Hell Week (31 page)

The door to the shop opened and Justin came in, bun- dled against the January chill. He sat down and unwrapped; I slid my mocha across the table to him. "Mmm," he said ap- preciatively, warming his hands on the paper cup. "Toasty." "How'd your meeting go?"

"Well, my thesis subject was approved. Apparently your dad told the committee I wasn't crazy."

"That was nice of him."

"It was." He grinned at me, and I grinned back. We had to stick together, those of us who saw past disbelief.

"How's Lisa?" he asked, following my train of thought with his usual accuracy. "Settled back in at Georgetown?"

"Yep." I retrieved my drink.

"Are you guys really planning a road trip for spring break?"

"Probably. Worried?"

"Not about you two. God help any evil thing in your way." He rose and grabbed my coat from the back of my chair, holding it out for me. "Ready?"

"Yep." I slipped my arms in and reached for the mocha. The pain reminded me to switch the cup to my left hand be- fore I dropped it. Mostly I had trouble grasping things. The physical therapist said I might always have weakness in that hand. I guess there goes my promising career as a concert violinist.

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 mem- ory 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 hos- pital 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 Soc- cer League, now that she had the resources to follow her own dream and no mother standing in her way. I would be fol- lowing 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. AC K N OW L E D GM E N T S

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 al- ready 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 Mil- lard, 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. R OSEMARY C LEMENT-M OORE loves history, Jane Austen, vintage embroidery, Dance Dance Revolution, BBC America, and the Sci-Fi Channel. She can tap dance, make balloon animals, sail a boat, and rappel from a cliff. In college she was in honors choir, ROTC drill team, and a sorority she prefers not to name, even though, as far as she knows, they were not in league with the devil.

Rosemary lives in Texas with her husband and her dogs. She loves to hear from readers, who can visit her Web site at www.readrosemary.com.