The Sign of Seven Trilogy (41 page)

"WE WERE ON OUR WAY OUT THE DOOR WHEN you called,” Quinn told her. “You didn't answer the phone, your cell or the office number.”

“It rang.” Layla sat on the sofa in reception. She'd gotten her breath back, and had nearly stopped shaking. “It rang, but when I picked it up . . .” She took the bottle of water Cybil brought her from the kitchen. “I threw it over there.”

When she gestured, Cybil walked over to the desk. “It's still here.” She lifted the phone off its charger.

“Because I never picked it up,” Layla said slowly. “I never picked anything up. It just made me think I did.”

“But you felt it.”

“I don't know. I heard it. I saw it. I thought I felt it.” She looked down at her hand, and couldn't quite suppress a shudder.

“Cal's here,” Cybil said with a glance out the window.

“We called him.” Quinn rubbed Layla's arm. “We figured we might as well bring in the whole cavalry.”

“Fox is in court.”

“Okay.” Quinn rose from her crouch in front of Layla when Cal came in.

“Is everyone all right? Nobody's hurt?”

“Nobody's hurt.” With her eyes on Cal, Quinn laid a hand on Layla's shoulder. “Just freaked.”

“What happened?”

“We were just getting to that. Fox is in court.”

“I tried to reach him, got his voice mail. I didn't leave a message. I figured if he was out he didn't need to hear something was wrong when he'd be driving. Gage is on the way.” Cal walked over, running a hand down Quinn's arm before he sat down beside Layla.

“What happened here? What happened to you?”

“I had visitors from both teams.”

She told them about Ann Hawkins, pausing first when Quinn pulled out her recorder, then again when Gage came in.

“You said you heard her speak?” Cal asked.

“We had a conversation right here. Just me and a woman who's been dead for three hundred years.”

“But did she actually speak?”

“I just said . . . Oh. Oh. How stupid am I?” Layla set the water aside, pressed her fingers to her eyes. “I'm supposed to stay in the moment, pay attention to the now, and I didn't. I wasn't.”

“It was probably a fairly big surprise to turn around and see a dead woman standing at your desk,” Cybil pointed out.

“I was wishing I had something to do, something to keep me busy, and, well, be careful what you wish for. Let me think.” She closed her eyes now, tried to picture the episode. “In my head,” she murmured. “I heard her in my head, I'm almost sure. So I had, what, a telepathic conversation with a dead woman. It gets better and better.”

“Sounds more like a pep talk from her end,” Gage pointed out. “No real information, just get out there and give your all for the team.”

“Maybe it's what I needed to hear. Because I can tell you the pep talk might have turned the tide when the other visitor showed up. The phone rang. It was probably you,” she said to Quinn. “Then—”

She broke off when the door opened. Fox breezed in. “Somebody's having a party and didn't . . . Layla.” He rushed across the room so quickly Quinn had to jump back or be bowled over. “What happened?” He gripped both her hands. “Snake? For fuck's sake. You're not hurt.” He yanked up her trouser leg before she could answer.

“Stop. Don't do that. I'm not hurt. Let me tell it. Don't read me that way.”

“Sorry, it didn't feel like the moment for protocol. You were alone. You could've—”

“Stop,” she commanded, and deliberately pulled her hands from his, just as she deliberately tried to block him out of her mind. “Stop. I can't trust you if you push into my head that way. I won't trust you.”

He drew back, on every level. “Fine. Fine. Let's hear it.” “Ann Hawkins came first,” Quinn began, “but we'll go back to that if it's okay with you. She's just run that one.”

“Then keep going.”

“The phone rang,” Layla said again, and told them.

“You hurt it,” Quinn said. “On your own, by yourself. This is good news. And I like the boots.”

“They've recently become my favorite footwear.”

"But you felt pain.” Cal gestured to her calf. “And that's not good.”

