“So powerful he could get a message to her to do something that awful?”
“Well, you’re talking to me right now, aren’t you? And I’m not even a witch anymore. If what you say is true, and this experiment you were so vague about is what helped you contact a mere mortal, it’s obviously possible. If Adam had even an inkling Sal would come after me, if he sensed evil in Sal and a way to utilize it, he’d do it just because he wants the rest of my days to suck butt. But that also means you need to watch your back, Win. If Adam was responsible for Sal, if he can reach out in death, he can certainly get to you in the afterlife.”
“I don’t like hearing this, Stevie. That he can manipulate people from beyond the grave in such a dire manner is reason for concern. As for me? I’d love to see him try.”
“We have no way to know for sure. Just keep your eyes and ears open and we’ll revisit if necessary. Okay?” If I lingered too long on the kind of reach Adam Westfield did or didn’t have, I’d never get out of bed again.
“Done.”
“Okay, let’s talk happier stuff. Like my visit to the doctor.”
Win’s laughter, warm and husky, echoed in my ear. “So what say the doctor? Are we fit as a fiddle again?”
Closing my eyes, I inhaled the scent of the Sound as the sun beat down on my head. “Well, we’re fit. The fiddle is questionable. My vision’s fine and the sprain in my arm from that crazy bungee jump I did from the rope on the scaffolding is all good, too. I’m healing well.”
“And how is your mental state, Stevie? How are you handling someone trying to kill you?”
I’ll admit, I’d had some rough nights since that one when Sal almost killed me, but if I woke in a cold sweat, Belfry was always there to soothe me. And all I had to do was call on Win, and he dropped the philandering he was always bragging he was doing on Plane Pick-Up, and talked me down.
All in all, I was mending in more ways than one ,and Win and I were forming a friendship I’d come to rely on…dare I say even enjoy? Unless he’s sticking his nose in swatches of paint and light fixtures. Then I wish for the old days when I could zap a pestering spirit off to another plane.
“I feel pretty good. You’ve been a big part of my healing. Thank you for that, Win.”
His warm aura surrounded me when he said, “Excellent. Then we begin spy-training camp tomorrow.”
I frowned. “Do I have to eat wheatgrass and raw eggs for breakfast to attend spy-training camp?”
“No. Nothing so extreme. Just some raw liver and pig’s feet smoothies. They make for a strong spy.”
I laughed at him, my giggle floating on the ocean breeze. “So how are you these days, International Man of Intrigue? I feel like everything’s been way too much about me lately, and I’ve forgotten to ask how you’re doing.”
“I’m right as rain.”
“So, listen, after I went to the doctor’s today, I did a little something.”
“Please tell me it wasn’t a trip to the new vintage clothing store you couldn’t quit nattering on about. You can afford to buy all those designer labels you so covet, Stevie—brand new, in fact.”
“Ah. But it’s not as much fun if there’s no hunt for your prey. No big rush at your coup. If I just buy whatever I wanted, there’d be no thrill.”
“I imagine someday I’ll find this trait of yours endearing. For now, tell me what you did? More shoes from Betsy Whoever for three bucks?”
I pulled a paper from my pocket and unfolded it, holding it up. “This is what I did after the doctor’s today.”
Win’s pause left me certain he was as stunned as I’d hoped he would be. I just hoped it was a happy stunned.
“You bought Madam Zoltar’s?”
“Yep, lock, stock and crystal ball. I thought maybe, if you were game, I could be Madam Zoltar 2.0 or some variation, and we could help spirits the way I used to, with you as my conduit to the afterlife. This way, I’d be as legit as anyone can be without actually doing the communicating, and we’d both have a purpose—a reason to get up every day. I checked with Liza, to be sure it wouldn’t upset her, and she said she’d be thrilled to see the sign lit up again. I mean, that’s unless you’ve decided you want to cross over.”
I let him digest for a moment, roll it around in his brain. He was, after all, the one I’d have to rely on to help me make contact.
Holding up the picture frame, I asked, “So, Crispin Alistair Winterbottom—you in?”
“I think I am, Stevie Like-Nicks-the-Singer. I think I am. But there’s one small thing I’d like to discuss.”
“You want rules? We’ve got scads of ’em. What’s one more?”
“No more rules. This is personal.”
I crossed my legs in front of me and stretched. “Okay, tell me.”
“There’s another reason I contacted you, Stevie. It wasn’t just about the house and money…”