Page 11 of Wings to the Kingdom (Eden Moore 2)

“Really, dear,” he went on, “you’re in such a unique position to assist them. It’s a shame you don’t want to help. ”

“I bet the Marshalls don’t want any help. ”

“They might. I could make some phone calls. ”

“Don’t you dare. They’re probably fakes, anyway. ”

“No,” he insisted with a suddenness that surprised me. “They’re not fakes. They’re not as gifted as they want to believe they are, and they’re publicity whores of the highest caliber, but they do get real results. That’s one reason I think you should see about contacting them, or offering to help their investigation. It might do you good to meet other people like yourself. ”

“And you want to hook me up with a play-date? Honestly. ”

He let slide another one of those pauses, and I almost interrupted him when he continued. “You know,” he said, “you’re not alone. There are other people who can see things and tell things that most people wouldn’t believe. You ought to find a few of them and make some friends; it isn’t that hard. The social circles are small, but they exist. I could give you a phone number or two. ”

“I watch late-night TV every now and again. I’ve got access to all the 1-900 numbers I can stand, thanks. ” I tried to sound flippant, but it came off too dry to be careless.

“There’s no need to be catty. I’m not trying to hook you up with a psychic shrink; I’m trying to explain that there are people out there outside your immediate gene pool who might understand what it’s like. ”

“To what end? I don’t need any pen pals, Harry. ”

“For your own well-being, or peace of mind. You’re entirely too isolated up there in Chattanooga. It’ll make you crazy, being your kind of different and having no one to share it with. ”

“Crazy like Malachi?”

I almost heard Harry’s eyes roll. “He is an easy example, yes. ”

In the end, the phone call was pleasant, but less than productive. By the time we hung up, I was unconvinced that he’d put a stop to Malachi’s pestering—and he was unconvinced that I was uninterested in the battlefield.

We were both right to be suspicious.

4

ABC

The city of Chattanooga shifts and swells around the university, which is tucked away downtown. It used to be located in the middle of a nice suburb; but time and economic stagnation have taken their toll, and now the school perches on the edge of a ghetto. This less-savory part of town is shrinking away from the school in slow, baby steps; but the change will take more time yet, partly because investors around here don’t have a lick of sense. Real estate progress in the valley tends to swing one of two stupid ways: companies build in the wrong place, or they tear down the wrong things to start building.

But the university, downtown in the middle of the ghetto, is a marvel of hodgepodge architecture if ever there was one. As the school expanded, it ate up a couple of blocks unintended for academia, including an old hospital, a strip of historic suburbia, and a couple of cemeteries.

I parked out in front of one of them. A battered stone-and-ironwork fence hypothetically keeps the college kids at bay, and though I’d challenged the fence’s authority before with easy success, that night I was not there to visit with the dead.

Jamie’s nighttime poetry workshop was held on the second floor of the building across the street.

I’d gotten the world’s most pitiful phone call from him earlier that afternoon. His car was in the shop; he promised to buy me a drink and the burger of my choice if I’d pick him up and give him a ride to the Pickle Barrel. An acquaintance of ours was having a birthday party there, and the thing about Pickle Barrel birthday parties is that everybody stops by. Being on a first-name basis with the birthday person is not so much required; and, in fact, it might come as a genuine surprise.

Around here, a party’s a party—and I’d had my fill of coffee for the week. A night’s worth of alcohol would break up the monotony.

Jamie was late, as usual.

I leaned against the stairwell wall and tapped the back of my head against the plaster. I could hear him arguing with another student, and I could imagine him waving his hands and tossing his head—wielding his expansive mane as a weapon to invade the personal bubble of his opponent. Jamie’s not a huge guy, but he’s in excellent shape; and the way he throws himself around with all that manic, mobile black hair, people tend not to notice that he’s only five foot ten. He takes up a lot of psychic space.

I thought about leaving him and letting him hoof it. The party wasn’t but a mile or two away as the crow flies, and if he was feeling argumentative, I wasn’t sure I wanted his company. He’s usually fine so long as he knows you don’t plan to sleep with him, but when he’s on his high horse he can be more trouble than he’s worth. I was still weighing the pros and cons of going ahead alone when he burst from the workshop room in full princess mode.

“Eden, darling. Take me away from these philistines. ” He tossed his satchel across his back and flashed one last ferocious glance at the stragglers still within the classroom. Then he squeezed my forearm and nearly dragged me down the stairs to escape.

“Philistines? Is that the new word of the week?”

“It is now. ”