"Hey!" I tore her amulet off the same way.
The very air seemed to still, yet my hair stirred in an impossible wind.
Dreadful One, Ruthie whispered at last, Naye'i.
A Naye'i was a Navajo spirit. I'd heard of them before. Several puzzle pieces suddenly fit together with a nearly audible click.
The woman of smoke backed away, staring at the stone I had recently strung on its own chain rather than continuing to let it share Ruthie's.
"You don't like my turquoise." I sat up.
Her gaze lifted from the necklace to my face. All I could see between the narrowed lids was a blaze of orange flame. "That isn't yours."
"I know someone who'd say differently." My hand inched toward the blue-green gem. "The someone who gave it to me. I think you call him . . . your son."
As soon as my fingers closed around it. the turquoise went white-hot, and the Naye'i snarled like the demon she was, then turned to smoke and disappeared.
CHAPTER 2
A movement near the bar had me crouching and swivel-ing in that direction, even though I was fresh out of weapons except for the turquoise. I doubted the stone would do me much good against the shotgun in Megan's hands.
Though short, Megan was strong, probably from hauling three kids around—first in her belly and then on her hip—not to mention being a single mom with a thriving business. She didn't get much sleep; she frequently forgot to eat; yet her pale skin, which fried like bacon in the sun, glowed as healthy as her thick, curly red hair and dark blue eyes.
She was cute as a button—and several other similes for cuteness, such as puppies and kittens, all of which drove Megan crazy. She wanted to be elegant and classy, but you get what you get. I, myself, was tall, dark, and different when all I'd ever wanted to be was normal.
Nevertheless, Megan's adorability, her girl-next-doorness, would have been adequate grounds to put her on my "too annoying to live" list except she also had a dry, sarcastic wit that matched my own and a genuine lack of interest in how she looked or who she impressed. All Megan cared about were her kids, her bar, and me. Crazy woman.
She lowered the shotgun, cast me a quick, unreadable glance, then poured herself a shot of Jameson's and slammed it back like water.
I let out a sigh of relief that she was alive and standing, with all her faculties still intact. Obviously the woman of smoke had the power to knock someone unconscious with a single glance, but she couldn't kill anyone that way. The first good news I'd had in weeks. I wondered why she hadn't tried it on me.
Without raising her voice, Megan said, "You're gonna sit right down and tell me what the fuck that was."
I hesitated. Panic was just around the corner if the world at large discovered Doomsday was at hand. But I didn't know how I could avoid telling Megan something. Unless I just left and never came back. Probably a good choice considering my presence here had nearly gotten her killed.
"Uh-uh," Megan said. "You're not going anywhere."
Damn, she was good. Raising three kids had no doubt given her mom's ESP. One tiny flicker in my eyes, a slight twitch of my shoulder, and Megan had known exactly what I was planning,
"And don't think you can disappear like your pal did." Megan paused, frowned. "Can you disappear like your pal did?"
I opened my mouth, shut it again. Gave up. "No. I can't."
Her eyebrows lifted. She was as surprised as I was that I'd admitted the woman of smoke had gone poof.
"What can you do?" she asked. "Besides figure out where people are, or what they've done, or where they've hidden someone or something just by touching them."
"I don't always have to touch them," I muttered. Sometimes I only had to touch something they owned. That was how I'd found Jimmy the last time. Unfortunately, Sanducci hadn't left anything behind for me to fondle.
"I... uh .. . hell." I went to the door, flipped the open sign to closed and locked it. "Pour me one of those." I flicked a finger at the whiskey bottle, then scooped up both the crucifix and the amulet from the floor and stuffed them into my pocket.
After brushing glass off a stool, I sat. Megan yanked my knife out of the wall. She handed the sparkling silver weapon across the bar without comment. I tucked the thing back where it belonged, then did my best to straighten my clothes. I'd lost too many buttons, so I gave up and sipped at the whiskey. I didn't know where to start, so I just kept sipping.
"Ruthie died," Megan suggested.
I guessed that was as good a place as any to begin.
The public believed Ruthie Kane had been murdered, and she had been—just not by human hands or conventional weapons. The local police department had been stumped. Couldn't blame them. It wasn't every day little old ladies died on their sunny kitchen floors from the bite wounds of wild animals.
In the end. Jimmy had framed a dead demon killer—mostly to get himself off the hook—and the police had accepted the ruse. They'd had to explain things somehow.