Just then, we heard the high-pitched keen of sirens in the background, and a medic unit pulled up. Numb, barely able to stand, I started to back away to give them room, but a strangled gasp made me turn around. Daniel had regained consciousness. He focused his gaze on me and weakly lifted his fingers. I dropped to his side and took his hand. His breath raggedly puffed from his lungs, torn as if he couldn't catch enough air.
"The dragon ... the dragon ..."
I leaned down, looking in his face, making certain he could hear me. "It's safe, so please don't worry. I'll keep it for you until you get better. Now, save your strength. The paramedics are here to help you."
He blinked, pain flooding in his eyes. "The dragon! Please ... you mustn't... don't... get rid—" Abruptly, he choked on his words and slumped. As I moved aside to give the medics room to work, I knew it was hopeless. A white flicker hovered above Daniel's body. I could see it as clearly as I could see Doc Adams, who was staring at me with a puzzled look. Then, like a breeze gusting past, the spirit vanished. Daniel had passed through the tunnel, and all the work the medics were doing wouldn't bring him back. Silently, I looked down at my shirt. Speckles of blood clung to it where I'd leaned close to his battered body.
Doc Adams was talking to the police; I recognized one of the officers. Deacon Wilson had worked closely with my friend Murray before she got her promotion. Deacon motioned me over and asked me what I knew about Daniel. I told him about Daniel's visit to my store and the forgotten dragon and how I'd run out to stop him and what he'd said at the end. Deacon jotted everything down. I was about to ask him if he wanted to take the dragon back to the station when one of the paramedics hailed him, and he gave me a quick nod before joining the EMT. He came back after a moment. "We've got his wallet and his identification." He looked at the dragon. "Looks like just a bauble to me. Since he asked you to keep the dragon, I'd say go ahead for now. Just don't lose it, in case we need it for some reason."
I grimaced. "If I hadn't called to him, he'd still be alive. Daniel turned around to see what I wanted, and that was just long enough for the van to clip him as it barreled through."
Deacon patted my shoulder. "Emerald, that van was doing a good forty to fifty miles per hour from what everybody says. I don't think a few seconds would have been enough for Daniel to get out of its path. Damn bastard didn't even slow down. I'm not sure if we'll be able to catch them, but we'll try. I just don't know what gets into some people."
I wiped my eyes and smiled wanly at him. Maybe Deacon was right; maybe the accident would have happened even if I hadn't called out at that moment. Maybe when Daniel said that he had to see things through to the end, he knew something was going to happen.
The paramedics gently loaded Daniel's body in the ambulance and drove away, their sirens no longer necessary. With nothing left for me to do, I headed back to the shop. Lana was dishing up soup for a pair of customers who were weighed down with bags and boxes from an active morning of shopping, and Cinnamon was restocking shelves as I came in. My shirt was spattered with bloodstains, my face tearstained, red, and puffy. Cinnamon set down the packet of water biscuits she was holding and cleared her throat. At her questioning glance, I shook my head and whispered, "My tarot client was just killed by a hit-and-run driver."
I kept a spare outfit in my office, just in case I ever needed it. I gathered up the clothes and headed into the bathroom. I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, shaking. How could this happen? One minute he was alive, the next he was dead. I closed my eyes, but images of Daniel flying through the air instantly sprang to mind, so I opened them again. I could do without the instant replay. After taking a deep breath to calm down, I looked in the mirror. Mascara streaked down my cheeks, and my lipstick was smeared. I scrubbed off my makeup and washed my face, splashing cold water against my skin. The chill helped, bracing me as I coughed. I wiped my nose and faced my reflection.
"Emerald, you sure do attract trouble," I said. My reflection shrugged along with me, green eyes flashing against my paler-than-usual skin. I absently brushed my hair back into place, binding it into a quick ponytail to corral the wayward curls as I thought about Daniel's last words. "The dragon ... don't... get rid ..." Well, that was a no-brainer. He wanted me to keep the dragon.
Okay, I thought. I could do that much. Deacon had given me permission, so I assumed that I wouldn't get in any trouble with the police, though I decided to check with Murray just in case. She'd always been smarter than her buddies, and now that she was a detective, I trusted her more than the average cop on the beat.