“It was only for a second, and I don't know—honestly don't—how much of it was panic or the expectation of pain. I was so scared, for obvious reasons, then add in the snake. I was hyperventilating, and couldn't stop at first. I'd have passed out, I think, if I hadn't been more afraid of having a snake slithering all over me while I was unconscious. I have a thing.”

Cybil cocked her head. “A snake thing? You have ophidiophobia? Snake phobia,” she explained when Layla simply looked blank.

“She knows all kinds of stuff like that,” Quinn said proudly.

“I don't know if it's an actual phobia. I just don't like— okay, I'm afraid of snakes. Things that slither.”

Cybil looked at Quinn. “The giant slug you and Layla saw in the hotel dining room the day she checked in.”

“Tapping in to her fears. Good one, Cyb.”

“It was spiders when the four of you were together at the Sweetheart dance.” Cybil cocked her eyebrow. “You've got a spider thing, Q.”

“Yeah, but it's an ick rather than an eek.”

“Which is why I didn't say you have arachnophobia.”

“That would be Fox,” Cal volunteered.

“No. I don't like spiders, but—”

“Who wouldn't go see
Arachnophobia
? The movie? Who screamed like a girl when a wolf spider crawled over his sleeping bag when we—”

“I was twelve, for Christ's sake.” With the appearance of a man stuck between embarrassment and impatience, Fox jammed his hands in his pockets. “I don't like spiders, which is different from being phobic. They have too many legs, as opposed to snakes, who don't have any, and which I find kind of cool. I'm only somewhat freaked by spiders that are bigger than my goddamn hand.”

“They were,” Layla agreed.

Fox blew out a breath. “Yeah, I guess they were.”

“She said, Ann said that it seeks out our weaknesses.”

“Spiders and snakes,” Cal offered.

“That ain't what it takes,” Gage finished and got a ghost of a smile from Cybil.

“What scares you?” she asked him.

“The IRS, and women who can rattle off words like
ophidiophobia
.”

“Everyone has fears, weak spots.” Wearily, Layla rubbed the back of her neck. “It'll use them against us.”

“We should take a break, get you home.” Fox studied Layla's face. “You've got a headache. I see it in your eyes,” he said stiffly when her back went rigid. “I'll close up for the day.”

“Good idea.” Quinn spoke up before Layla could object. “We'll go back to our place. Layla can take some aspirin, maybe a hot bath. Cyb'll cook.”

“Will she?” Cybil said dryly, then rolled her eyes as Quinn smiled. “All right, all right, I'll cook.”

When the women left, Fox stood in the center of the room, scanning it.

“Nothing here, son,” Gage pointed out.

“But there was. We all felt it.” Fox looked at Cal, got a nod.

“Yeah. But then none of us thought she imagined it.”

“She didn't imagine it,” Gage agreed, “and she handled it. There's not a weak spine among the three of them. That's an advantage.”

“She was alone.” Fox swung back. “She had to
handle
it alone.”

“There are six of us, Fox.” Cal's voice was calm, reasoned. “We can't be together or even buddied up twenty-four hours out of the day. We have to work, sleep, live, that's just the way it is. The way it's always been.”

“She knows the score.” Gage spread his hands. “Just like the rest of us.”

“It's not a fucking hockey game.”

“And she's not Carly.”

At Cal's statement, the room went silent.

“She's not Carly,” he repeated, quietly now. “What happened here today isn't your fault any more than what happened seven years ago was your fault. If you drag that around with you, you're not doing yourself, or Layla, any favors.”

“Neither of you ever lost anyone you loved in this,” Fox shot back. “So you don't know.”

“We were there,” Gage corrected. “So we damn well know. We know.” He slid up his sleeve and held out the wrist scored with a thin white scar. “Because we've always been there.”

Because it was pure truth, Fox let out a breath. And let go of the anger. “We need to come up with a system, a contact system. So if any of us are threatened while we're alone, all of us get the signal.

“We'll have to come up with something,” Fox added. “But right now I need to close up, and get out of this suit. Then I want a beer.”

