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River was going to see me in this dress, damn it.

Chapter

Eight

River

Head down, I furtively drew yet another image. After the last stroke, I paused, stared down at it spotlighted in the glow from my desk lamp. An image of Cassandra, sitting on the balcony of Asmoday’s B&B, holding a glass of wine and laughing at something Daruka said.

I pushed it aside, the action sending several more drawings tumbling to the floor, which was already littered with the half dozen others I’d created before them.

Hello, definition of obsession.

And yet, I didn’t stop, not even when I heard what sounded like the creak of the tattoo parlor’s front door opening. It was all in my head anyway; I’d locked that door.

I was sure of it.

This time, I pictured Cassandra cuddling with Wyldfire. I’d already drawn this image no less than ten times, but it wasn’t yet perfect. Time for another attempt.

“River?”

My hand, clutching a pencil, went flying across the blank page, leaving a straight black streak.

I whipped my head around to stare at Cassandra, who was absolutely resplendent in a black, off-the-shoulder dress that looked like it had been preserved for the last seventy years just for her. My gaze dropped to her feet, encased in the sexiest pair of heels I’d ever seen.

I was so transfixed by her perfection that I didn’t remember to hide my drawings. Her eyes widened to saucer-size.

She strode into the tiny space and plucked one of the drawings off the desk. “This is me,” she said in a tiny, awed voice, her gaze glued to the picture. “In this dress.”

I closed my eyes, in case maybe that would help make this moment any less awkward.

“Did you know Queenie made this dress for me?”

I swallowed thickly. “I did not.”

“How did you know to draw it?”

I opened my eyes, saw her gaze drop to the pages scattered across the floor. She crouched, picked up one, then another, and another.

She glanced up at me. “These are all me. Every one of them.”

I hesitated for a brief moment and then nodded.

“This is from today,” she said, showing me the picture of her sitting in the pub while Queenie and Hilde interviewed her. “But this is from weeks ago.” She lifted a different picture to eye level.

It was her, walking next to a wrought iron fence, behind which loomed a brightly colored row house with shuttered windows.

“This is in New Orleans,” she stressed, shaking the paper. “You weren’t there. I know you weren’t. How did you know to draw this?”

I scratched the back of my neck. “Um…I have visions.”

“Of me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have visions of anyone else?”

I hesitated.