“I don’t give anyone my phone.”
“You trust her. You know her. She is the only person you allow to touch your phone,” Rossi said.
“I don’t trust anyone.”
“You do. You trust Myra Reed. Give her your phone.”
“This sounds like a trick.”
“This is only the easiest thing you could ever do. Your arm is so tired, holding the phone. It is so heavy. You want to take a rest, just a small rest from holding it.”
“I want to rest?”
“Yes,” Rossi said. “You want to rest. You are getting sleepy.”
I wasn’t sure, but Rossi sounded annoyed. Like he had explained the color blue to a toddler for an hour and the kid wouldn’t stop asking questions. Like he wasn’t used to being argued with.
“Sleepy…” Patrick repeated. This time his voice sounded muzzy, as if he’d just drunk a couple shots too quickly. He handed to phone to Myra.
Ryder’s eyes were closed, but I could see the pulse at his neck, could see—now that I’d shoved the panic back into a small room in my brain where it could scream itself out—that he was breathing.
I also saw blood. His arm was bleeding.
I inhaled slowly, exhaled in a tight stream, trying not to move too much and screw up Rossi’s power over the leprechaun.
“And now that’s done.” Myra finished deleting the video and handed the phone back to Patrick. “Remember, this is just a play, a murder mystery. That’s all you saw.”
“You believe her,” Rossi said, “because you trust her. You saw a play. Everyone is fine. No one is murdered. You want to take a yoga class,” he added, and even through the panic and worry, I threw a look his way.
Rossi shrugged and waved his hand in front of Patrick’s face. “You want to find a coffee and a donut, and will consider taking a free yoga class. Turn now.”
There was slight resistance, a micro-level struggle in Patrick’s face, before he did as he was told and turned.
“Hop over the fence,” Rossi said. “Carefully.”
Patrick did that too.
“Now I will accompany you to the main street, and you will find a donut.” Rossi glanced at Myra who nodded.
Rossi was over the fence in one smooth movement, then they both started walking. A few steps out, I heard Rossi say: “…yoga. Have you thought of taking it up, my friend?”
“What?” Patrick sounded confused, like he was waking up. “Yoga?”
“All those long days on the road,” Rossi said. “Yoga does wonders for the body. I have a studio here in town. The first lesson is free. Why don’t we get a coffee and talk about it?”
“Now,” Bathin said.
I lunged for Ryder, shoving the demon away with Bathin’s help.
“Ryder,” I said, my hands on his face, his chest, my fingers already tugging his sleeve away so I could assess the damage. “Wake up, love. Let me see your gorgeous eyes.”
The cuts on his arm were deep, as if claws had slashed him. Stitches. He’d need stitches.
Myra was next to me now, saying something. “…right here, Delaney. I got it. Let me apply pressure. Just…there you go. Good.”
She pushed my hands to Ryder’s chest where I could feel the rise and fall of his breathing, then clamped a cloth, a towel—When had she found time to get a towel?—over his wounds.
The world had gone spongy around me. Swallowed me up and made every movement, every thought slow, too slow.
