“I don’t live in the suburbs,” Kirby mumbled.
“Trust me. We need this,” she said. “We’ll get it all done and make the red-eye.”
It wasn’t her firm command that sent my head spinning, but I couldn’t explain the wave that overtook me. I pressed my fingers to a wall as I was kissed by lightheadedness. Static worked its way through the folds in my brain, buzzing behind my eyes, heating my blood.
Azrames relocated me to a seat on the front pew before I fully understood I was moving. Nia pressed a bottle of water into my hands and the fabric of her sleeve to my forehead in the same nauseating, hazy blur. There was conversation; I was sure of it. Xuân and Priscilla were discussing this or that. Kirby hadn’t stopped nervously chattering to try to calm me.
“Where’s Silas?” I managed to mumble, vision every bit as foggy as my thoughts.
The question drew frowns from the room, but Az answered. “He dipped out when Caliban arrived. I believe he’s doing what he can to cover what happened at the metaphysical shop. The more time we can buy, the better.”
“He’ll be back?”
“Maybe it’d be better for all of us if he wasn’t,” Azrames said.
I held my head in my palms. “You don’t mean that.”
Friends, witches, strangers, demons, frescos, stained glass windows, pews, dust, debris, smoke, and the lingering perfume of black opium lingered, all competing for my attention as Azrames sighed.
He squeezed my hand as he said, “Maybe I don’t. But perhaps you should.”
