“Mmm? Got any new ideas?”
“Iwouldlike us to try the new composite mix for 14A’s casing, but that’s—”
A bright light, the force of the sun at midday, blinded Simon. A truck, rounding the curve—on the wrong side—on his side—
“Yes?” Everett prompted, but Simon barely registered him over the truck’s honking and the blood rushing to his ears.
The blaring coming through the blinding white, Simon’s whispered “Shit,”—it was all contained in a fraction of a second as he wrenched on the wheel and veered away from the truck’s destructive path. But he also veered off the road and—
***
He was right.
Therewasa pentagram hanging above his head.
Simon wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring at it or how long he’d been awake, even. He was lying in bed, and above him, from the unfamiliar ceiling, hung an even less familiar silver charm, like one of those things babies would have in a crib to help them fall asleep.
“Leona, time,” he said, but not a single beep came from his digital artificial assistant.
He swung his head to the side, where his phone should be on the bedside table. And therewasa bedside table—a cute one with a little crochet doily on top, the scratches on the white-painted wood making it the perfect furniture for a cozy cottage.
This was not his bedside table.
And this was not his bedroom.
As he sat up, a colorful patchwork blanket slid off him. He was wearing checkered pajama pants and a simple undershirt—not his, either—and as he stood up, his legs nearly gave out under him.Holy shit, this is one hell of a hangover.
But was it a hangover? He didn’t feel hungover. He was hungry, and his legs and arms were weak, but otherwise, he was fine. And he remembered everything clearly—
Wait.He was driving back to San Francisco. Everett called …
Something crashed in the room beyond. Simon flinched, then berated himself for such a cowardly reaction, and headed for thedoor. This cutesy fairytale bedroom, with its lacy curtains, a little vanity table, and fluffy pillows, was definitely not his apartment, and he was getting two things—answers, and the way home.
Inching the door open revealed a living space: a corner with a patchwork sofa half-covered with a fuzzy white blanket and a wooden coffee table stacked with magazines, a glass bowl with colorful beads, and another bowl with a collection of succulents. The space joined with a small kitchen and a round dining table on the other end. At it sat a young woman, so deep into crochet handiwork her nose was almost touching the crafted object. The sun shone from behind her, turning her loosely bound, ash-blond hair into a river of pale gold.
Simon had so many questions. Where was he, who was she, but also—“What the hell?”
She looked up, and a broad smile lit her round face. “Simon! You’re awake!” Her handiwork forgotten, she jumped to her feet and ran to him.
In the last second, he realized she was going for a hug and reached out his hands. “Hold on now.”
To her credit, she did stop. “Sorry. I’m happy to see you out and about. Finally in your real body and all that, you know.”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“First off—who are you?” He took a step back. “Did you kidnap me? I’ll have you know, I will not be paying any ransom because I don’t stand for those kinds of things, and everyone will be looking for me, so it’s in your best interest—”
“No, no, wait.” She extended her hand as if trying to calm a puppy. “It’s me. Shanna.”
“I don’t know any Shanna.”
Her eyebrows dipped and drew together. “You don’t remember me?” she said in a small voice that made him regret his harsh tone.
“No, I’m sorry. Look, I can pay you as thanks for letting me crash here, but I have to go.” He turned in a circle. He didn’t even know where to start. Where were his things? And why was he here? So he turned back to Shanna. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind an explanation.”
“Whatdoyou remember?”
