Chapter 13
Tempest stared at the closed door of the shop. That woman had made her anxious. It had been a long time since anyone made her so anxious.
Usually her stories kept that from happening. Her mind used to go crazy with what-ifs—things she imagined might happen that seemed so real. Stupid things, like what if she crossed the wrong street and a bus hit her? But then, what if she went down the other street instead, and she tripped on the sidewalk and broke her leg? Some days she wouldn’t go out at all because she saw so many bad things.
Or what if that man sitting outside the coffee shop begging was messed up in the head and decided to hurt someone? She’d see it happening. And then she’d wonder, what if she gave him a cup of coffee, would that stop him? But in her head maybe it wouldn’t, and she’d try different things in her mind until she found one that worked, like coffee and a sandwich. Or five dollars, or a bottle of whiskey. And then she’d feel compelled to do it.
Just in case.
When she was seventeen and in the state hospital, the therapist had taught her to write it all down. Write it like a story. Write the worst things that could happen, so she’d know they wouldn’t really.
After a long time she’d stopped worrying so much. She’d learned to control it. But then lately it had started happening again. She worried about the dark shadow coming to get Rebel. She worried about Mount Hood erupting. She worried that dragons were real, and then she worried that all the dragons were dead.
She didn’t tell anyone that part. Not even Rebel. They really would think she was crazy. Crazier.
Especially because none of the things she thought of to stop this new bad stuff ever worked, in her stories or in her head.
Rebel brought her a cup of tea from the break room. Tempest took it and sipped, happy that her hands didn’t shake.
“Are you okay?” Rebel looked worried.
Tempest smiled. “Don’t worry,” she said. “If you worry because I’m worried, then I start worrying because you’re worried, and then it will go around and around until we both collapse from worry.”
Rebel didn’t smile back. “You saw something when you looked at that woman.” She checked the card the woman had given her. Tempest saw it was already frayed around the edges from Rebel fiddling with it. “Elizabeth Montgomery.”
Tempest let out an explosive giggle, surprising herself. “That’s not her real name.”
“How do you know?”
She shrugged. “Partly because I know.” Rebel nodded. She was the only one who believed that Tempest’s worries weren’t always just fantasies. When they were on the streets, she’d kept them out of trouble sometimes by doing the things she thought of that made the bad things not happen. Or by staying away, if she couldn’t figure out a way to stop them.
“But mostly because Elizabeth Montgomery was an actress. She was on that old TV show in the 1960’s, Bewitched. It’s on cable.” She turned to look at Rebel, humming a bit of the theme song and then wiggling her nose. “She was Samantha. The witch.”
Rebel rolled her eyes. “Seriously?” Then her face grew thoughtful. “A witch. The witch.”
Tempest could almost see Rebel making connections in her mind. The sketch. The woman. Something else she couldn’t quite grasp. She asked, “Who was that man? In the sketch?” She knew, even if faux-Elizabeth didn’t, that Rebel had recognized the man.
Rebel moved her shoulders uncomfortably. In anyone else, Tempest would have called it a squirm, but Rebel didn’t squirm. Rebel sighed. “It was that job I was on last night,” she said. “To recover an artifact from that rogue witch I told you about. It went south. Another thief was there, and he kept me from getting the package. Alarms were set off. I had to bail.”
She could hear the annoyance in Rebel’s voice. Rebel was a perfectionist. She hated when things got screwed up, even if it wasn’t her fault.
Robbing a witch’s house was dangerous, although Rebel had done it before. But if she knew who you were…
“Did she see you?”
Rebel shook her head. “I got out clean. But she must have seen the other guy. I mean, I can’t be positive because he was wearing a mask and I didn’t get a good look. But when I looked at that sketch…”
“You recognized him.”
Rebel nodded.
Tempest said, “Was that woman who came in here the witch whose house you were in?”
“Not if the picture in the intel was right.” But Rebel still looked worried. For good reason—witches and sorcerers could alter their appearance, if they wanted. It could still be her.
“So, she didn’t see you, but when someone came looking for him, they still came here where you are. Why here?”
“Good question.” The words came out slowly. Rebel was looking off into the distance, rubbing her hands up and down her arms, like Tempest did when she was worried. Or like she was trying to scrub something off her skin.
This didn’t make any sense. Unless the things making Tempest anxious right now were true, and they were all connected to the shadow that she kept seeing in her mind. Rebel, the witch, and the other thief.
And Tempest.
Another stab of anxiety hit her in the stomach, and her fingers twitched, wanting to pick up her pen and write until it went away.
Rebel asked, “Do you know who he is? You said you’d never seen him in person, but…” she let her voice trail off.
Tempest nodded. She didn’t like to lie, but it was easier than you’d think to tell the truth without really telling it. Like she’d done with faux-Elizabeth. “I’ve seen him before.” She paused, then finished softly, “But only in my head.”