Living With the Dead (Otherworld 9)

"She already gave me the slip once. Get in that cab. I'll follow. If she loses me, find out where she's going, then meet me at the station."

* * *

ROBYN

Robyn checked the bedside clock and wondered whether she'd been napping long enough. She felt like she was back in kindergarten, past the age of needing a nap, forced to "rest" before she could zoom back into playtime.

Karl had stepped out to scout the area, leaving Robyn to sleep. Now, though, she was rested and raring to go, and Karl hadn't returned. She suspected he wasn't thinking of her at all, just circling the building, waiting for Hope.

She peeked out from behind the curtain, trying several angles, but seeing only slivers of the parking lot. Karl had told her to stay away from the windows and keep the door chained until he announced himself. But they'd been careful to avoid any landmarks on the way here, and as long as Robyn kept her wits sharp, there was no reason she couldn't peek out, tell Karl she was up and they could go meet Hope.

She did, keeping the chain engaged. But she couldn't see any more than the same slice of parking lot she had from the windows. So she undid the chain, eased open the door and leaned out.

No sign of Karl.

Maybe she should take a walk -

Maybe you should do what you were told, Bobby. Maybe the guy had a reason for telling you to do it.

Right, of course. Even if it was safe, she didn't relish getting caught by Karl.

She retreated into the room, pulling the door shut -

It stopped.

She looked up to see fingers holding it open. Men's fingers, long and smooth, nails perfectly trimmed. She relaxed her grip.

"Sorry, I was just - "

The door swung open. And for the second time in as many days, it wasn't Karl. This time it was the man from the bookstore, the one who'd been crouching by the boy's body.

Bracing the door with his foot, he lifted his hands as if to say "see, I'm not armed." At one time, that might have reassured her. After what she'd seen and heard in the last twenty-four hours, it didn't. In this new world, "armed" had little to do with "dangerous."

She tried to slam the door, quite willing to crush his foot if necessary, but he grabbed the edge again, holding it fast.

"Your bodyguard is at the corner, meeting your friend, who just pulled up in a cab," the man said. "They'll be along in a moment. If you want to scream, I can't stop you, but it won't get them here any faster, and it'll only call attention to us. So why don't we step inside and wait for them?"

Robyn backed up, walked stiffly to a chair and sat, straight-backed, hands in her lap. She felt like a stick figure, barely able to flex even at her elbows and knees.

The man surveyed the room, then took the other chair, positioning it out of sight of the window and out of the line of fire should anyone swing through the door.

When he took off his ball cap, Robyn got her first good look at him. His hair was dark red and his freckles were faint, but the resemblance was clear.

"He was your son," she said.

His reaction told her she was right. Like the resemblance, it was nothing overt. Just a burst of grief dispersed by a blink. Seeing it made her chest hurt, thoughts of Damon crowding her head.

"It seems we have a collision of interests." The man's words were light, but his voice gruff. "I understand why the council got involved. They're trying to help you out of a jam, and they didn't realize it involved a clairvoyant, but now that they do, I'm here to ask you to let me handle this. Clairvoyant concerns are not council concerns."

Whatever this "council" was, it had to be supernatural, and this guy thought she was part of it - or at least a supernatural herself.

She could set him straight. But she didn't see the point... and did see a few good reasons why it might not be wise to admit she was human.

"That's right," she said. "We didn't realize a clairvoyant was involved. But I am involved. Still involved. Meaning I'm not about to step away."

His chin dipped in a slow, bobbing nod, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

Earlier, when they'd talked about him, Hope had called him "the gym teacher." Robyn could see it now. He looked like a beloved coach. The one teen girls would ogle in his gym shorts, whispering that he was "kind of cute... for his age." Pleasant and unassuming. An impression she couldn't shake even knowing he wasn't a gym teacher, wasn't unassuming, probably wasn't all that pleasant.