I JERK upright at Tracy’s sudden intrusion, wincing when my movement yanks the IV tube in my hand. Genesis pushes me back down. “Stay,” she says.
“Woof,” I respond. But I obey her. Mostly because sitting up makes me nauseated and hurts like hell. I wonder how much longer I’m going to be laid up.
“Somebody’s been eavesdropping again,” Cassie says, coming into the room a few steps behind her daughter. She gives the pair of us lying in her daughter’s bed a quick raised eyebrow, gathers Tracy into her arms, and turns toward the door. “You’re up way past your bedtime.”
“Cassie, wait,” I call, wheels turning in my head, slogging through whatever drugs she’s got me on. “What did she say?”
“You should erase her,” Tracy pipes up, squirming around to face me. “Like she tried to erase me. But you stopped her. And you,” she says, pointing a finger at Genesis, “made it so she can’t hurt me again.”
Genesis climbs out of bed, crosses to them, and gives Tracy a kiss on the cheek. “That’s right. I warded you when you were a baby. Tempest Granfeld won’t bother you anymore.”
“She wouldn’t bother anybody if you’d erase her,” Tracy says.
“Gen….” I exchange thoughtful looks with Genesis, then Cassie, who’s finally figuring out exactly what her daughter’s been saying.
“Do you think—?” Gen asks.
“We’ve been going at this all wrong.” I glance at the tube running from my hand. “Stop me if this is crazy talk. I know I’m higher than airplanes. But… we keep trying to second-guess where Granfeld will strike, or we wait for her to take someone and try to backtrack from there, except everyone starts forgetting the missing person, and it’s almost impossible to get enough details in time to trace her.” My excitement has my heart and thoughts racing. With a groan, I push up onto my elbows. Genesis hurries to tuck another pillow, this one neon pink and heart-shaped, behind my back.
Who knew there were so many different shades of pink in the world? And that Tracy’s room would contain every single one of them?
Crap, where was I? I scrub my hands over my face, searching for my derailed train of thought.
“We don’t have a lot of info on Granfeld in the archives,” Gen prompts, earning a grateful smile from me. “Nathaniel gave me everything available. All we know is her birth year of 1879, what some of her abilities were, and that she was punished with permanent madness.”
Yeah, that makes tons of sense. Take one of the most powerful psychics on the planet and turn her insane, permanently and on purpose. Sometimes the Psychic Registry’s system of rewards and punishments boggles my brain.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about that,” Cassie chimes in. “They must have botched it somehow. Psychics punished with madness can’t usually use their abilities. It’s part of what makes it an effective deterrent. But we didn’t know nearly as much in the late 1800s as we do now.”
“All of that aside, we can’t do anything without more information. I need a place to go to, not just a year. It’s a big world. And I’ll have to extrapolate forward from 1879 to find her after she’s begun doing some bad things. No way I’m harming a kid, even if that kid is going to grow up to be a dark-magic-using psychic succubus.”
Genesis paces back and forth across the carpet covered in rainbow ABCs and 123s. “Then we’re really no better off than before.”
A slow smile creeps across my face. “Sure we are. Because I think I know who has that missing information.” They all turn to stare at me. “And I’m suddenly in the mood for a coffee.”
IT’S ANOTHER full day before I can get out of bed, walk around a bit, and eat solid food. I move like a ninety-year-old, hunched over and shuffling my steps, but it beats not moving at all.
When I voice the request to go to Starbucks to hunt for my dad, both Gen and Cassie jump all over me, chastising my recklessness and lack of concern for my own health. So it’s yet another day before they’ll even consider it.
It seems like they’re gonna refuse me again, so I put my foot down—gently, because anything else would hurt like a sonofabitch—and they relent, so long as they get to come along. Funny how two people who dislike each other so much can work together in teaming up against me. Then again, they’re talking more, joking about my stubbornness and sharing their frustrations in getting me to do what they want. I wish I weren’t the focus of their bonding, but I’m glad they’re doing it and Gen is letting the past go at last.
“I still can’t believe we didn’t think of this sooner,” Gen turns around and comments as we ride down to Festivity from Winter Park. Traffic sucks, but that’s no surprise on I-4.
“Why should we have? Until Dad got back in touch, we wouldn’t have had an information source to go to,” I say, trying to make everyone feel better, including myself. “In our subconscious minds, it would have been a dead end.”
