Chapter 8
HUNGRY.
“Shit,” I muttered, immediately blocking out the shrieking thoughts of Grace Campion-Manning, Ward and Mason’s three-month-old daughter.
And no, I’m sure she didn’t think in words any more than anyone else consciously thinks the word hungry when they’re hungry. But it was clear that her thoughts were that she was hungry and absolutely nothing else.
I also knew it was Grace because I knew whose teething ring I had picked up off the floor. It had to be either Grace or Zane, and fauns were born with erupted teeth, so his were already chewed up. That, and Grace threw pretty much everything she could get her fat little green hands on.
At least I was getting skilled enough at blocking out other people’s thoughts that I could do it now without dropping whatever it was I was holding.
In this case, a blue plastic ring filled with liquid that had little plastic suspended fish in it.
I was actually kind of surprised Mason let Grace teethe on plastic, but I suppose the fact that you could freeze it probably made it more attractive for her sore gums.
I took the ring back into the kitchen, washing it before setting it in the dish-drying rack next to a sippy cup and two bottles with nipples. They were trying to move from bottles to cups with both babies, especially since Zane destroyed every nipple that got near his teeth.
I got the feeling that faun mothers probably weren’t much into breastfeeding, but I didn’t know any who could confirm that—not that even I was socially awkward enough to ask.
I rewarded myself for washing the ring by also making myself another cup of coffee.
I’d been up late waiting to see if Raj would come back the night before, although he hadn’t.
His text messages from this morning suggested that I wasn’t going to see him tonight, either.
And probably not for a few more days after that.
He hadn’t exactly said why—which I understood, given the fact that I didn’t work for the FBI, so he couldn’t really talk to me about cases that I hadn’t been given clearance to work on—but I got the impression that the hit-and-run case wasn’t the only thing keeping them busy.
It made sense, since I was under no illusions that they just sat there waiting for cases to come in.
Raj and Hart had both complained about being overworked more than once, and I knew Raj sometimes felt guilty for the days he took off to spend with me.
And I was fully aware that he frequently sent texts to people on his team about various things, especially when he didn’t think I noticed.
It made me feel guilty in return for taking up time that he should be spending somewhere else.
I sipped at my coffee as I returned to the front desk, checking the time in the lower corner of the screen.
I was supposed to meet Violette, and we were going to take the afternoon off together.
Given that it was a Saturday, I didn’t feel particularly bad about it.
It was my last Saturday night off for a month, and I was looking forward to seeing Vi’s apartment and learning more about her life down in Williamsburg.
Beck had a séance, and Ward was going with her because it was at a purportedly haunted house. Mason clearly hadn’t been thrilled with the idea, but Ward had pointed out that if the house actually was haunted, two mediums would be more use than one and a witch.
I’d almost offered to go with them, guilt at not helping conflicting with guilt about being a negligent big brother—and guilt at not being available if Raj called, although that was looking less and less likely based on the terrible spelling and punctuation in his texts.
The more rushed and busy he was, the worse both got, and the last one had asked me djd u get any slip?
I was assuming he had asked me about sleep, and also that he probably hadn’t gotten much, if any.
I’d managed a few hours, but they’d been fitful.
I’d told him A little, and then hadn’t heard anything since.
Taking another swallow of my coffee—my third cup—I quickly updated the inventory spreadsheet using the packing list from the three boxes I’d already unloaded, my eyes continuously skipping down to my phone, checking both the time and my notifications, just in case Raj texted again.
“Violette…” I wasn’t sure what to say.
I’d gone home and changed into jeans, a t-shirt, and a zipper hoodie only a handful of minutes before she’d arrived.
She’d come up and immediately dragged me downstairs, grinning and tugging at my hand.
When we’d walked out the front doors, she’d stopped in front of a small car, its light blue metallic paint shiny and clean.
She’d gestured with both hands, announcing “Ta da!”
And I had no idea how to respond.
My sister pouted. “I think the normal answer is ‘thank you, oh, gorgeous and wonderful sister of mine, for buying me a car.’”
I gaped at her, shocked and also a little horrified. “You bought me a car?!”
