Into the Woods by Kim Harrison Page B

brother’s new coat wasn’t my dad.
    “I speculated hell was hot . . .” he said, shivering. “This is c-cold.”
    “It didn’t work,” I whispered, and he fixed his vivid blue eyes on me, looking like a startled animal. My breath caught. He was lost and afraid. Another distant boom broke our gaze as he looked to the snowy skies.
    From nearby came a shrill, “Him. That’s him right over there!”
    Spinning, I found the woman who had screamed earlier. Security was with her, and they were both looking this way.
    “It’s an outrage to all decent folks!” she said loudly in a huff.
    My eyes went to my brother’s. Crap. Now what?
    Robbie jumped off the planter. “We have to go.”
    The small man was scanning the crowd, a look of wonder replacing his fear. At my feet, Robbie grabbed my mom’s stone crucible and jammed it in his pocket. “Sorry everyone!” he said with a forced cheerfulness. “Cousin Bob. What an ass. Did it on a dare. Ha, ha! You won, Bob. Dinner is on me.”
    I got off the planter, but the man—the ghost, maybe—was staring at the buildings. “This fearsome catastrophe isn’t hell,” he whispered, and then his attention dropped to me. “You’re not a demon.”
    His accent sounded thick, like an old TV show, and I wondered how long this guy had been dead.
    Robbie reached up and grabbed his wrist, pulling. “It’s going to be hell if we don’t get out of here! Come on!”
    The man lurched off the planter. All three of us stumbled on the slick stone, knocking into people wearing heavy winter coats and having red faces. “Sorry!” Robbie exclaimed, all of us in a confused knot as he refused to let go of my wrist.
    I squinted as the wind sent a gust of snow at me. “What did I do wrong?” I said, too short to see where we were going. The fireworks were still going off, and people in the square had started singing.
    “Me, me, me,” Robbie cajoled, shoving the ghost ahead of us. “Why is it always about you, Rachel? Can you move it a little faster? You want to end up at the I.S. waiting for Mom to pick you up?”
    For an instant, I froze. Oh, God. Mom. She couldn’t find out.
    “Hurry up! Let’s go!” I shouted, pushing on the man’s back. He stumbled, and I jerked my hands from him, the sight of his bare feet in the snow a shocking reminder of where he had come from. Holy crap, what have I done?
    We found the blocked-off street with an abrupt suddenness. The smell of food grew heavy as the crowd thinned. My lungs were hurting, and I yanked on Robbie’s sleeve.
    His face was tight in bother as he turned to me, but then he nodded and stopped when he saw me gasping. “Are you okay?” he asked, and I bobbed my head, trying to catch my breath.
    “I think they quit following,” I said, but it was more of a prayer than a true thought.
    Next to me, the man bent double. A groan of pain came from him, and I lurched backward when he started in with the dry heaves. The people nearby began drifting away with ugly looks. “Too much partying,” someone muttered in disgust.
    “Poor uncle Bob,” Robbie said loudly, patting his back gingerly, and the man shoved him away, still coughing.
    “Don’t touch me,” he panted, and Robbie retreated to stand beside me where we watched his hunched figure gasp in the falling snow. Behind us, the party continued at the square. Slowly he got control of himself and straightened, carefully arranging his borrowed coat and reaching for a nonexistent hat. His face was almost too young for his short beard. He had no wrinkles but those from stress. Silently he took us in as he struggled to keep his lungs moving, his bright blue eyes going from one of us to the other.
    “Robbie, we have to get out of here,” I whispered, tugging on his sleeve. He looked frozen in his thin shirt with only his mittens, hat, and scarf between him and the snow.
    Robbie got in front of me to block the man’s intent gaze. “I’m really sorry. We didn’t mean to . . . do