threw the horseshoe or launched herself at it as she had before, she would end up in a padded room somewhere.
On the other hand, leaving Michael to battle it alone was not an option.
Please God let the hunter not come back
.
Nervous shivers coursed over her skin from just thinking about it. She was the one who broke eye contact with Tony, ostensibly to look down among the debris on the floor for her phone, but really to keep him from reading anything in her eyes she didn’t want him to know.
“Is everything okay?” Tony asked quietly. Since she was carefully not looking at him, she didn’t see his frown. Instead she heard it in his voice. She
was
behaving oddly, she acknowledged with resignation, and Tony was well enough acquainted with her to pick up on it.
“Yes, of course.” She cast him a fleeting glance just in time to watch his gaze slide down to the floor. His expression turned speculative, and she knew that he was indeed taking in the full glory of the circle of salt.
Feeling more than slightly self-conscious about the line of white crystals that curved just inches in front of her toes, she sought and failed to find a reasonable explanation for it. At the same time, knowing Tony wasn’t looking at her, she gave in to the impulse to cast yet another swift, veiled look around the room: still no sign of anything otherworldly except Michael, thank God. The relief she’d felt upon seeing Tony had disappeared as she realized that in the situation in which she currently found herself there was absolutely nothing he could do to help. He investigated/apprehended/shot bad guys. He had no power over things that went bump in the night. Like hunters. Or spirits, evil or otherwise.
He did know, to some small degree, about her ability to see the dead, which she had used to aid his investigations. He didn’t know anything like the full extent of what she experienced, or (God forbid!) anything about Michael.
Michael definitely knew about him, though. About how much she liked him. About their kisses. About how close she had come to sleeping with him.
Which absolutely would have happened already if it hadn’t been for her own personal thing that went bump in the night.
Tony said, “You seem …” He hesitated, and she suspected that he was searching for a tactful way to put it. “… distracted.”
“You got to give it to Dudley—the dude’s perceptive.” Michael’s sarcasm earned him another narrow-eyed glance. His eyes were open, but his lips were drawn back from his teeth in a way that once again made her think that he was experiencing an attack of severe pain. Her insides curled in sympathy, a reaction that was made worse by the knowledge that there was nothing she could do to help him. Treating injured ghosts was way outside her wheelhouse. Hard on the heels of that thought came another: what would she do if he didn’t recover within a reasonable period of time? What would she do if he didn’t recover at all?
Ghosts couldn’t die—duh!—but she was pretty sure that being sucked into Spookville was only one of many terrible fates that could befall them. Trouble was, never having had a pet ghost before, she wasn’t sure exactly what those fates were. She did know, devoutly, that she didn’t want to find out.
One problem at a time: for however long Michael was stuck in her office, she was stuck there, too. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—leave him, not even briefly, not to go to the infirmary at Pugh’s behest or anywhere (like, say, the ladies’ room) else. She’d been warned that if they were separated by more than about fifty feet, a vortex could open and he could get sucked away just like that, no hunter involvement necessary.
Don’t panic
.
“I’m looking for my phone,” she told Tony. “It was in my purse, but everything scattered when I dropped it.”
At least she was being partially truthful: she
was
scanning the floor for her phone. At the same time, she was also keeping an
On the other hand, leaving Michael to battle it alone was not an option.
Please God let the hunter not come back
.
Nervous shivers coursed over her skin from just thinking about it. She was the one who broke eye contact with Tony, ostensibly to look down among the debris on the floor for her phone, but really to keep him from reading anything in her eyes she didn’t want him to know.
“Is everything okay?” Tony asked quietly. Since she was carefully not looking at him, she didn’t see his frown. Instead she heard it in his voice. She
was
behaving oddly, she acknowledged with resignation, and Tony was well enough acquainted with her to pick up on it.
“Yes, of course.” She cast him a fleeting glance just in time to watch his gaze slide down to the floor. His expression turned speculative, and she knew that he was indeed taking in the full glory of the circle of salt.
Feeling more than slightly self-conscious about the line of white crystals that curved just inches in front of her toes, she sought and failed to find a reasonable explanation for it. At the same time, knowing Tony wasn’t looking at her, she gave in to the impulse to cast yet another swift, veiled look around the room: still no sign of anything otherworldly except Michael, thank God. The relief she’d felt upon seeing Tony had disappeared as she realized that in the situation in which she currently found herself there was absolutely nothing he could do to help. He investigated/apprehended/shot bad guys. He had no power over things that went bump in the night. Like hunters. Or spirits, evil or otherwise.
He did know, to some small degree, about her ability to see the dead, which she had used to aid his investigations. He didn’t know anything like the full extent of what she experienced, or (God forbid!) anything about Michael.
Michael definitely knew about him, though. About how much she liked him. About their kisses. About how close she had come to sleeping with him.
Which absolutely would have happened already if it hadn’t been for her own personal thing that went bump in the night.
Tony said, “You seem …” He hesitated, and she suspected that he was searching for a tactful way to put it. “… distracted.”
“You got to give it to Dudley—the dude’s perceptive.” Michael’s sarcasm earned him another narrow-eyed glance. His eyes were open, but his lips were drawn back from his teeth in a way that once again made her think that he was experiencing an attack of severe pain. Her insides curled in sympathy, a reaction that was made worse by the knowledge that there was nothing she could do to help him. Treating injured ghosts was way outside her wheelhouse. Hard on the heels of that thought came another: what would she do if he didn’t recover within a reasonable period of time? What would she do if he didn’t recover at all?
Ghosts couldn’t die—duh!—but she was pretty sure that being sucked into Spookville was only one of many terrible fates that could befall them. Trouble was, never having had a pet ghost before, she wasn’t sure exactly what those fates were. She did know, devoutly, that she didn’t want to find out.
One problem at a time: for however long Michael was stuck in her office, she was stuck there, too. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—leave him, not even briefly, not to go to the infirmary at Pugh’s behest or anywhere (like, say, the ladies’ room) else. She’d been warned that if they were separated by more than about fifty feet, a vortex could open and he could get sucked away just like that, no hunter involvement necessary.
Don’t panic
.
“I’m looking for my phone,” she told Tony. “It was in my purse, but everything scattered when I dropped it.”
At least she was being partially truthful: she
was
scanning the floor for her phone. At the same time, she was also keeping an
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