Brimstone (68 page)

Justin put his arm around me as we stepped out into the blustery day. “Excited?” he asked.

“I can’t wait for you to meet her. She’s not much to look at, but boy can she wail.”

“No worries about her lungs, then.”

“Nope. She’ll probably outtalk me someday.”

“I doubt that,” he said as we reached his car, then kissed away my indignation.

Brigid Joanna Quinn had been born on January second
at four-fifteen in the afternoon, a few weeks early, but healthy and … Okay, not beautiful. But I understand they all come out looking that way.

As for me, I was pretty sure the effects of the Sigma Alpha Xis had dissipated. My dreams had returned to what passes for normal. I hadn’t had any more ambush visions, but sometimes when I touched things weighted with memory or emotion, it seeped in. So I guess that’s really me, and not a special Sigma gift.

The grimoire had burned; at least, I woke up in the hospital with the recollection of it dropping into the pool of lamp oil, and flames rushing up to consume it. Hopefully a real memory and not a product of blood-loss delirium or wishful thinking. But it
felt
finished, and I had to trust my instincts until there was evidence to the contrary.

Holly was the only ex-pledge not coming back to school in the spring. She’d called me after the new year to say she was going into training to try out for the U.S. Women’s Soccer League, now that she had the resources to follow her own dream and no mother standing in her way. I would be following her dream, too, for a while, to make sure she wasn’t extraordinarily lucky in her quest. The work of a psychic supergirl is never done.

But for the moment, I had nothing better to do than stand in the freezing wind, wrapped in my boyfriend’s arms, warming up from the inside out. Sometimes, you are just in the right place at the right time, and nothing in the universe is entirely random.

Sometimes I wonder if I talk to myself because I’m a writer, or if I’m a writer because I talk to myself. Here are a few of the people who keep me from being any crazier than I already am.

My agent, Lucienne Diver, and my editor, Krista Marino. How great is it that I get to work with people I genuinely like and admire? I’m also extremely lucky to have the support of so many people at Delacorte Press. You guys rock.

My BFF Cheryl A. Smyth, who knows the voices in my head almost as well as I do.

My wonderful, talented friends Candace Havens and Shannon Canard, who know I’m a dork and still let me hang out with them.

The DFW Writer’s Workshop and the North Texas Romance Writers of America, two fantastic organizations. And a sundry bunch, for various encouragement, kindness, and inspiration: A. Lee Martinez, Michelle Nordahl, Delilah Peeler, Carole Millard, Ashlea Robertson, Haley M. Schmidt, Father Sherwood, Amy Frost, and the Camp Crucis Girls Cabin Circle.

My husband, Tim, and my family—especially Mom and Pete. As they say in
High School Musical:
We’re all in this together.