the device, as opposed to the straggly one or two we got anywhere else in town.
I gave it back. “Can you take some pictures of the inside and then send the lot to Booke? Do you have his e-mail?”
“Sure,” he said, and glanced around the interior as if deciding where to start.
Once he’d gone, I dug my cell out of my pocket. The librarian glared at me from the desk, so I moved away from the front door. Somewhere in the middle of History and Philosophy, I took a look. I had more messages from Jesse, but none from Booke. First thing, I called Saldana, knowing he was probably here—or nearly so—by now, depending on what time he’d left Texas. I had never been so happy to hear a call connect.
He answered on the first ring, his voice warm, worried, and touched with a Texas drawl. “Corine, are you all right? Where are you?”
“At the library,” I told him, keeping my voice low. “It’s the only place my phone works. Things are weird. I’ll tell you more when you arrive.” I wanted to say I was touched that he’d drop everything to come looking for me, but I couldn’t find the words, so I went with a question instead. “Where are you ?”
A long silence followed, but background noise told me he was driving. “I have no idea,” he said at last. “I can’t find the town. GPS has never heard of it.”
“Booke said there was no reference to Kilmer anywhere online, either. If you’re totally off course, I suggest finding a library and looking for archived maps, anything before 1900. If that doesn’t work, go earlier . . . until you find it. It’s here.” I paused. “Even if the rest of the world seems to have forgotten about the place. For now, though,” I went on, “look for a road sign. There should be something posted about the next town.”
“Yeah. There’s one coming up—looks like Darien. I’m five miles away.”
“You’re fairly close.” I gave him directions to the house from the road he was driving on. “We’ll meet you there in two hours. If you have trouble, text me. If I’m not here, I may not be able to answer, but I can come looking for you.”
“And vice versa.” I heard the smile in Jesse’s voice as he rang off.
Then I called Booke. It was so weird that we couldn’t call out anywhere else. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen pay phones anywhere in this godforsaken town.
“I have bad news, good news, and maybe more bad,” he reported.
“Bad first, then good, please.”
“You sent me a mixture of burnt cat hair, ground bone dust, powdered stinkweed, and . . . one thing I can’t seem to isolate. If it’s been transmuted as a result of the spell, I may never know what it was.”
“The spell or the component?”
“Both,” he said, sounding unhappy. “Right now, it could be a spell meant to cause genital warts, prevent attacks from unfriendly spirits, make you grow hair on your back and develop unpleasant body odor, or summon a demonic cat to smother—”
“And that’s the bad news?” I figured he could go on like that for a while. “What’s the good?”
“Well. None of those things has happened, right?”
Only Booke would ask that, though I did give my arm-pits a tentative sniff. “Nope.”
“Then the spell might have been interrupted when you fled the bed-and-breakfast.”
“Great. Finally, something swings our way.”
“Or . . . ,” he said, hesitant, “it might have been cast with a timer or trigger.”
“So it could go off like a bomb if we put a foot wrong.” I rubbed my forehead. I’d never wished harder that I had my mother’s abilities instead of a relatively worthless and limited gift like the touch. “That’d be the other bad news, right?”
“Unfortunately, yes. You need someone to cleanse all your possessions, but I suspect you don’t have anyone handy who could.”
“Not right here, no.”
I thanked him and rang off. If we were to get a witch out here, I’d need to visit Area 51—a message board that the
I gave it back. “Can you take some pictures of the inside and then send the lot to Booke? Do you have his e-mail?”
“Sure,” he said, and glanced around the interior as if deciding where to start.
Once he’d gone, I dug my cell out of my pocket. The librarian glared at me from the desk, so I moved away from the front door. Somewhere in the middle of History and Philosophy, I took a look. I had more messages from Jesse, but none from Booke. First thing, I called Saldana, knowing he was probably here—or nearly so—by now, depending on what time he’d left Texas. I had never been so happy to hear a call connect.
He answered on the first ring, his voice warm, worried, and touched with a Texas drawl. “Corine, are you all right? Where are you?”
“At the library,” I told him, keeping my voice low. “It’s the only place my phone works. Things are weird. I’ll tell you more when you arrive.” I wanted to say I was touched that he’d drop everything to come looking for me, but I couldn’t find the words, so I went with a question instead. “Where are you ?”
A long silence followed, but background noise told me he was driving. “I have no idea,” he said at last. “I can’t find the town. GPS has never heard of it.”
“Booke said there was no reference to Kilmer anywhere online, either. If you’re totally off course, I suggest finding a library and looking for archived maps, anything before 1900. If that doesn’t work, go earlier . . . until you find it. It’s here.” I paused. “Even if the rest of the world seems to have forgotten about the place. For now, though,” I went on, “look for a road sign. There should be something posted about the next town.”
“Yeah. There’s one coming up—looks like Darien. I’m five miles away.”
“You’re fairly close.” I gave him directions to the house from the road he was driving on. “We’ll meet you there in two hours. If you have trouble, text me. If I’m not here, I may not be able to answer, but I can come looking for you.”
“And vice versa.” I heard the smile in Jesse’s voice as he rang off.
Then I called Booke. It was so weird that we couldn’t call out anywhere else. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen pay phones anywhere in this godforsaken town.
“I have bad news, good news, and maybe more bad,” he reported.
“Bad first, then good, please.”
“You sent me a mixture of burnt cat hair, ground bone dust, powdered stinkweed, and . . . one thing I can’t seem to isolate. If it’s been transmuted as a result of the spell, I may never know what it was.”
“The spell or the component?”
“Both,” he said, sounding unhappy. “Right now, it could be a spell meant to cause genital warts, prevent attacks from unfriendly spirits, make you grow hair on your back and develop unpleasant body odor, or summon a demonic cat to smother—”
“And that’s the bad news?” I figured he could go on like that for a while. “What’s the good?”
“Well. None of those things has happened, right?”
Only Booke would ask that, though I did give my arm-pits a tentative sniff. “Nope.”
“Then the spell might have been interrupted when you fled the bed-and-breakfast.”
“Great. Finally, something swings our way.”
“Or . . . ,” he said, hesitant, “it might have been cast with a timer or trigger.”
“So it could go off like a bomb if we put a foot wrong.” I rubbed my forehead. I’d never wished harder that I had my mother’s abilities instead of a relatively worthless and limited gift like the touch. “That’d be the other bad news, right?”
“Unfortunately, yes. You need someone to cleanse all your possessions, but I suspect you don’t have anyone handy who could.”
“Not right here, no.”
I thanked him and rang off. If we were to get a witch out here, I’d need to visit Area 51—a message board that the
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