Night Shift(105)

“Not so much,” she said. “Not such a sacrifice.”

“Maybe we can get in a warm bed and sacrifice again, real soon?” Bobo seemed reluctant to get off her and get up, and she could understand that. She would like to revel in the moment, too. But the world intruded, and she knew her magic would not be able to hold the scene for long, even with Sylvester’s chant.

“That sounds very good to me.”

She could tell the moment Bobo felt the full impact of the injury. He hissed, and rolled off to her side. “Plus, we need to look at that leg of yours,” she said prosaically.

“It hurts a hell of lot. Damn. This is literally anticlimactic,” Bobo said, and she began to giggle. He sat up, and she scrambled to her feet. She looked around for her silk robe and found it lying in a dirt-streaked heap a few feet away. Bobo’s own clothes were not in much better shape, and his jeans were decorated lavishly with cat hair, though Mr. Snuggly was nowhere in sight. Perhaps he was enjoying being a lion.

Lemuel and Quinn helped Bobo to his feet and half carried him to Fiji’s house, after a moment of hesitation.

“You have some cleaning up to do,” the Rev said, in his creaky voice. “You’re still . . . beaming.”

After a moment, Fiji realized he meant magical cleaning up. She was the source of the light around the crossroad. Okay, she would figure this out.

She ratcheted down her magic, unfocusing her will to dissolve the bubble that had kept the world out. As she did so, she saw that all the ghosts of the town were clustered around the ash-and-salt circle, interspersed with live people. Aunt Mildred was standing next to Chuy, and a Mexican cowboy in clothes of a hundred years before was looking at Olivia, who’d resumed her seat on the steps of the pawnshop.

Though she was fascinated and would have liked to spend moments looking at every face, the next instant a car’s headlights were coming from the west, from Marthasville, and the cold pinched her skin, and she realized she had to get inside or risk getting arrested. She felt her weariness in her bones . . . plus a very pleasant sense of relaxation and a slight achiness.

Fiji caught a glimpse of the body of Harvey Whitefield, but someone else would have to take care of that particular problem.

Fiji gathered up their clothes hurriedly and started for her house. She sensed someone in front of her and looked up to discover her sister, who had somehow wriggled out of her bonds.

“What did I just see?” Kiki said. “Were you humping in the middle of the road? Did I just see something coming out of the asphalt?”

“What do you think you saw?” Fiji said, and took a step around Kiki. “Go home, Kiki, and don’t come back.”

She walked over to her house, finally locating Mr. Snuggly. He was sitting on the little wall around the porch next to a planter, and he looked proud—which meant he looked like all cats. But he nodded to her in a congratulatory way, and then set about cleaning his paws.

For a moment, Fiji hesitated at the door, looking back. She could see a shadow surrounding the cat, a shadow that didn’t match the domestic shorthair feline outline at all.

But Fiji had opened the door an inch, and she could hear the water of the shower running. She could imagine the warmth of the water and the clean smell of her soap and she knew Bobo was waiting for her to join him. She hoped Lemuel had healed his leg. If not, there was bandaging to do. She even looked forward to that. Fiji stepped inside and shut the door behind her.





38





The next morning, Fiji woke feeling like a new woman. The crisis was over. The demon was imprisoned. Bobo was asleep beside her. She had saved the world! She had had sex! Bobo loved her!

She tried to track down the essential difference she felt in herself. She was still Fiji, still the least important person in a contentious family, still a witch in a society that did not like witches, still round as a honeydew in a nation that revered stiltlike women.

But now, she thought, I am powerful. It was a fact. Her feeling that she was transforming had begun before last night—in fact, when she had frozen the gunmen the day of the assault on Olivia. The day she had killed McGuire. Arthur Smith would never stop asking questions about that day, and she would never be held responsible for any of it. She knew that. And despite the fact that everyone was always talking about how nice she was, she didn’t feel guilty for having killed Ellery McGuire. It had been the only way to prevent the deaths of people she knew—people who were in her care.

She wondered if Sylvester Ravenwing would stay, and she rather hoped he would. She wondered if Olivia would decide to become a vampire. She wondered if Joe and Chuy would ever be able to re-attain heaven. And what would Teacher and Madonna do, now that Olivia’s father might come talk to Olivia directly? There was no need to protect her from Ellery McGuire any longer, Fiji figured.