We’re in Cassie’s “deep amethyst blue” Chrysler Sebring convertible with a black top. (I know the color’s name because I foolishly asked and got a detailed description of how she’d searched the entire state to find this body/top color combination so she could get the off-the-lot discounted price.) I don’t mention that she likely spent the difference in gas, tolls, and other travel costs.
Nice car, roomy back seat I’m taking advantage of by lying sideways across it. Gen’s up front with her, and my luggage from Atlantic City is in the trunk. After we stop at the coffee shop, I’m finally going home. Chris dropped Genesis off at Cassie’s this morning on his way to meet with a craft beer distributor just north of Orlando. I would have preferred Gen to have spent the night with me, but Tracy’s bed is tiny, and Cassie’s guest room had been converted to an office long ago. So the three of us are all in one vehicle. Tracy’s at day care.
It’s Monday. I’m guessing, and hoping, that’s one of Dad’s madness days. He showed up coherent at the wedding on a Thursday, so it’s a good bet. Three days out of it, four days sane. God, what a way to live for a year. For his sake, I’m glad it’s November and he’ll be whole soon, but for now, he’s probably more likely to give me the information I’m after if he’s not fully aware that I’m after it. That is, if I can make him understand me at all. I didn’t have much success last time I tried.
Cassie parallel parks us right in front of the Starbucks courtyard seating area, and I’m in luck because Dad’s homeless man persona, Ferguson, sits at the very first metal table, crumpled newspapers spread out before him and a coffee cup off to the side. I always feel sorry for the homeless, having come so close to it myself at one time, but this hurts even more, knowing it’s my own father.
“Better let me fly solo on this one,” I tell Cassie and Gen. “All three of us go at once and we’re gonna spook him.”
“More likely he’d make a pass at one of us,” Genesis mutters, but she doesn’t argue.
As Ferguson, he’s not always as polite as when he’s sane. I ran across him several times before figuring out our connection, and he’s not terrible or anything, but he does appreciate attractive women, regardless of his mental state. He’s got a wide moat of empty seats around him now, the wealthy residents of Festivity keeping their distance from the “undesirable.”
I get out of the car, pausing to lean on it for a moment and catch my breath before straightening and heading for him. Even though it hurts, I set a brisk pace. Don’t want Cassie claiming I’m not recovered enough and wrangling me back in the car… which she could probably do successfully, considering how weak I am.
I drag over a second chair and sit opposite him, resting my elbows on the table and waiting for him to look up from the news. He does, blinking, as if he can’t quite place my face.
Insane, I remind myself, trying not to be hurt. He’ll know me in a few days.
“Look like shit,” he mutters.
I’m not sure if he’s referring to me or himself, so I don’t respond.
“They’re pressing, pressing close, pressing matters. You here to press my buttons too?”
No clue what he’s going on about. “Who’s pressing you?” I try.
“Button pushers, lackeys lacking, no consideration for an old man.”
Lackeys, huh? I wonder if Nate’s been in touch with him. Wouldn’t surprise me. I can’t be the only one who can add two and two. I just hope he’s still working on my side.
I cut to the chase. “I need to know about Tempest Granfeld. I know you erased most of her info from the archives, and I need her place of birth.” And anything else he’s willing to give me, but I figure I’ll start slow.
“Tempest, temper, temperamental, temporal. Aptly named, that one,” he mutters. “Forgot, forgot to go back and finish, never finished the job, interruptions.”
Okay, I follow that. Only some of Tempest Granfeld’s information was erased. The partial archive entry is what led President Argyle to suspect the tampering in the first place. We have no idea how many others he removed from the records.
“Just give me a place to start. I need to find her,” I say.
He shakes his head, shaggy hair flying from side to side. I wonder at that. How could he get so bedraggled in a few days? Must be part of the curse. He goes back to reading, or at least looking at, the newspaper, mumbling over whatever’s caught his interest.
Sudden inspiration hits me. “I’ll buy you a coffee.”
His head snaps up, a beaming smile spreading across his face and revealing yellowed, uneven teeth. “Venti?”
I return the smile. “Whatever you want.”
Dad wriggles in his seat like an excited four-year-old. “Helluva town,” he says. “Get to the core of the matter. Never sleep.”
Good thing I’m great at riddles.
Nodding, I get his drink order—given succinctly and coherently, go figure—and fetch his coffee, the venti iced upside-down caramel macchiato with extra whip worth every cent. Because now I know exactly where to start looking for Tempest Granfeld.