Magic in the Blood by Devon Monk Page B

shook his head. “You really don’t know anything about this, do you? But even if it were séances, do I look like I care?” He grinned and I could tell that no, he most certainly did not.
    “Well, good luck with that. If things go well, maybe they can come de-ghost my apartment.”
    I was joking around.
    Grant didn’t buy it.
    “Why? You seen ghosts there too? Ghost magic?”
    “No. Not really. Not like here on the street. It’s complicated. And what do you mean ghost magic? There’s no such thing.”
    “Those graffiti things you said you saw, that appeared and disappeared. Ghost magic, right? Talk to me.”
    I could talk to him about the magic near his place, could talk to him about the ghosts on his street, but telling him about my dad, in my apartment bathroom, touching me when I was naked and alone in the dark . . .
    Nope. Wasn’t gonna happen. All I wanted to do about that was find some way to scrub the memory of it, and the echo of his touch, out of my brain and off my skin. Too bad magic didn’t erase the memories I wanted to get rid of.
    “I don’t really want to get into it, okay?”
    And he must have caught the “please” in my tone because he reached over and patted my hand.
    “Does it have something to do with this?” He gently brushed the back of my right hand and the whorls of metallic color that webbed there.
    “Maybe.”
    “That happened when you left town for a while, right? The coma and all?”
    I nodded.
    “When you feel like talking about whatever happened in your apartment, or anything else, you come back here, okay?”
    “If you keep making these scones, I will.”
    But he wasn’t about to be brushed off so easily. “Allie. Listen to me now. I want you to know you can come here anytime. No questions asked. I have a place you could sleep—alone—if you need it. And I know how to keep my mouth shut about people’s . . . business.”
    “Thank you,” I said.
    That, Grant accepted. He probably thought it was sincere. He had good instincts.
    “Okay, so how about I get you a refill on that coffee?”
    “That’d be great.”
    He gave my hand one last pat and then pushed up on his feet and walked off as the door opened.
    I don’t usually pay attention to opening doors. Not really. I mean, sure, when I was running for my life I jumped at every creak of door and slide of window. But that was over with now. This was my town. I was safe. Except for the released felon, the cursed cop, and the ghosts, everything was peachy.
    Or not.
    It wasn’t just one person coming through the door; it was a half dozen, split four men, two women. They were all dressed in Sunday morning churchgoing clothes even though it was not Sunday. They all carried that earnest sincerity of those who feel a deep need to spread the Word.
    I let out the breath I’d been holding. The last thing I needed to worry about were churchgoing people. They looked around the room as they took off their coats and hung them on the coatrack by the door. They were chatty, smiling, and making the “isn’t this nice” noises of people discovering a new pleasant place to hang out.
    But another movement caught my eye. A man sitting in the far corner of the building lifted his cup of coffee toward me in a sort of salute. I’d say he was in his mid-fifties, and he was bald except for a ring of hair that may have once been blond and was cut short behind his temples. He wore bifocals and a nice dark brown sweater. He didn’t take a drink of his coffee and didn’t look away from me. He just sat there and smiled and smiled.
    Creepy.
    People moved between our line of vision, so I went back to finishing my coffee. Since I’d told Detective Stotts I’d Hound for him tonight, I also needed to score a phone and call Violet to cancel our dinner date. Now that I thought about it, I wondered if Pike could tell me something about those weird glyphs. I still had the card he’d given me for the Pack. He said if I called, they’d tell me