Pooka in My Pantry Page 4

  Standing on the street picking at invisible lint on my boob did not portray the dignified confidence I was hoping for. If he was inside, he’d probably already seen me. Just do it. Get it over with. Keep quiet unless you have something intelligent to say. And make him grovel, while you’re at it. And for the love of God, if the words “feminine itching” or “I like pie” come out of your mouth, we’re getting a lobotomy.

  I stuck my chin out, straightened my pink fedora, and did my best to saunter through the door.

  It’s tough to look casual when the door is strung with loud, jangling sleigh bells. As twitchy as I was, it’s a wonder I didn’t ricochet through the plate-glass window.

  I didn’t see him. The inside of the store was filled with people in line and waiting for their orders. I wasn’t sure what the protocol was—whether I should go looking for him or get my coffee first. I stepped to the end of the line and hoped I’d spot him from there. I didn’t much like the idea of walking through to the back room, hoping he was there. At least I should be allowed a cappuccino for the awkward search.

  I craned my neck around while I waited, trying to be as smooth as possible. It was not in my best interest to look too eager. He’d stood me up once. He could easily do it again, especially since he’d been in such a hurry to get off the phone last night before explaining anything. Let him find me if he’s so sorry.

  The line didn’t move much before Riley was at my side, spinning me to face him.

  “You came,” he said. His smoky-gray eyes reflected his easy smile, and his voice was soft, as if amazed I’d shown up.

  I wanted to throw my arms around him in relief. I wanted so much to kiss him and assure him that whatever had happened, I didn’t care. I wanted to punch him in the arm and tell him how miserable I’d been over the last six weeks.

  I did none of those things, of course.

  My voice was cool, if a little froggy from nerves. “I’m here every morning. The next-closest place to get coffee is two blocks out of my way.”

  His hands on my arms seared through the fabric of my sweater. He nodded and released one hand, using the other to nudge me toward the back room. “Come sit down. Five minutes, that’s all I’m asking. Your coffee’s waiting for you.”

  I followed. He didn’t give me much choice, really. He still had a grip on one of my arms, and I was seriously ready for some caffeine.

  The rear of the shop was barely occupied. Most of the traffic was getting its caffeine fix to go before making its way to offices and cubicles in the vicinity. A few industrious types sat alone with laptops open and headphones blaring. A large man at one table stared at us when we came through the arch, but Riley steered me to a corner table away from everyone else. Two paper cups sat steaming in invitation. Points to the man for thinking ahead, at least.

  I blew through the little hole in the top of my cup, knowing it was a futile gesture I made every morning. It did nothing to cool the coffee off, but I felt better about burning my mouth if I’d at least gone through the motions. I braved my way through the inevitable first burn, then sighed in satisfaction. Riley had my order right, down to the double-shot of Irish cream syrup I sometimes ordered on my rougher days. Double points.

  A little more relaxed, I noticed Riley was still standing. He frowned. The large man I’d noticed when we walked in stood next to him.

  A spectacular, face-stretching grin twisted the man’s face, as if I were a movie star he’d waited his whole life to meet. He stuck out his hand to shake. I glanced at Riley for help, but he looked queasy, like he’d swallowed a live goldfish. The big smile bothered me. It was far too friendly for the circumstances, and it didn’t go anywhere near his eyes. I stood and extended a reluctant hand.

  “Zoey Donovan,” he said. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you.” His palm was greasy with sweat and pumped up and down with enough enthusiasm for both of us. “Riley’s told us so much about you.”

  I gave him the most polite smile I could muster and tried to pull my hand away. His grip was too tight to break free. “Thank you, I guess?” I didn’t know what else to say.

  He continued to shake my hand as if he were an insurance salesman desperate to make a sale. “Art. Art Ferguson.” He leaned in close to my face and his smile disappeared. His breath was sour, like he’d eaten nothing but feta cheese and yak yogurt. “And you, my dear, are not supposed to be alive.”