She nodded, still grinning.
“Violette, you can’t just buy me a car!” A car was a ridiculously expensive gift. It wasn’t something you just gave someone, especially not someone she’d only known for six months, even if I was her brother.
“Why not?” she asked, pouting a little more. “You don’t have one, but I’ve seen your license. I know you can drive.” Ward had insisted I learn how, just in case I ever needed to drive him somewhere. It happened often enough that I didn’t have to worry about forgetting how.
“Because… it’s expensive!” Really expensive.
“So? I have oodles of money.”
I grimaced, but refrained from pointing out that oodle was not a proper unit of measure. “I don’t want to owe you,” I told her. “And this would make me feel like I have to.”
She frowned, and although I hadn’t really thought we looked that much alike—her hair dark, mine light, her eyes green, mine almost black—the expression on her face was so like the one I’d seen in my own mirror that it was disconcerting.
“I owe you my existence,” she said, her voice forceful.
Then the volume dropped, her voice soft.
“You saved me. And Mom.” She shifted. “And you got me this amazing job with Beyond the Veil,” she continued, then looked up at me through her lashes. “Besides, you’re my brother.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to buy me things,” I replied, feeling deeply uncomfortable.
What I’d done had saved her, but it had been so long ago that it felt like it didn’t matter.
And getting her the job had half been so that I didn’t feel as guilty about abandoning my job, so it wasn’t really a favor to her.
At least not to the point where I deserved a car for it. “Expensive or not.”
“But I want to,” she protested. “And you don’t have a car, so this would make things easier for you. You could drive to work. Or to get groceries. Or to go on dates with Raaaj.” She drew out his name, batting her eyelashes at me.
I didn’t point out that I walked to work and to get groceries, and Raj had a car. Although this would solve the problem we’d encountered when he’d get called while we were out and had to take me home before he could go to work.
And it would let me buy more groceries, and maybe even get a few things in bulk, which would save money, if I could put them in a car instead of having to carry them home.
And it would let me go other places. Do things. Feel like more of an adult.
But it was so expensive.
“It’s still too much,” I told her.
“You have to take it,” she insisted. “Because otherwise I’ll think you don’t love me.”
“Vi—”
“Please, Rayn.” She took one of my hands, squeezing it and swaying back and forth. “Pleeeease.”
I couldn’t think of a way to refuse her. And she was right, it would be really nice to have a car, even if I knew it came with expenses of its own, like gas and insurance. “Fine.” I’d have to think of some way to pay her back for this.
She squealed, then threw her arms around me. I hugged her back. “Yay!” Then she gave me a mischievous grin. “Except now you have to drive me back to Williamsburg. I’ll show you my apartment, and then you can buy me dinner.” She gave me a self-satisfied smirk. “Call it a thank-you, if you like.”
I couldn’t help smiling back at her. “Okay,” I agreed.
Violette’s apartment was… very her. I’d heard people use the phrase before—that something was very someone. I hadn’t quite understood it before I’d walked into Vi’s apartment, but I did now.
Everything—the chairs, the bedding, the pillows and throw blanket—was jewel-toned.
Orange and purple and teal and garnet. The decorations—candles, sculptures, small framed pieces that were mixed media of torn paper and feathers and beads and bones—were quirky and macabre, bits of art and kitch that celebrated life even as they acknowledged the omnipresence of death.
I liked the brightness of the colors—probably because I’d spent so much of my life somewhere that had been painted to be just as colorless as the life it had held within its walls.
“I like it,” I told her. I did—for her. Because while I did like the color-scheme, I definitely didn’t want a replica hand of glory on any of my shelves. Or what looked like a fox skull. Or a candle shaped like a human spine covered in glitter.
She grinned at me. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I echoed, smiling back.
She proceeded to show me around the small, but very nice, apartment, pointing out several of the oddities on her shelves as things she’d acquired in Thailand, Germany, France, Rome, and other parts of the world, although her favorite was what she termed a “genuine voodoo doll” from New Orleans.
“Are you sure?” I asked her.
She nodded. “Yeah, why?”