Switchblade Goddess (17 page)

Inside was a split-level living area. The ceiling was made entirely of skylights, which I assumed were also made from nonreflective glass. The walls were covered with screened windows that let in the ocean breeze. The nearest, lowest area had a kitchenette on the left-hand side along with a small round café table and two folding chairs. The right side of the low level was mostly taken up by a short wooden platform with a round tufted futon that resembled a huge papasan pillow. It appeared to be just the right size for Pal to curl up on, and a cork-stoppered blue potion bottle lay in the middle of the cushion. Past the kitchen and futon platform the tan carpeted floor stair-stepped up to the higher level. It was dominated by a queen-size futon and garment rack with hanging shelves that held a variety of clothing that looked to have been chosen with my personal preferences in mind. Past the bed, I saw a half-open door that led to a tiled room that had to be a bathroom.

“Does this meet with your approval?” Magus Shimmer’s voice was muffled; in my awe and surprise I’d let my mirror hand drop to my side. I still wasn’t used to dealing with wizards as powerful as my father.

“Oh, yeah!” I quickly brought the mirror back up. “This is great, thank you.”

“Excellent.” He paused. “Well, I’m afraid I must attend to a few other concerns … have a good evening, and please do not hesitate to mirror me if your familiar’s condition worsens.”

I said good-bye to my father, closed the mirror, and started thinking hard as I retrieved my backpack and shotgun and set them on the café table. Had my father’s spell gone bad and made things worse? Maybe Magus Shimmer hadn’t taken Pal’s alien physiology into account. Or was it something else entirely? The thought that Pal might be ill—
seriously
ill, injured or infected beyond the help of an expert healer—terrified me.

“Hey, Pal, wake up.” I jogged over to where he lay curled up in the sand and gently shook him. “Come on, we’ve got you a better place to sleep.”

“No, just a little while longer.” His eyes were getting cloudy. He curled up tighter, his telepathic voice strangely distorted.

Clumps of his thick, shaggy fur came away in my hand when I shook him again. “C’mon, there might be sand fleas out here or something. Let’s go inside.”

He was far too big for me to haul to his feet, but with some more shaking and encouragement he finally stood up, his legs trembling as if they almost couldn’t support his weight. I walked beside him, my hand on his back, as he crept toward the beach house.

His slow, uncertain gait and tremors reminded me of a wolf spider I’d found years ago in the garage; my stepmother had given it a not-quite-fatal blast of Raid. I’ve always kinda liked spiders, and I felt bad that I couldn’t do anything better for it than a quick death under my sneaker. Had I known about my Talent back then, I might have turned into the neighborhood spider and lizard resurrectionist. And of course I probably would have found myself kicked out of my stepparents’ house even sooner.

Suddenly tears were running down my face, and I felt as if I was going to break down and sob like a little kid. Pal had stuck by me through all kinds of horrors that would send most other so-called friends running for the hills. I owed him my life several times over, and if I couldn’t do anything to save him from whatever was happening …

No. I couldn’t go there. Not now. Nothing worse than being sick and having your only caregiver turn into a blubbering, useless wreck. Well, dying would probably be worse … no. Wasn’t going to go there. I took a deep, shuddering breath to try to regain my composure. “We’re gonna get you healthy again, I swear.”

I brushed most of the sand out of his fur before we went into the house. It seemed as if he was shedding more and more; patches of mottled gray skin were showing through his ferrety coat. Pal lurched through the door, tottered the few feet to the futon platform, and collapsed, half on the cushion and half on the floor. He looked exhausted and disoriented.

Fortunately he hadn’t fallen on top of the potion bottle. I quickly retrieved it and pulled the cork. The
liquid inside was a dark purple concoction that smelled like licorice and wintergreen, as if it were NyQuil for magical creatures. The paper label pasted to the front read “Dose: one bottle administered in single gulp.”

I held the bottle up in front of Pal; he blinked at it blearily.

“My father sent this for you,” I told him. “It should help you feel better. Well, I
hope
it will help you feel better.”

