I took a breath, because it was for the best. “So you see auras, do you?”
She nodded. “I can also see if shadows or entities are following a person around.” She was quiet a moment and then added, “so you know, you don’t have any of those, Mr. James. I don’t see anything scary in your present vicinity.”
Well thank goodness for that.
“Hello!”
Turning to my left, I saw an older man walking toward me from the direction of the alley, wiping his hands on a towel that was stained with what looked like oil. Behind him was another man, younger, taller, just as muscular but with wider shoulders and without the barrel chest. They were clearly father and son.
“May I help you?”
“I’ve got this, Dad, it’s fine,” Delly assured him, waving her hand at the two men.
“Is this another one of your friends or––”
“No,” Delly gasped, flushing beet red in seconds, glancing at me and then back to her father. “He’s here to help Benji.”
Her father’s scowl was instantaneous. “Help that nut with what?”
I couldn’t stand there and wait for my presence to be explained. It was too tedious. Extending my hand, I greeted the girl’s father. “I’m Shaw James, sir. I’m from Torus Intercession, and I’m here at the request of Sian Coburn, and your daughter,” I threw in, “to assess the threat on Mr. Grace’s life.”
His answering grunt told me everything I needed to know about his thoughts on the subject of Benji Grace.
“Dad!” Delly was obviously mortified.
He rolled his eyes. “I’m Emmet Lawson, this is my son Paul, and I suspect you’ve wasted your time coming out here, Mr. James,” he said kindly as he squeezed my hand tight.
“Is that right?” I asked, releasing his hand to take Paul’s. “You don’t think Mr. Grace is in any kind of danger?”
“He might get crushed under an avalanche of soy wax and sculpting clay at Sian’s shop, or die from breathing in all the sage and whatever the hell else that is they spread around,” Paul disclosed, looking as though it was painful for him to explain. “But other than that, I don’t think you hafta worry.”
Interesting.
“The only people who want to hurt Benji Grace,” Mr. Lawson added, “are the churchgoing crowd who think he’s the devil for being gay and talkin’ to spirits, and the folks who’ve paid him for his nonsense since he hit town a year ago. That man is the worst kind of charlatan, conjuring ghosts and goblins out of faulty wiring, drafty houses, and sleep paralysis. I have a theory that because he was a psychologist––”
“He was a psychiatrist, Dad,” Delly corrected him irritably.
“Because he was a shrink,” Mr. Lawson amended, not missing a beat, “he knows how to hypnotize people into seein’ and hearin’ things.”
“Ohmygod, Dad, he does not!” Delly yelled at her father.
And while that last part was a bit farfetched, the power of suggestion was not to be brushed aside as a cause for frustration and, eventually, open hostility. People didn’t like to be lied to and could get more than a bit upset if they found out they’d been led astray.
“You’re so wrong about him,” Delly continued to rail at her father. “Benji is one of the best people I know, and he’s saving us all from horrors you can’t even imagine.”
“Oh, I can imagine,” he assured her, shaking his head. “But look here, I don’t wanna fight, but you can’t be driving alone. You only have your permit, and besides, that van of Sian’s is a death trap.”
“Yeah, but––”
“I offered to drive,” I informed Mr. Lawson.
He nodded quickly. “Yes, that’s good. You have Mr. James drive you to wherever it is you all are having your séance and––”
“We’re not having a––”
“Just go with Mr. James,” Paul chimed in, almost pleading. “Give me the keys so I can put in some new brakes and make a few other minor alterations to Sian’s van, and you can bring her back here with you later so she can pick it up.”
“What if Mr. James is a serial killer? Did that cross your mind at all?” she questioned her father, all the while shooting death glares at her brother. “You’re trying to pawn me off on him, and what if he murders me and leaves me in a ditch?” she ended with a yell.
Both men turned their heads at the same time to look at me.
“I thought I had a good aura,” I reminded her.
Arms crossed, glaring daggers at me, I was guessing it was not the time to bring that up.
“Aren’t I shadow-free as well?”
“It’s not a hundred percent accurate,” she snapped.
Which, I was certain, was the entire problem with everything supernatural.
“Are you a serial killer, Mr. James?” her father prodded me.
“No, sir,” I replied flatly. “I have ID you can look at, a conceal-and-carry permit you can peruse as well, and also, if you so desire, you can call my mother.”