Bones clapped Chris on the shoulder in a friendly way that still caused the other man to flinch. "I could trance you into doing the same, but you've got bravery and loyalty, both of which I value. Keep your crew in line, and you'll have no worries."
"They can't help their thoughts, Bones," I pointed out. Sure, I'd been annoyed at Graham's crude musings, but clearly not as pissed as Bones if they'd triggered a telekinetic response he didn't know he was capable of.
Then again, anger had usually been the trigger with my borrowed abilities, and that was before I'd known I had them, too. Maybe anger was just the normal way new abilities manifested themselves. How was I supposed to know?
"Now they're warned that their thoughts aren't private, so they have only themselves to blame if they don't keep a leash on them," was his unrelenting reply. "They should be focused on the task at hand, not on insolently pondering whether you fabricated tales of a ghost because you neglected your medication, were desperate for attention, or crazed from your monthlies."
"Jesus, Graham," Chris muttered.
"Figures. Every time something happens with a woman, you guys always bring up her period," Lexie said, to an accompanying snort of agreement from Nancy.
Graham flushed. "I didn't say it out loud."
"And now you know that doesn't matter," Bones stated curtly, green flashing in his eyes again.
I cleared my throat to defuse the tension. "Okay, everyone relax and remember we just have to get through completing the trap. Then you'll go on with your lives with a nice fat bonus, and there'll be one less murdering creep floating around. I think we can all agree that's a goal worth working toward."
Cautious murmurs of assent sounded, but I hadn't been looking for a fervent chorus of "whoo hoo's!" so that was good enough for me.
"Bones." I gave a weary glance out the window where the sun was starting to creep up over the horizon. "Let's get some sleep. We have a lot to do later."
I'd just finished putting away the groceries when my cell phone rang, its musical cadence shattering the quiet. It was just Bones and I in the house at the moment. We'd dropped the others off at the cave while we gathered enough odds and ends to keep half a dozen humans comfortable during their stay here.
I expected to see Tyler or Chris's cell number when I grabbed my phone, but instead the word BLOCKED appeared. Telemarketer, I thought in annoyance, and was about to hit IGNORE when I paused. What if it was someone calling on Fabian's behalf? The ghost had to rely on others to make a call for him since he lacked the ability to physically dial, and his voice came through only as static over the phone. Fabian might have shown up at the hotel last night only to find all of us checked out and no information on where we'd gone to. Even if he'd thought to try the cave and heard from Tyler where we were staying now, with all the garlic and weed I was sporting in my clothes, not to mention what was set up around the house, Fabian might not be able to reach me.
Just in case it was a solicitor, though, I answered the phone with an unfriendly-sounding hello.
"Crawfield?" an equally abrupt voice asked.
No telemarketer would have my correct name since this number was listed under one of my many aliases. But though that voice was vaguely familiar, I couldn't place a name to it.
"Who's this?"
"Jason Madigan."
Ah, the team's infamous new operations consultant. From his tone, Madigan's sourpuss mood hadn't improved since our first meeting.
"To what do I owe this honor?" I asked dryly.
"You owe it to a complete lack of discretion about supernaturally sensitive information," was his cold, measured reply.
I needed his attitude like I needed an extra pair of tits on my ass. "I don't know what you're talking about. Care to start making sense?" Or is that too much to ask, Mr. Brass Tacks? I mentally added.