Pal responded by tilting his head back and opening his mouth wide on the cushion. His teeth were loose in their sockets, his gums bloody around the roots. Canker sores pocked the back of his tongue. I poured the potion down his throat. He gave a little shudder as he closed his eyes and jaws and swallowed. When he opened his eyes again, they looked much clearer and healthier. The ulcers on his legs seemed less inflamed, too.

“That brew has a rather cloying flavor,” he remarked, his telepathic voice getting stronger with every word. “I dare say Mother Karen’s potions taste better than your father’s.”

I smiled at him, feeling relieved. “Do you want some water to wash it down with?” I started digging through my pack to find the other Aquafinas.

“That would be lovely, thank you,” he replied.

I
cracked open two water bottles for Pal and then turned to survey the kitchenette. It had a small oven with three burners and a roaster above; a full-size white refrigerator occupied the space to the right of it. I spotted what looked like a second oven set into a wall alcove on the bedroom level just a few feet from the wardrobe rack. But when I stepped closer to it, I realized it was labeled Clothes Cleaner. Huh.
That
I would definitely have to try out.

Just then, the folded mirror began to jitter in my pocket. Had Randall or my father learned something new? I pulled out the compact and pulled the halves open—

—and was surprised to see Cooper smiling back at me. I could tell by the wallpaper that he was sitting on the bed in Mother Karen’s downstairs guest room.

“Sweetie!” I exclaimed.

His face fell as he saw my bloody hair and face. “Holy crap, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I replied quickly. “It’s Miko’s, and before you ask, no, I didn’t kick her ass. Or it didn’t stay kicked, anyway. I … kinda went sailing on the failboat today.”

“I’m so sorry, honey … do you want to talk about it?”

“I do … but I also kinda don’t, you know? Not right now. But hey, where did you get a mirror?” I asked. He and the Warlock had never been big on mirrors; both men preferred the ease of cellphones, and neither of them was much good at communications magic.

“It’s Randall’s,” Cooper replied. “He and the Warlock were going to run over to the bar to check on Opal, and I asked if I could borrow it so I could talk to you.”

“Oh, cool.” Ask and ye shall receive, apparently.

“Speaking of the Warlock.” Cooper paused, looking serious. “I know some … stuff happened between the two of you. And I beat the hell out of him for the part I saw, which I feel terrible about. Yeah, Miko was tampering with all our emotions, but I have to own what I did. I can’t just say, ‘Oh, the Bad Lady made me do it,’ because even if it
might
be halfway true, it sounds like bullshit in my own head. I’m done ditching responsibility for the stuff I do that affects my family.”

Cooper took a deep breath. “The Warlock and I talked about the fight … I think he’s okay with me now, but he doesn’t seem okay with you. Like,
seriously
not okay. And he won’t say why. Can you tell me?”

“Yeah.” I bit my lip. It was hard to tell him what had happened. But I especially didn’t want to tell him over the mirror; if my father could cast spells through it, he could be recording my conversations for all I knew. The notion struck me as a little paranoid, but
after Randall’s tales of keyloggers and viruses I couldn’t dismiss it. And I definitely did not want my father knowing the squishy details of my sex life. Some things parents just don’t
ever
need to know. The thought of him knowing even a fraction of what the Warlock and I had done to each other made me queasy.

“Look,” I finally said. “Can we talk about it when we’re together again?”

He nodded, still looking serious and a bit concerned. “Okay. Randall’s been talking about us all meeting up at your father’s place.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It shouldn’t be too long before that happens.”

“I hope not. The universe keeps finding new ways to screw with us and keep us apart.” Cooper rubbed his face. “Where are you now?”

“Someplace in the South Pacific called Lorikeet Island,” I replied.

“Are you okay there? Do you have food?”

“Yeah, we’ve got food, and I think we’ll be fine. I hope so, anyway. Pal’s gotten really sick, and I don’t know what’s wrong with him …” A lump rose in my throat, and I thought I might start weeping again. I didn’t want to cry in front of Cooper, didn’t want to be another worry for him. So I made myself smile. “Other than that things are pretty nice here.”

Cooper looked concerned. “Are you
sure
you’re okay out there by yourself?”

“Yeah, we’ll be good.” I tried to make my smile a little more convincing; it probably didn’t work. “Just need some sleep I think. And a shower.
Really
need a shower. And anyway, I’m like five thousand miles
away right now. How are you going to get me any company? We’ll be fine.”

