The Fix Is In (Torus Intercession 4)

Her kid was going to be able to hear her voice for miles when she yelled for them to get their ass home. Holy crap, she was loud.

“I think so,” he confessed with a deep exhale.

“You think so?” Delly’s voice didn’t rattle the pictures on the walls like Sian’s did, far more shrieky.

“I think that’s what killed the original Ghost Box,” he explained to the two women. “At first I thought it jumped out of my hand from a psychic blast of energy, but after looking at it, I’m pretty sure it was hit with a bullet.” He turned to me then. “You see, that’s one of the issues with the paranormal. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what’s real and what can be scientifically explained. Like possession and mental illness. It’s hard to know what you’re facing.”

My gran, my father’s mother, had a healthy belief in ghosts and the fae, in angels and demons and everything in between. Since my own mother did not, I did not. I was firmly on the side of facts and documentation and things you could prove. “Sure,” I mumbled to be agreeable. “Can I see the box?”

“I’ll get it.” He unwrapped himself from the blankets he’d been nesting in and got up. Even this close to the fire, where I was quite comfortable, he’d looked like a burrito.

“He got jumped in the alley behind The Well too,” Sian told me, leaning sideways in her chair, checking to make sure Benji was out of earshot before turning to face me. “He tried to play it off, but his parka was sliced up, so I know if Javier hadn’t been on his way in to get a drink, Benji could have been hurt instead of just scared… or maybe even worse.”

I pulled out my phone and began a text to Owen. “Javier Vega, right? He owns a brewery. What’s it called?”

“Fehu.”

I glanced up. “After the rune?”

Sian smiled at me. “Yes. And I love that you know that.”

Grunting, I went back to typing as we all heard something hit the ground, and then Benji swearing in the other room.

“You all right?” Sian called out.

“Yes,” he groused in answer. “But we really need to—why are the Christmas decorations in here with our work stuff?”

“You have no room,” Delly yelled back.

“And the mayor’s son,” I said to Sian. “What’s his name again?”

“David Cotton,” she told me. “He’s very nice. He owns the dispensary.”

Lifting my eyes from my phone screen, I squinted at her. “The mayor’s son owns the marijuana dispensary?”

She nodded.

“And no one finds that odd?”

She shrugged. “It’s legal.”

“And what do you and Benji do at the dispensary?”

“Mostly name stuff,” she told me. “I love naming stuff. I always wanted the job of whoever gets to christen nail polish colors at OPI.”

“Okay,” I indulged her. “Not sure what OPI is, but I’ll confess to thinking that you and Benji were stoned and chasing ghosts.”

“Sure,” she said, like that was completely reasonable. “But I refuse to even be around anyone who smokes. Edibles or flour, that’s fine, but I’m not taking any chances with Filbert here, and––”

“Filbert? Like the nut?” Delly gasped. “That one shouldn’t even be in contention.”

“I have to try out all the names,” Sian said defensively as Benji came back into the room, crossed to the couch, passed me a small black box, and then swaddled himself back up in the blankets with a belligerent grunt, shivering.

“What’s wrong with you?”

He said something into the blankets in answer, but it was muffled.

“What?” I asked, examining the machine.

“I said I can feel the heat rolling off you,” he grumbled.

“Then sit closer,” I snapped.

He shifted over until he was leaning into my side, and Delly, who was shivering too, moved to the spot where Benji had been.

The hole in the machine—I had no idea what it was supposed to do—was impressive. The bullet had been big enough and powerful enough to drill clean through the middle. “Jesus Christ,” I groaned, examining it more closely, “you need a fairly high-powered rifle to do this kind of damage.”

Nothing.

When I looked down at Benji, expecting to see his face, there was only blanket. “Hey.” I nudged him to get his attention. He lifted his head to meet my gaze, and I saw it then, a drugged, bemused expression that told me he was happy and content at the same time. I had no idea what to do with that, so I ignored it and asked, “How many times have you been shot at?” Which came out far more gently than I meant it to.

The fact that his first response was to squint like he had to think about it made me growl, and he made a sound like a purr in response that ended with a sigh.

The sound of a car horn let him off the hook. For the moment.