I pulled the dragon out of my pocket and examined it closely. Beautiful. Lustrous. Old, but I couldn't speculate just how old. And now Daniel was dead, and the dragon was in my keeping. A shiver ran up my spine, and once again a wave of guilt swept over me. I took another deep breath. Deacon was right; I knew he was. Daniel's death wasn't my fault. So why did I feel like I was to blame?
I flipped the statue over in my hand. Yep, I was certain it had been some sort of family heirloom. Well, I would keep Daniel's dragon until I found his next of kin and then return it to them. It was the least I could do for the unsettled man who had been so resigned to his fate. But an odd fluttering in my stomach whispered that there wouldn't be anybody to find. I had a feeling Daniel was very much alone, as alone in life as he now was in death.
The dragon stared up at me, cool eyes gazing into my own. For a moment, I could almost swear I saw them flash red, but then I blinked, and they were the pale milky jade as before. "Little guy, do you know something about Daniel that I don't?" I asked. "Do you know where I can find his family?" The dragon remained silent, but I had the uncanny feeling it heard me and understood everything I was saying.
Two
WHEN I RETURNED to the alcove set aside for my readings, I sat down and stared at the wall, wanting nothing more than to get away. Thank heavens I'd reserved a cabin out at Tyler's Resort for next weekend to celebrate Kip's recent release from being grounded for three months. The kids were really looking forward to this getaway, and after today, I needed to get away for a while, too. I'd put down a hefty nonrefundable deposit, but it was going to be worth it.
Finally, I picked up my deck and rapped it on the edge of the table to align the edges. As I slid the deck into its velvet pouch, I pondered Daniel's accident. Was there anything I could have done to prevent his death? Any chance I could have read the signs clearer? But then, a thought hit me. Maybe I hadn't been able to read his future because maybe Daniel didn't have a future. Maybe he'd been doomed before he walked into my shop. Shaking, I stashed the cards in my office, hiding them in my bottom desk drawer. As I forced myself to return to the front counter, Cinnamon asked if I wanted to leave early, but I told her no, I'd probably just brood if I sat around the house. At least here I could keep busy.
Busy. That was an understatement for the pace we'd been running lately. Ever since Susan Mitchell's ghost showed up, begging me to prove she'd been murdered, my shop turned into a shrine for those wonderful old ladies like Mrs. Halcyon Maxwell, president of the Psychic Occult Society of Rachel in The Ghost & Mr. Chicken. All they wanted was a little taste of adventure, a chance to contact the "other side," and tarot readings now appeared on the menu next to the daily tea selections. I'd been able to hire Cinnamon full-time and Lana part-time and relegate myself to the background, managing, organizing, helping customers with special orders and—of course—reading the cards.
The shop bells jingled as Kip wandered in, carrying a backpack full of books. He'd become very studious the past few months. Back in December, Kip had managed to set loose a tidal wave of trouble with a nasty ghost right before Christmas. During the three months he was grounded, he somehow got the idea that the more he studied, the better my mood. I wasn't about to break the spell.
His face was ashen. "There's a police car out there, and they're cleaning stuff off the road. What happened?"
How could I explain what had happened? My children knew about the realities of death, but I didn't want them to dwell on it. I opted for an honest yet simple answer. "A man got hit by a car and died. The driver didn't stop."
"People shouldn't run away from what they do," Kip mumbled. "I guess he just didn't want to get in trouble."
"You're right; he should have stopped and tried to help." I gave him a hug and a gentle shove toward the tearoom. "Now go have some lemonade and cookies. Only two, though. Remember, Miranda's making dinner tonight." He grimaced, then his eyes lit up as he spotted Lana. Oh, those little-boy crushes that were both terribly sweet and sad at the same time. Lana thought he was adorable, thank God, and endured his attentions with the utmost grace.
Cinnamon asked if I would watch the till for her while she took a break to go drop her paycheck in the bank. I waved her off and peeked into the tearoom to see who was there. Mabel Jones, with her daily cuppa and slice of pound cake, saw me and nodded, then went back to the romance she was reading.
The only other person in the tearoom at this point was Ida Trask, the best baby-sitter this side of the Pacific. I poured myself a cup of tea and joined her when she motioned me over.
"You look tired, dear." She put her hand on my arm.
I shrugged. "Tired isn't the word for it," I said and plunged into the story about Daniel. She let me ramble on until I finished, coming to an abrupt stop.
"How sad," she said.
I nodded. There wasn't much else to say. Destiny, fate ... no matter what you called it, the man was dead.