  Chapter Three

  When someone informs you that you aren’t supposed to be alive, it can be a little disconcerting. When it’s someone you met less than five minutes before, and his breath is slapping you in the face like a dead fish and robbing you of the right to breathe, it’s worse.

  Honestly, I knew he was right. I’d dodged death twice and done it by underhanded means. Death’s representative isn’t supposed to help.

  I slipped my hand from Art’s sweaty grasp and looked at Riley for help. All color had dissipated from his face, and his eyes were wide. I didn’t think I’d get any assistance from his corner, but he pulled it together and swooped in to intercede.

  “Art,” he said, taking the guy by the shoulder. “Could you give me a few minutes here?” He gave the big man no choice in the matter and guided him to another table a short distance away.

  “Five minutes,” Art said. “You can have five minutes with her. But then I really must insist—”

  Riley cut him off and shoved him into a booth. “Ten minutes. Come on. Loosen up, for once.”

  When he returned, he took my hand and urged me to my chair—far more gentle than he had been with Art. I was still feeling off-kilter. Between Riley and Art, my insecurities crackled like a Halloween bonfire.

  He sat across from me and took a deep breath, as if gearing up for a long speech.

  “I am so sorry,” he said.

  I didn’t answer. My fingers curled around my paper cup. Looking him square in the eye might be my undoing. I focused on his collar, where his hair curled over the edge. He needed a haircut.

  “I couldn’t call you,” he said. His words were slow and careful, as if he’d practiced them. After another breath, he gave up on his plan and the words tumbled over each other in a rush of desperation. “It happened so fast. I swear, I didn’t have any warning. They just showed up and put me in a car. Come on, Zoey, please, at least look at me.”

  I pried my attention from his shirt and looked him in the eye. “Were you hurt?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Did they tie you up so you couldn’t make phone calls?”

  “It wasn’t like that. But my phone did get left behind. I couldn’t call. I really wanted to.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Lebanon.”

  I narrowed my eyes and leaned forward. This was the first he’d mentioned leaving the country. “Why the hell were you in Lebanon?”

  “Kansas. Lebanon, Kansas. It’s the geographical center of the contiguous U.S.”

  Riley was not normally prone to spouting random pieces of trivia, so this was an odd thing to tell me. “Of course.” I didn’t know what else to say. “So, who, exactly, kidnapped you and forced you into farm life in the exact middle of America?”

  He relaxed a little. “The Board of Hidden Affairs. They took me in for questioning, then kept me for six weeks of retraining.” He reached forward and peeled one of my hands from its death grip on my cup. “Art’s kind of my boss. He’s here for a period of observation.”

  This was a bit much to process, and the way his fingers were stroking mine made it hard to concentrate.

  “I’m sorry, Riley,” I said. “This is all because of me.” I wanted to cry. I’d been so angry. Worried, yes, but mostly I was hurt and pissed off. They’d come to get him because he’d broken rules to save me.

  He squeezed my hand. “No. It’s because of me. I’m the one
who went against protocol. And I’m fine. Really. It’s fine.”

  I was utterly miserable. It took everything I had not to let tears spill over on my flushed, embarrassed cheeks. “Are you sure you’re all right?” I scanned him for injuries, bruises, brandings, whip marks—there was no telling what a bunch of reapers might do to each other. “Retraining? What did you have to do there? God, Riley, I feel awful that I got you into trouble.”

  “Seriously, I’m fine. I was mostly stuck in a classroom.” He glanced at Art and leaned forward to speak in a lowered voice. “I’d do it again in a second.”

  Art was up in a flash and hustled over to our table. “Enough. You’ve had your time alone, I think.” He gave Riley a disapproving look, then pulled up a chair to join us. “Let’s talk about you now, my dear.”

  He whipped out a pocket-sized spiral notepad and a ballpoint pen. His thumb clicked the end, paused, then clicked it again several more times. He licked the tip and set it poised above the paper. “Date of birth?”

  “Excuse me?” It felt like he was from the IRS and I was getting a surprise audit.

  His face became stern. “Date of birth, please.”

