The rest of the day felt interminable and too short at the same time. Chaz and Arnold left me to my own devices for a while as Arnold worked out protection spells to keep the focus from dragging Chaz under its influence immediately. Frankly, I was surprised Chaz agreed, considering what Arnold told the cat he wanted to do with the focus if he got his hands on it. Since what they were doing required concentration and zero distractions, I wasn’t allowed in the room during their little experiment.
Actually, I’m pretty sure the reason they kicked me out was to put their heads together and figure out a way to keep me from handing myself over to the bad guys later.
As for me, I pulled the rolling chair by the computers over to the living room window and sat staring at the park down the street. Maybe I should have been planning or using those computers to try to hack into the floor plans for La Petite Boisson or something, but I felt completely empty of thoughts and emotions, blank as I watched the treetops outside swaying in a breeze I couldn’t feel.
No, that’s not quite right. Not entirely empty. I felt a distant ache, a touch of loss and fear for Sara.
She’d defended me, supported me, gone along with my crazy ideas even when she knew they were nuts or wouldn’t work. She’d been there for some of the best and worst times of my life, helped keep H&W from going under even when we both knew the whole thing was just a crazy dream we clung to, to prove to ourselves and our families that it could be done. She was one of the smartest, bravest, and most supportive people I’d ever known.
And it was all my fault that she’d been taken.
“You’re crying,” I heard quietly from behind me. Without thinking, I reached up and touched wetness on my cheeks as I turned to see Chaz standing in the doorway.
I tried putting on a brave face, though I was pretty sure it failed. Smiling weakly around the tears, I turned my unfocused gaze out the window again. “I was thinking about Sara.”
He moved close to me, placing a hand on my shoulder as he looked outside, too. It was too beautiful a day, with a few cotton-ball clouds scattered across the pale blue spring sky, the sun now hanging low but still shining down on the children playing in the street.
“If you sit here and dwell on it, all you’ll do is upset yourself. We’ll make it through tonight, don’t worry. We’ll save her.”
“I know,” I said, absently rubbing my fingertips under my eyes to wipe the tears away. “I just can’t help but feel it’s all my fault.”
He took hold of the arms of the chair, twisting it around to make me face him as he knelt in front of me, taking my hands up in his own. “Don’t torture yourself, Shia. It’s not your fault Sara’s gone. We’ll get her back.”
He looked so earnest and concerned, I nearly burst right back into tears. Never had I felt like a more horrible, wretched person than right at that second. His words were soothing and may have been true, but a part of me couldn’t let go of the fact that I’d dragged Sara along for the ride, and that I’d been terribly, horribly wrong about Chaz all this time. He was patient, caring, and understanding, all the things I wasn’t. I’d been a fool.
“Thank you,” I whispered, knowing it wasn’t enough, knowing it would have to be, even as I pulled my hands out of his and wrapped my arms around the back of his neck, leaning in to rest my forehead in his hair. He smelled like shampoo, sweat, and musk—male and alive. The musk scent was strong, and I knew it would only get stronger yet as the day waned and the sun finally set. His arms slid around my waist, just holding me, and I was grateful for his silence.
We stayed that way for a long time, though it must have been uncomfortable for him to remain in that kneeling position. Eventually he shifted under my arms and pulled away. He lifted a hand to sweep the curls back from my face and delicately run a thumb under one eye to brush away any remaining hint of my crying.
“I’ve got to call the pack to tell them what’s going on. Are you going to be okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, a tremulous smile curving my lips as I carefully brushed my own fingers through his hair to fix it back into spikes after my cheek had flattened it against his head. Funny, I think I actually meant it. I really would be okay, I just needed someone to hold my hand through the grief to the point where I could actually think straight again.
He stared up at me for a few more moments, concern bringing a few lines to light around his eyes. Then he nodded and rose, reaching into a pocket of his jeans and pulling out a cell phone. He wandered to a sofa and sat down. I twisted around in the chair so I could watch him, curious.
Most of the calls he made were about the same, mostly, “Meet at La Petite Boisson tonight. Yes, I know what tonight is. No, I’m not joking. Be ready for a fight. Tell so-and-so, too.”
I got bored with listening after a while. Instead, I ran my fingertips over the handle of one of the stakes and pulled it out of its holder. Regarding the silver gleaming in the fading sunlight, I asked myself if I would really, truly be able to drive this piece of metal into another living (or perhaps unliving?) being.
My thoughts skittered back to Veronica’s murder, the flat, bored tone of the cat speaking of her being ripped apart while still alive. To Royce asking me to save him, even as he visibly fought the control of the focus so he wouldn’t kill me. Allison’s picture in the paper this morning. To the sounds of muffled screams when Sara’s kidnapper called me.
Yes, I decided. I would.
Eventually, Chaz made his last call. “It’s done. They’ll meet us there tonight. Though we’ll have to figure out a way to get in without being seen.”
“Either the service entrance in the back, or through the sewer or ventilation systems underground,” I said, flicking a nail against the silver to make it thrum out a soft chime. “It’s Royce’s building, which means he’s probably made about a million secret passageways to get out if something goes wrong.” Even as I wondered how I could know such a thing, I knew without a doubt it was true. Royce was old, very old. One didn’t survive as long as he had without having backup plans, contingencies, and more than one way out if things got too hairy.
Arnold came in cleaning some blue-gray dust or ash off his hands onto a rag as he peered at us. “You guys about ready to go? It’s getting late.” His gaze flicked over to Chaz, and I knew what he was thinking. He was worried he’d turn furry either here or in his car on the way to the restaurant.
I put the stake away and rose to stretch, pulling my hair back into a ponytail and picking up my duffel and duster. Time to face the music.
“Let’s go.”