The Dream Crafter(7)

Yes, that day, those twelve hours where everything changed, everything was destroyed. More words, begging words, words to plead her case that she’d never been able to utter to the police or a judge or any of the long line of people who had taken the shy, sensitive young man and made him an animal. “You know he shouldn’t be there, locked in a cage. You know what that is doing to him. He’s dying there, and he doesn’t deserve it. He’s there because he loves me. You’re Guild. You’re supposed to make things right. You know the truth.” Tears marked her face now, tears she reserved for the long, lonely nights before the rise of dawn, where she would scrub them away and start once again looking for the way to free Nakoa, spend another day surviving so she could keep him going as well.

Throughout the impassioned speech, Fallon’s face never changed. No hint of compassion entered her eyes, no downturn of lips or furrowed brow to indicate she was touched by Amana’s words.

Laire though…Laire stopped filing her nails, her mouth parting as she twisted her head, not enough to look at Amana, but enough to indicate every word said was being heard. After a moments silence, Laire looked to Fallon. “Do we have to lay this on her?”

If Fallon was surprised at Laire’s question it didn’t show. Instead, her gaze still hard on Amana, she answered, “I’m sorry it worked out for you like it did. I am. But we all make our choices, and we live with what unfolds.”

Amana shook her head. “There was no choice-”

“Don’t.” Fallon’s voice was a sonic crack, a stop to everything that would follow. “Add as many qualifiers as you want to help you keep going. I won’t even say you don’t deserve them. What I won’t hear is how there wasn’t a damn thing you could have done different. That’s bullshit, and the argument could be made that as it stands, some semblance of justice is being served.”

After a long look at Amana that seemed to be judging if she would speak again or move, Fallon turned to Laire and said, “So you know, having her go into his dreams is Plan A. Plan B is we head over to Short Shit and offer him anything he wants if he can get the book.”

Laire’s eyes grew to enormous proportions and her whole body went into alert. “What do you mean anything?”

“Anything means anything.”

During their moments-long stare-off, Amana wiped off her face and buried emotions where they would wait to be dug up later.

Fallon was calm. Laire’s agitation was growing bit by bit at the mention of this mysterious person. Finally, Laire turned back to Amana. “You have got to do this job.”

There went that hope of support. Fallon reached into the pocket of her pants and handed her a card. “Read this number.”

Amana wiped the tears away and read. There was magic in the card. The number seared itself in her brain in the first pass, and afterwards the card vanished.

“You have twenty-four hours to decide,” Fallon continued, the voice controlled and smooth. “Call that number if your answer is you’ll help us. We’ll get you what you need to know. If you don’t call in that time, we’ll consider your answer no and the offer is off the table.”

A wall of sound descended around Amana. The meeting was done, the silencing magic gone, and she had twenty-four hours to damn herself in order to save her brother.

A long howl and nasty laughter penetrated the fog inside her brain, and Amana turned to the crowd, to find once again the werewolf males from earlier making a spectacle. Amongst them was a slender woman, the waitress if the tray held in her hands told true. She stood there passive as the werewolves circled her, evil excitement in their expressions.

Amana’s gut said screw fight, flight now. A glance at her female companions showed Laire looking between her watch and the men responsible for the commotion, her body shifting in a series of tics and jerks, a frown marring her face. Fallon though… Her gaze was locked on the scene, and something in the forward tilt of her body told Amana they weren’t leaving yet.

“Inara,” Fallon called, and as though Inara had been waiting just out of eyesight, the curly-haired woman was making her way to the table, her swinging hip walk unhurried even though five big men were terrorizing one of her wait staff in the corner. As soon as she was in earshot, Fallon said, “Regulars?”

“The last few weeks some of the werewolves seem to be taking complete jackassery to a ten.” Exasperation and disgust were served in equal measure in Inara’s voice, punctuated by rolling of eyes and the waving of her expressive hands. “It’s getting to the point Rhaum is considering banning them from all the clubs.”