She had no idea.
So both of us just stood there, watching Blondie kick his heels several inches off the ground, because Claire is a tall drink of water. One who suddenly had a wealth of iridescent purple scales covering one arm. And three-inch talons, shading from black to maroon to milky white, on the newly armored hand.
Guess I knew why she favored sleeveless dresses, I thought, seeing how the finely made scales transitioned seamlessly into the freckled skin of her shoulder.
It was an impressive display, but I wasn’t as worried as I might have been. I’d seen this particular trick before, and she’d remained in full control. As far as I could tell, a partial transformation simply gave her more strength without compromising her grip on her other half.
Of course, I could be wrong, I thought, tensing again as something that wasn’t a voice slithered out of Claire’s mouth. It was low and haunting, with a slight echo, despite not currently having anything to echo from. It was something like the sounds the demon made in The Exorcist, only worse, because it vibrated right through skin and flesh both. You didn’t hear it so much as feel it, like someone scratching the insides of your bones.
So, uh, yeah.
And then the sound turned into guttural words. “My car now.”
Blondie swallowed, and looked like he might pass out.
For her part, Purple Hair had gone very, very still. She didn’t move; she didn’t blink. Neither did I, because I didn’t want a repeat of the backyard incident, and I didn’t know what small gesture might set Claire off.
And then a small cadre of fey banged the front door open and came out. They were armed, because they were always armed, but they didn’t look particularly bothered. Maybe because they were skiving off work. A couple leaned against the house, another propped up the doorframe, and one sat on the stairs, working something loose from a molar with a toothpick. But their arrival broke the tension—slightly.
“What is this?” Blondie demanded, suddenly reanimating. “What the hell is—”
“Shut up,” Purple Hair told him harshly.
“But she can’t—she isn’t—and my car—”
He broke off with a gurgle, probably because the mailed fist had just tightened. Purple Hair closed her eyes briefly, the universal sign for “Why me, God?” For my part, I was listening, but didn’t hear any crunching noises. And he didn’t actually have to breathe, so . . .
I just stood there some more.
After a moment, Purple Hair looked at me. “The car we wrecked. It was hers?”
I nodded.
“Ah.” She looked at Claire. “Your car now.”
Claire released Blondie, then turned and went back into the house without another word. He fell to the ground lik
e a sack of potatoes, and stayed there, gasping. Not because he needed the air, but because that’s what you do when someone almost decapitates you one-handed.
I walked over, reached in, and took his spare set of keys out of the ignition.
“Fair’s fair,” I told them. “I knew what I was taking on when I agreed to this job, so you have your week. But that’s out there.” I nodded at the city. “My home is off-limits, understand?”
“Beginning to.” Purple Hair kicked her companion, who was still sprawled theatrically in the grass. “Get up.”
“But my car!”
“You wanna take it from her? Be my guest.” She looked at me. “Just don’t try hiding out here until Saturday. Fair’s fair.”
She dragged Blondie off and threw him in the back of a red convertible. They left, and I turned back to see that the fey had come over and were checking out the car. “Does it go very fast?” one of them asked me.
“Yeah.”
“As fast as a running horse?”
“Faster.”
He frowned, and stuck his head in the window, checking it out.