Storm Born Page 0,53

and we all needed to deal with that.

While opening my car door, I looked up and saw a red fox watching me from the same spot as last time.

I strode toward him, close but not too close.

"Go away!" I shouted.

He stared at me, unmoving.

"I mean it. I'm not speaking to you. You're as bad as the rest of them."

He lay down, resting his chin on crossed paws while he continued to regard me solemnly.

"I don't care how cute you are, okay? I'm through with you."

A woman working in her yard next door gave me an uneasy look. I turned my back on the fox, got in the car, and drove home. Yet, as I did, I couldn't help but feel relieved Kiyo had survived. I honestly hadn't known if he would. Strong and vicious he might be, but Aeson had been slinging fire at him. The question was, had Kiyo merely escaped? Or had he managed to kill the king? What had happened to Jasmine?

Tim still wasn't back when I got home. I decided then I didn't want to leave my house that day or make any pretense of productivity. I wanted to hit the sauna, put on pajamas, and then watch bad TV while eating Milky Ways. It seemed like a pretty solid plan, and I set out to make it happen.

Twenty minutes later, I sat immersed in hot steam, draped in humidity. Heat was great for loosening muscles, although that only made me realize how much I'd hurt them. At least I'd made it out alive. That was the real miracle, considering what a disaster last night had turned into.

I didn't want to think much about it or about Mom and Roland, but it was hard not to. Part of me still believed - still hoped - that all of this was a mistake. After all, wasn't it just everyone's say-so? Of course, somehow I doubted my parents would make all that up. But really. Where was the DNA test? The photographic evidence? I had nothing tangible. Nothing I could see and believe.

Except my own memories. The memories Roland had covered up for me. Hypnotism wasn't uncommon in our line of work. It was just another state of unconsciousness. Shamans who served as religious leaders and healers used similar techniques on their followers and patients to heal the body and mind. Roland and I, as "freelance shamans," didn't really have much need for it. Our contact with the spirit world often became more physical and direct. But I had done some healings and soul retrievals, so I knew the basics.

Leaning my head against the wall, I closed my eyes and thought about the tattoo of Selene on my back. She was my earthly connection, the grounding of my body and soul and mind in this world. I focused on her image and what she represented and then slowly altered my state of mind. Rather than slipping out to another plane, I crossed inward, back into the far reaches of myself and the parts of me buried in my unconscious.

It probably didn't take long, but in that state, it was painstakingly slow. I browsed through pieces of me, both memories and hidden truths alike. All the things that made me Eugenie Markham. I concentrated on lightning, hoping it would snag my attention. Surely a lightning strike couldn't be buried forever.

There. A faint tug. I dove in after it, trying to grasp it and the memory it linked to. It was difficult. The image was slippery, like trying to hold on to a fish. Each time I thought I had it, it wriggled away. Roland had done a good job. Steeling myself, I fought against the layers, clawing and fighting until -

I woke up in bed.

But it wasn't the bed in my house. It was a different bed, a smaller bed covered in a pink comforter. The bed of my childhood. I lay in it, staring up at a ceiling covered in plastic stars just like the one I had as an adult. It was the middle of the night, and I couldn't sleep. I'd been an insomniac then, just as now. This time, however, it was different. Something other than my churning mind was keeping me awake. Somewhere, outside, I could hear a voice calling me. No, not a voice exactly, but it was a pull. A pull I couldn't shut out.

Climbing out of bed, I slipped my feet into dirty sneakers and put a light jacket on