"I never said--"
"I can see it in your face. Yes, I would have rather just told her to stay behind, but as much as she bitches about staying out of the action, she'd never have agreed."
"And if she came she'd be likely to get hurt. So it's better for her if we leave her behind."
"Exactly."
"And her lack of offensive powers means she's not much help in a fight, which means she'd just be an extra person to look after."
She exhaled. "Do you want me to deny that, Savannah? I won't. My main concern is her getting hurt."
I checked my watch, then eased back under the shade of a tree, in case Jaime decided on an uncharacteristically short shower and looked outside for us.
"You don't agree," Mom said.
A bubble of panic popped inside me. Of course I did. I always agreed with my mother. She knew best. She took care of--
I took a deep breath and silenced twelve-year-old Savannah.
"I . . . agree in principle, but I wouldn't have handled it the same way."
"Good," she said, so emphatically I jumped. "You aren't a carbon copy of me, Savannah. I don't want you to be. I want you to be your own person. In this case, I stick by my decision. We agree to disagree. And we push on. Unless you want to . . ." She nodded back toward the motel.
I shook my head. "It's done now, and I'm guessing that's the Cabal guy's car turning the corner."
The car did belong to the man Lucas had sent for Jaime. He was a typical operative, a completely unassuming guy who could probably win an Ultimate Fighting title with one hand tied behind his back. We checked his ID--Lucas had texted Mom his details. He'd also sent us a code phrase, which the guy repeated.
The operative didn't ask our names. Didn't display an iota of curiosity, except when he noticed the glowing sword on Mom's back. Even then, all he did was blink. Mom said, "We're ditching our friend to go to a Dungeons and Dragons convention." He didn't even smile. Jaime was going to love this guy. And love us all the more, not only for deserting her, but for forcing his company on her.
He left. We waited until he reached the motel door, then took off before the fireworks began.
JAIME
Jaime stood under the shower, eyes closed, letting the steaming water massage her neck and back. It might be a cheap motel, but apparently, midday, no one was using the water and she got all the hot water she wanted. And she wanted a lot. Even after twenty minutes of scalding, she swore she could still feel blood and filth in every pore.
She was not, as she always admitted, cut out for a life of adventure. Not unless it came with rich food and soft beds and perfumed baths. And Jeremy. After four years together, he was the key ingredient in her life, even if it did mean the occasional morning spent, drugged and sick, on a dirt-and-pest-encrusted prison cot.
Thinking of that cot, Jaime emptied the rest of the mini shampoo bottle on her head. As she lowered her hands, she noticed dried blood deep under her long nails. With a shudder, she scraped it out and tried not to think of where it came from. When that failed, she played the "what I'll do when all this is over" game, which had gotten her through many an ordeal in the past. Jeremy had made her play it just last evening when she had been feeling helpless sitting around Cortez headquarters as everyone else raced off to action.
Italy, Jeremy suggested. A week in an Italian villa, just the two of them. Maybe more than a week, if they could both swing it. That was usually the sticking point--their own schedules and responsibilities, Jaime's career and Jeremy's Alphahood. But they never complained or wished things could be different. They weren't kids. They'd built their own lives before they'd met and they still led them, taking advantage of any time when those lives could intersect--which made them feel like kids sometimes, ducking out on their responsibilities to play hooky together. Those interludes would grow more frequent when he stepped down as Alpha, and someday maybe they'd even live together, grow old together. But for now, this worked, and you don't mess with what works.
A distant knock startled her. She turned off the water and listened. It must be housekeeping or pizza delivery--hell-beasts and evil sorcerers don't knock--but she wasn't taking any chances.
The knock came again.
"Is that our door?" she called.
No one answered. Jaime wrapped a towel around herself, stepped out of the tub and cracked open the door.
The beds were empty. She pushed the door. The whole room was empty. She heard a muffled man's voice outside. As she strained to listen, the phone by the bed rang.
She looked around. Weapon. She needed a . . . She grabbed a glass from the sink and went to break it, then realized it was plastic. "Goddamn cheap motel," she cursed.
She looked down at her clothing, left in a puddle on the floor. She tugged out her belt and held it in one hand. As she eased from the bathroom, she clutched her weapon and prayed that Eve wasn't out there or she'd never live this one down. Eve still liked to remind her of the "sock puppet" incident, when Jaime had used a sock to hold on to a glass shard in case she needed to fight off a cult of crazed humans who'd discovered magic. Jaime had considered the makeshift weapon rather ingenious, but admittedly, it did pale next to Eve's sword.
The phone was still ringing.
"Ms. Vegas?" the man outside the door called. "Could you please answer that?"