  Riley interceded. “Why the hell would you need that? You’re here to observe me, not my personal life.”

  Art sighed in a melodramatic way and placed his pad and pen on the table. “The Board is not interested in you, Riley. They learned all they could while you were at the head office. Miss Donovan is their priority now. In conjunction with your probation, I am to observe her and your interactions with her, then determine whether balance needs to be restored.”

  Riley’s palm slapped down on the table, causing a minor seismic event. “That is not what I was told.”

  “You were told what you needed to know at the time. Miss Donovan’s status is in question. Either she is in breach of regulation 1117J, or she is an Aegis and under the jurisdiction of the Board of Hidden Affairs. In either case, action must be taken. I’m here to establish under which category she falls and take the appropriate measures.”

  Riley stood, fuming. “This is not happening,” he said through gritted teeth. “Take me back for more training. Give me a new assignment—whatever you need to do. But leave her out of this.”

  “Sit down, reaper. This is above your pay grade. Either she’s outside the law or subject to it. I will do my job, and you will do yours. Remember, you’re still on probation.”

  Riley sputtered, searching for words through his obvious rage.

  “Sit down, Riley,” I said. I tried to be gentle about how I said it. I could see they’d pulled a fast one on him to get to me, and he was heroically angry on my behalf. But it wasn’t getting us anywhere. He dropped into his chair, and I turned my attention to Art.

  “Explain, please. You’re spouting jargon at me with no definitions. From what I can see, you have no authority over me, so you’ll have to do this my way if you want any sort of cooperation. Start with this Board everybody’s so in awe of.”

  Art nodded and picked up his pen. Click click. Click click. The habit seemed to soothe him. “The Board of Hidden Affairs oversees the well-being of the Hidden—urban legends, supernatural beings, and mythical creatures. The Human/Hidden Relations Division deals with such beings as reapers and soul catchers.” He flicked his hand at Riley. “That’s who we work for. The Hidden Services Division deals with the occasional Aegis who turns up.” He cocked his head to the side, looked me over in a dismissive fashion, then jotted down a quick note. “They believe that’s what you are.” Click click, click click.

  “Uh huh. So what’s an Aegis?”

  “A human guardian of the Hidden. An Aegis always has some sort of ability peculiar to normal humans, such as pyrokinesis or telepathy, and the Hidden generally gravitate to them for healing, sanctuary or enlightenment. They’re quite rare. But human guardians are very important to the Hidden, so in the case that you are an Aegis, reaper intervention will be overlooked.”

  I had to admit, that did sound like what was happening at my house. Still, Art didn’t look convinced. “You don’t believe I am one of these things, do you?”

  Click click. “I do not. In my opinion, you are merely a kindhearted woman with a small emotion-talent.”

  “I see. So where does that put me?”

  “Dead. Or it should. Time will tell. After a series of tests and observations, a verdict will be reached, and you’ll either pay your outstanding debt or be sent for training, relocation and assignment.”

  I blinked my eyes in disbelief. “I’ll either be put to death or have my life taken away? What sort of choice is that?”

  “I’m afraid it’s not a choice at all, Miss Donovan. In fact, your cooperation is hardly necessary.” Art looked at his watch and rose, knocking his chair a few feet behind him. He placed a sweaty paw on the back of my hand and held it there for an uncomfortable minute before he let go. “Testing begins now. Should you survive the next thirteen days, your debt will be nullified by an Aegis waiver. It was a pleasure meeting you. Come with me, Riley.” He vanished through the archway without looking back.

  Riley leaned toward me. “I never would have asked you to meet me if I’d known.”

  “I guess I didn’t get you in nearly as much trouble as I got myself into.”

  “I’m so sorry, Zoey.”

  A deep exhaustion settled over me. “No more apologizing. Shit happened. We’ll deal with it. You’d better follow him before he comes back for you. If you discover what these tests are going to be, let me know.”

  He stroked my cheek with a feathery touch that made my insides tremble. “If you’re not too mad at me, I still owe you a second first date.”

