anymore.”
“Where are you headed?”
To her relief, Creed stepped in.
“Detroit.”
The man folded his arms and studied them. Chiana tried her best to look pitiful, hoping space would magically come open. Creed’s fingers tightened on hers. She couldn’t decide if he was warning her not to speak or if he was as concerned as she was. If this didn’t work, they’d have to go back into the dark night and take their chances.
Finally, the man said, “I probably shouldn’t do this, but I’ll let you sleep on the couch in the staff lounge. We usually don’t accept new clients after midnight, but every rule has an exception, right?”
Chiana nodded and offered what she hoped passed for a smile of gratitude. She didn’t want to be separated from Creed; she didn’t want to sleep among strangers after learning her pursuer could slide into people without their help or knowledge. Maybe a motel would be better.
Or maybe worse, when she realized how many more potential hosts were available there.
“Thank you so much, sir.” Creed released her hand so he could shake the shelter manager’s. “I hate to ask this, but is there a chair in that lounge? I’ve got a bad problem with my back that all this driving’s making worse.”
“A recliner,” the manager said.
“Would you mind if I slept there and gave the couch to my wife? We don’t want to bother the folks already asleep.”
The response was long enough in coming that Chiana figured they were about to be kicked out. The answer came as a long sigh and a curt “Come on, then.”
The chair was well worn and the couch showing its age, but they looked wonderful to her as she kicked off her boots, loosened her pants and stretched out on the vinyl surface. She plumped the pillow the manager had provided and stuck it under her head before covering herself with the plain but serviceable blanket she’d been given.
Finally able to relax, she realized she was exhausted. Some of it was from coming off a hard night of work then everything that followed. Part of it, though, she suspected was caused by the rush and slowdown of Doc’s magic elixir in her body. Sleep would restore her. Sleep would let her shove down the emotions whirling through her and let her logical mind take control.
Chapter Eight
From the recliner, Creed watched Chiana and envied her the oblivion of a temporary separation from the waking world. Her dreams, he imagined, would be kinder than those that plagued him. She’d find an escape from everything they’d conquered and what they had yet to face. His dreams, if he allowed himself to sleep, would bring the usual regrets and self-recrimination.
Which was why he had no intention of sleeping. He’d use the time to read a couple of the books Lillian had loaned them. By the time Chiana woke, he hoped to have a better idea of what they were dealing with and how to foil the spirit warrior’s plans.
The books were old and some of the language archaic. Their covers were fading and some pages dog-eared and worn, yet Creed found a veritable treasure trove of information. Modern writers tended to explain away the paranormal in terms of mass hypnosis, folklore and reflections of the desperate needing a way to deflect societal problems. The authors of these books, on the other hand, believed. They knew the dark side, recognized that the reason so many cultures had believed for so long was because otherworldly creatures were real and moved among them.
Blessed with an excellent memory, he had stored away a wealth of knowledge before a loud bell sounded and an amplified voice announced that breakfast would be served in twenty minutes. Closing the book he was studying, he stretched and looked to see if the bell had wakened Chiana. He got his answer when her blanket-covered form uncurled, and her eyes opened.
“Please tell me I slept till noon,” she said in a slow, thick voice.
“It’s 6:40,” he answered. “Time to rise and
“Where are you headed?”
To her relief, Creed stepped in.
“Detroit.”
The man folded his arms and studied them. Chiana tried her best to look pitiful, hoping space would magically come open. Creed’s fingers tightened on hers. She couldn’t decide if he was warning her not to speak or if he was as concerned as she was. If this didn’t work, they’d have to go back into the dark night and take their chances.
Finally, the man said, “I probably shouldn’t do this, but I’ll let you sleep on the couch in the staff lounge. We usually don’t accept new clients after midnight, but every rule has an exception, right?”
Chiana nodded and offered what she hoped passed for a smile of gratitude. She didn’t want to be separated from Creed; she didn’t want to sleep among strangers after learning her pursuer could slide into people without their help or knowledge. Maybe a motel would be better.
Or maybe worse, when she realized how many more potential hosts were available there.
“Thank you so much, sir.” Creed released her hand so he could shake the shelter manager’s. “I hate to ask this, but is there a chair in that lounge? I’ve got a bad problem with my back that all this driving’s making worse.”
“A recliner,” the manager said.
“Would you mind if I slept there and gave the couch to my wife? We don’t want to bother the folks already asleep.”
The response was long enough in coming that Chiana figured they were about to be kicked out. The answer came as a long sigh and a curt “Come on, then.”
The chair was well worn and the couch showing its age, but they looked wonderful to her as she kicked off her boots, loosened her pants and stretched out on the vinyl surface. She plumped the pillow the manager had provided and stuck it under her head before covering herself with the plain but serviceable blanket she’d been given.
Finally able to relax, she realized she was exhausted. Some of it was from coming off a hard night of work then everything that followed. Part of it, though, she suspected was caused by the rush and slowdown of Doc’s magic elixir in her body. Sleep would restore her. Sleep would let her shove down the emotions whirling through her and let her logical mind take control.
Chapter Eight
From the recliner, Creed watched Chiana and envied her the oblivion of a temporary separation from the waking world. Her dreams, he imagined, would be kinder than those that plagued him. She’d find an escape from everything they’d conquered and what they had yet to face. His dreams, if he allowed himself to sleep, would bring the usual regrets and self-recrimination.
Which was why he had no intention of sleeping. He’d use the time to read a couple of the books Lillian had loaned them. By the time Chiana woke, he hoped to have a better idea of what they were dealing with and how to foil the spirit warrior’s plans.
The books were old and some of the language archaic. Their covers were fading and some pages dog-eared and worn, yet Creed found a veritable treasure trove of information. Modern writers tended to explain away the paranormal in terms of mass hypnosis, folklore and reflections of the desperate needing a way to deflect societal problems. The authors of these books, on the other hand, believed. They knew the dark side, recognized that the reason so many cultures had believed for so long was because otherworldly creatures were real and moved among them.
Blessed with an excellent memory, he had stored away a wealth of knowledge before a loud bell sounded and an amplified voice announced that breakfast would be served in twenty minutes. Closing the book he was studying, he stretched and looked to see if the bell had wakened Chiana. He got his answer when her blanket-covered form uncurled, and her eyes opened.
“Please tell me I slept till noon,” she said in a slow, thick voice.
“It’s 6:40,” he answered. “Time to rise and
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