BY THE TIME THEY ARRIVED AT THE RENTAL house, dinner preparations were already under way, with Quinn dragooned into serving as Cybil's line chef.

“What's cooking?” Cal leaned down, tipped Quinn's chin up, and kissed her mouth.

“All I know is I'm ordered to peel these carrots and potatoes.”

“It was your idea to have dinner for six,” Cybil reminded her, but smiled at Cal. “What's cooking is delicious. You'll like it. Now go away.”

“He can peel carrots,” Quinn objected.

“Fox can peel carrots,” Cal volunteered. “He can handle vegetables because that's about all they ate at his house.”

“Which is why you should practice,” Fox shot back. “I want to talk to Layla. Where is she?”

“Upstairs. She . . . hmm,” Quinn finished when Fox simply turned and walked out. “This ought to be interesting. Sorry I'm missing it.”

He headed straight up. Fox knew the layout of the second floor, as he'd been drafted into carting up bits and pieces of furniture when the women were settling in. He turned straight into her bedroom, through the open door, where she was wearing nothing but a bra and a pair of low-cut briefs.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Out. Get out. Jesus.” She grabbed a shirt from the bed, whipped it in front of her.

“It won't take that long.”

“I don't care how long it takes, I'm not dressed.”

“For Christ's sake, I've seen women in their underwear before.” But since she merely lifted her arm, pointed at the door, he compromised by turning around. “If you've got modesty issues, you should close your door.”

“This is a houseful of women, and I . . . never mind.”

He heard the rustling of clothes, slamming of drawers. “How's the headache?”

“It's fine—gone, I mean. I'm fine, so if that's all—”

“You might as well dismount.”

“Excuse me?”

“From your high horse. And you can toss out the idea of me apologizing for reading you before. You were pumping off fear, and it rammed right into me. What happened after was instinctive, and doesn't make me a psychic Peeping Tom.”

“You can curb your instincts, and do it all the time. You told me.”

“It's a little tougher when it's someone I care about in crisis. So deal. Meanwhile you might want to start thinking about another job.”

“You're
firing
me?”

He figured she'd had enough time to pull something on, so he turned around. He still had a crystal-clear picture of her wearing only bra and panties in his head, but had to admit she made an equally impressive picture wearing jeans, a sweater, and outrage.

“I'm suggesting you think about finding a job where you work around people, so you're not left alone. I'm in and out of the office, and once Mrs. H—”

“You're suggesting I need a babysitter?”

“No, and right now I'm saying you have a big overreact button, and your finger's stuck on it. I'm suggesting you shouldn't feel obligated to come back to the office, that if it makes you uneasy, I get it, and I'll make other arrangements.”

“I'm living and working in a town where a demon comes to play every seven years. I have a lot more to be uneasy about than doing your damn filing.”

“There are other jobs where you wouldn't be doing anyone's damn filing alone in an office on a regular basis. Alone in an office where you were singled out and attacked.”

“In an office where I fought back and did some damage.”

“I'm not discounting that, Layla.”

“Sounds like it to me.”

“I don't want to feel responsible for something happening to you. Don't say it.” He held up a hand. “My office, my schedule, my feelings.”

She angled her head, the gesture both acknowledgment and challenge. “Then you'll have to fire me or, to toss back your own advice, deal.”

“Then I will—deal. We're going to try to come up with some sort of alarm or signal that can reach everyone at the same time. No more phone trees.”

“What, like the Bat Signal?”

He had to smile. “That'd be cool. We'll talk about it.”

When they walked out together, he asked, “Are we smooth now?”

“Smooth enough.”

Despite Cybil's edict, the rest gathered in the kitchen. Whatever was on the menu already scented the air. Cal's dog, Lump, sprawled under the little cafe table, snoring.

“There's a perfectly good living room in the house,” Cybil pointed out. “Well-suited for men and dogs, considering its current decor.”

“Cyb still objects to the flea-market-special ambiance.” Quinn grinned and crunched into a stalk of celery. “Feeling better, Layla?”