Only seconds had passed.
I looked at Jean. Was this a bad thing? Averybad thing? She shook her head slightly, her eyes on the door.
Then I glanced back at Bathin.
He stood frozen in place as if his feet had been glued to the floor. Perfectly, perfectly still.
He wasn’t even breathing.
“I’m fine,” Delaney insisted. “Ryder, just. Let’s figure out what happened.” She gripped his hands and leaned on him instead of the desk.
“What the hell?” I asked Bathin. “What’s happening?”
He didn’t answer, although he finally breathed. The intensity on his face fell slowly into a frown. “That isn’t…shouldn’t…I don’t know how…”
“How what?” Jean was trying to keep Hogan in place by holding her palm up like a traffic cop, but he rolled his eyes and came around her desk so he could take a drink of coffee.
“Go back there and stand by that wall,” she ordered. “I don’t know if it’s safe yet.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Babe, it’s Ordinary. It’s always safe here, ya?”
She opened her mouth to argue, but he must have anticipated her move. With a flick of his wrist, he stuffed a donut hole between her lips.
She pointed at the desk and scowled.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll stay here until the coast is clear.”
“What’s happening?” I asked Bathin again.
Delaney pulled out a chair and sat. Her pupils were pinpricks, and red smudged each cheek like she’d been slapped.
Ryder gave her a look then crossed his arms over his chest. “Start from the top,” he instructed.
“I was just standing there and then, it was pain. But I don’t think it was physical? It didn’t feel like a god or god power.”
“Where did you feel the pain?” he asked.
It wasn’t Delaney who answered, it was Bathin.
“Solar plexus. Hot and sharp. Flash of light, red light. Laughter and bells. Butterscotch.”
Delaney narrowed her eyes at him. “It was like burned rum, not butterscotch, but yeah,” she said. “Yes. All of that. How did you know what I felt?”
Bathin finally thawed, his unfocused gaze sharpening, bringing with it the smirk, the confidence, the ego, but his pupils were pinpricks too.
“I do have a special connection to your soul.”
“Stolen connection,” I said.
“Old news,” Delaney said, cutting the impending argument short. “What was that? What just happened?”
“I think…”
The door burst open, and Bertie, the town Valkyrie, strode into the station.
She was short, trim, and looked to be in her eighties. Her white hair was cropped close to her head, with jagged bangs. Her eyes and mind were as sharp as her gold-tipped nails. Today’s outfit was a goldenrod tailored jacket and skirt, with a sparkly scarf wrapped around her throat.
“Delaney?” she called out, her voice commanding the room. “I will talk to you about two things. One of those things is the Slammin’ Salmon Serenade.”
