“You did,” I say.
“Is that a bad thing.”
“Voldemort isn’t real, Detective.”
“Not in our world, but didn’t you once say that J.K. Rowling is real, and that there’s a parallel world out there where Harry Potter is running round, waving his wand and chasing that little golden ball on broomsticks?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m nearly certain she’s a creator.”
“Is there a chance that He’s Who’s Name Shall Not Be Spoken Aloud heard me?”
“I guess there’s a chance. But you got me to protect you, Detective. I ain’t afraid of you know who.”
“Okay, whew! Okay, let e make the call and round up this asshole Trent. Any idea where he is?”
“He’ll be coming home soon from work.”
“We’ll be waiting... discreetly.”
“Good. Want me to go fetch Marlene? Make sure she’s safe?”
“Will she magically appear in the visitor bathroom?”
“She will, yes.”
“With her memory scrubbed of how she got there?”
“Scrubbed clean.”
“Yeah, go get her. Don’t let this jerkoff hurt her. If he’s a practitioner of this voodoo shit, he might already know she ratted him out.”
“Not sure if it’s voodoo, but yeah, he might be psychically connected to her.”
And just like that I’m gone, leaving the detective no doubt stumbling over his words. I land in Marlene’s living room. I hear the zipper before I see her in the bedroom, folding clothes with shaking hands, a half-packed suitcase open on the bed. She looks up when I step into the doorway, eyes wide but already knowing.
“He’s coming,” she says. “I can feel him. He knows you’re here, too. Please be careful.”
“I can take care of myself,” I say gently. “And take care of you, too. I’m not what I seem.”
Outside, a car door slams. Not a car. A truck. Heavy. Purposeful. Boots hit the cement walkway, fast and angry. The front door is yanked open hard enough to rattle the walls. The air shimmers with angry energy. Yep, there’s a legit killer among us.
I feel the faint tug of something reaching out, searching. A thread stretches through the house like an octopus’s curioustentacle. Trent knows Marlene told someone. The turgid thread hits me and bounces off, like a spray of water hitting an outdoor statue. The tentacle bounces off me and hits Marlene, who gasps and whimpers. She takes a tentative step toward the bedroom door; he’s drawing her to him.
I step between them and sever the connection. Marlene gasps and stumbles back.
“You don’t have to listen to him anymore,” I say.
“He’s going to do bad things to me.”
“I’ll protect you.”
She looks at me, lower lip quivering. “But how? He’s like a demon.”
“I’ve killed demons before.”
Footsteps pound down the hallway. Soon, Trent fills the doorway: broad shoulders, flushed face, the kind of man who’s used to rooms quieting when he enters them. I recognize him from both Jamie’s and Marlene’s memory. His eyes go straight to her first, then flick to me... and narrow.
“Who the hell are you?” he says.
