Sawyer had a lot in the way of power and very little in the way of conscience. The last time I'd seen him he'd drugged me and fucked me—and that wasn't a euphemism, either.
Sawyer did a lot of training for the federation—both DKs and seers—for a price. Regardless of his lack of ethics and his annoying habit of doing whatever and whoever the hell he wanted, the fact remained that he knew things. When you lived for centuries upon centuries you couldn't help but know.
"What are the powers of a Naye'l?" I asked.
"Traveling on the wind. Turning to smoke."
"She dropped my friend Megan unconscious with a glance."
Summer nodded slowly. "Add it to the list. Although that could be a power she learned through witchcraft. Hard to say."
"Why didn't she drop me?"
"She likes to get her hands bloody? Who knows? Maybe that talent only works on humans."
"I'm human."
Summer snorted. "Sure you are."
"What the hell does that mean?" She'd once told me that I'd meet my mother someday and that I wouldn't like it.
"Relax. I was just..." Her voice trailed off.
"Messing with me?"
"Yeah. You do ask for it on occasion."
I asked for it constantly.
"My parents," I began.
"Are unknown to us. For now. That's a worry for another time. Don't you have enough to deal with?"
"Yeah." I sat back in my seat and watched the road roll by.
Since I'd discovered that the world was inhabited by demons with human faces, I'd begun to wonder what had lurked beneath the faces of my parents. No one seemed to know, or if they did they weren't telling, but for me to have the talents I had, I figured either one or both of them had possessed special talents, too.
"I still wonder why Sawyer had to conjure his mother," Summer mused a few minutes later.
"Considering that he goes on an annual 'Kill my mother' hunt, I don't think they bonded well."
"He never did get over her murdering his father."
"Yeah, he's funny that way," I said.
Summer cast me an exasperated glance. "What I'm getting at is, why conjure her? She's flesh and blood, not a spirit."
"Was she always? Flesh and blood, I mean? A Naye'i is an evil spirit."
"The Nephilim were called evil spirits down through the ages, but it doesn't mean 'spirit,' like a ghost. Just..." Summer lifted one hand from the steering wheel and turned it palm up. "Spirit of evil."
"And we're right back to why he conjured her."
I guessed I'd just have to break down and ask him.
*
We traveled all night. Fairies didn't appear to need any sleep. Since I did, I conked out well before St. Louis.
Dawn over the Ozark Mountains is a beautiful thing. The mist hangs heavy on the hills, causing the streaks of sunlight creeping across the peaks to turn every shade of crimson and gold.
The sight made me want to save the world all over again. After viewing a sunrise like that, who wouldn't want to go out and kick some half-demon ass?
Except we were here to find Jimmy, learn the names of the remaining seers, do whatever it was that needed doing to get him back on the job. I wasn't certain I was up to that. I'd never been much of a psychologist. And Jimmy definitely needed his head shrunk, or a nice padded cell.
Or a hug. I wasn't sure which.
We reached Barnaby's Gap in the afternoon, much later than I'd planned. Despite Summer's fairytude, we'd gotten lost, floundered around, backtracked, wasted time.
The town was old, had probably been there since long before the Civil War. In the past, the Ozarks had been a hotbed for mining, but as is the case with most mines, the ore ran out. The towns that had sprung up to meet the needs of the industry either died or found a new livelihood.
Most of the Ozark settlements had recently begun to court the boom of tourism brought about by the success of Branson. Barnaby's Gap had not. Couldn't say that I blamed them. Why mar the spectacular view with a bevy of condos, complete with swimming pools, tennis courts, workout facilities, and spa? Why commercialize the main street with shops full of candles, holiday decorations, antiques, crafts, and candy?
They'd no doubt survived without catering to the masses because of the impressive sawmill we'd passed on the way in. I was certain the majority of the citizenry worked there while the minority made their living on the sidewalk-lined streets where family-owned businesses catered to kith and kin. We rolled past a grocer, doctor, pharmacy, and—yippee and yahoo!—a coffee shop.
"Coffee," I croaked, pointing.
My croak must have tipped Summer off to the necessity of said coffee because the Impala coasted to a stop at the curb, and she followed me inside without argument.
The place was nearly empty this late in the day. We didn't have to contend with tourists sipping their four-dollar brews and reading the most recent New York Times bestseller or the romance novel they wouldn't be caught dead opening back home.