  I offered him a weak smile. “Yes, you do. Call me and we’ll make a plan. For now, I think I need some time to process all of this.”

  He slid from his chair and gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek—the most I’d had from him so far. The way my stomach flipped and my face burned, if we ever had a real first kiss, I’d probably need CPR. Good thing he was also a paramedic.

  “I’ll call you soon, Zoey. Don’t worry. I’ll figure out what’s going on.”

  I didn’t move until he was gone. My coffee had cooled enough to drink, and I gulped it without shame. With half the cup drained, my nerves steadied. I was also stalling. I didn’t want to run into Riley and Art on my way to the door. They needed to be long gone before I made my exit.

  After a few minutes, I figured I’d waited enough, grabbed my purse and half-empty coffee, and stood to go. Two steps. That’s as far as I got before I slipped in a puddle of mystery liquid and fell flat on my ass. I wasn’t hurt. There was padding enough to cushion my fall. Only two people sat in the small area, and they barely registered my gymnastics, so my pride was left mostly unbruised, too. No. The big injury was the loss of my coffee. My cup went flying and exploded against the wall in a large-scale Rorschach test.

  Somehow, I’d managed to keep from spilling a single drop on myself. At least I had that minor victory to my credit. I hiked myself off the floor, avoiding eye contact with the laptop guy plugged in to his earbuds, and flagged down an employee. He was horrified that I’d slipped and was more concerned with getting me a replacement cup than he was with my apologies and offer to clean up the mess. I suppose he was worried about a lawsuit. By the time I had a fresh coffee in my hand—no standing in line for the clumsy girl—he had a cone up on the floor to keep anyone else from slipping and was cleaning up the wall.

  I slunk out before he could get his manager to bring me a waiver to sign.

  On the way to work, I nearly got clipped by a blue sedan that turned the corner as I crossed the street. A guy leaving a used bookstore came short of whacking me with the door. By the time I got to the office, I was ready to barricade myself inside and never emerge.

  Sara sat at her desk, looki
ng collected and tidy, reading the morning paper. I blew in like a tornado and dumped my purse on my desk, batting a stray curl away from my face.

  “Rough morning?” she said.

  “The worst.” The door hadn’t shut behind me, so I turned and closed it firmly. “But I’m here. Everything will be fine if I can have five minutes of calm.”

  She coughed into her fist. “Sorry. I hate to be the bearer of further bad news, but you might want to check the back of your skirt.”

  I twisted around in both directions, but viewing my own ass without a mirror requires more flexibility than I possess. I stepped into the back room where we kept craft supplies and a work table for emergency wedding favors and decorations. With the skirt unzipped, I slid it around front to have a look.

  “Son of a bitch.” Whatever I’d slipped on in the coffee shop was now on the seat of my skirt in a brown, sludgy wet spot.

  Clearly, my day was not going to get any better.

  Most days, my skirts were bright, obnoxious print patterns. On this wondrous day of clumsiness, I’d opted for a light solid. My skirt looked like I’d either had a dreadful accident brought on by bad Mexican food, or I’d started my period without knowing it. Flashbacks to the humiliation of junior high, when my female business was an embarrassing secret tended to in privacy and stealth, made my cheeks burn. What was I supposed to do, tie my sweater around my waist? Nothing said “Hey, look at the girl who bled on herself!” like a cardigan flapping over my ass. I hated junior high school.

  I had a consultation appointment in less than an hour. There was no going home to change. My best strategy would be to stay seated at my desk until it was over. Not the proper office etiquette, but a big stain like that on my clothes would not instill confidence in a woman wanting to hand over the control of her wedding day.

  I had to get my head together. Art and Riley had thrown a lot at me in the coffee shop, and the distraction would get me killed if I didn’t let it go and focus.

  I flipped the ruined skirt around and returned to my desk. Sara watched with a shrewd eye. I plopped into my chair, grateful for a place to remain safely immobile. My elbow caught the pen holder and knocked it to the floor, scattering a few dozen multicolored pens, pencils and erasers.