“All right,” he said, sounding uncertain. “Mirror me if you need anything, okay?”

“Okay. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” The mirror went dark at that, and I closed the compact and tossed it onto the bed.

Pal had fallen asleep during my conversation with Cooper, so I let myself cry quietly for a couple of minutes to try to get it out of my system. Stupid tears. I’d rather get mad than cry about something. Anger was a useful emotion. Anger I could work with. Grief just got you wet and sapped your energy.

As I was wiping off my face, I realized that my opera glove had gotten positively disgusting, the fingertips a cesspool brown. My eye fell on the mysterious cleaning device. How did it work? I stepped closer to examine it. It looked pretty simple; it had a glass door with a toaster oven–style pull handle at the top. The inside walls were grooved like an oven’s and held a couple of white wire racks. It was maybe eighteen inches wide and about as many tall. To the right of the door was a red button; beneath it were some instructions in block lettering: “Lay clothing on racks; do not overload. Close door and press button once to clean. Safe for most enchanted items.”

I looked up at the ceiling. It seemed high enough that I wouldn’t catch it on fire even if I flamed up a bit. So I opened the door, carefully pulled my glove off, and laid it in the center of the top wire rack. And then I closed the door, held my breath, and pressed the button.

The magic box flashed bright as a sunburst. Once
I’d blinked away the green spots in my vision, I opened the door and pulled out my glove. It was pristine, looked practically brand new.

“Neat!” I pulled the glove back on and ran outside to retrieve my dragonskin jacket. Once I found it and got back inside, I undressed and flash-cleaned everything in three loads; my boots had to go in by themselves. The dragonskins were glossier than I’d ever seen them before—apparently they’d been a little dingy when the Warlock lent them to me—and as I was folding them on the bed I became even more acutely aware that no part of my own body could be charitably called anything close to clean.

The bathroom, fortunately, was everything I’d hoped it would be. A fresh white cotton spa robe hung from a hook on the back of the door, and fluffy towels were stacked on a chrome wall rack. A variety of soaps, shampoos, loofas, lotions, and other sundries were arrayed in a decorative wicker basket on the sink counter. And, as a nice touch, there was a waterproof half-arm cast cover I could use to keep my glove from getting wet.

I caught a good look at myself in the mirror and flinched. I’d seen murder victims that didn’t look this gruesome. Averting my eyes, I picked out a little bar of tea tree soap and spearmint shampoo—the shampoo I held up to the light to check for glitter—along with a comb. And then I slipped the cover over my glove and stepped into the bath stall.

The shower spray was hot and strong. I lathered the rusty failure off my body and then set about trying to get the knots out of my hair. That took a long time, and eventually I had to hop out to find some
thick lime-scented cream to rub directly into the worst spots. But finally I could run the comb smoothly through my locks. I took some extra time to clean the dirt and blood out from under my nails with the comb’s front tooth. Then I turned off the tap and got out to towel myself dry.

I opened the bathroom door—

—and nearly peed myself in surprise: a man in an apron stood at the kitchenette counter, whacking a young coconut open with a large butcher knife.

A
fter my initial shock passed, I realized the man brandishing the knife was actually Cooper. I guess the white chef’s apron threw me at first. Under it, he was wearing a pair of skinny Levi’s he’d probably borrowed from Mother Karen’s eldest foster son along with a Jimmy Buffet T-shirt he’d gotten from who-knew-where.

“Oh my God, What are you doing here?” I exclaimed.

“Why, I’m making macaroons.” He poured the coconut water off into a waiting glass bowl. “And probably some cocotinis later, if you want … I found some vodka and pineapple juice in the cabinet.”

“No, I mean, how did you get here?” I pulled the spa robe closed and padded down to the kitchenette; although Pal was still asleep, I figured if he woke up he wouldn’t much want to see me wandering around naked. My sense of propriety is admittedly a little bent most of the time, but I do have one.

“Aren’t you glad to see me?” Cooper stuck out his lower lip in a mock pout.

“Of course I am! I’m just … surprised, you know.” I stood up on tiptoes and laid a big kiss on his cheek.