Al chuckled, low and long, and I stifled a shiver. “If only it was that,” he said wryly. “I know you’re driving to your little witches’ meeting. Tell me you weren’t in St. Louis yesterday.”

Oh God. I’m in trouble. “The arch falling was not my fault,” I babbled, the broken chair leg in my hand clattering to the floor. “It was Trent! He did it, not me!”

“Damn my dame. It was you,” Al said, grimacing as if he’d eaten something sour.

“It was Trent,” I said, wondering how he knew the arch had fallen, but my voice lacked conviction, and I became more worried yet when Al wouldn’t look at me. Nervous, I tucked my rank hair behind an ear and fidgeted.

“I don’t know what kind of spin I can put on this,” Al finally said, his eyes on his dirty fingers and his shoulders slumped.

“Al?” I said, really concerned. He looked up, and I blanched at his empty expression.

“And then this afternoon,” he said, reaching out to rub my hair between his fingers. I didn’t pull away, and he leaned forward to sniff it. “You were in the badlands of Arizona. Yes?” he asked, looking up at me from around his sweat-soaked bangs.

I didn’t feel so good, and I sat down, a hand to my middle. “This is about Ku’Sox, isn’t it,” I said, more of a statement than a question.

He made a sighing groan, and I knew it was. “Then you’ve met,” he said, his thoughts clearly on the day-walking demon. “Funny, you don’t look dead.” His hand touched my chin, shifting it so he could see where I’d been pixed, the blisters itchy and red. “I’m surprised you survived the little designer dump. I nearly didn’t. At least he doesn’t know who you are yet.”

I winced, and Al’s hand fell away. “He knows, doesn’t he,” Al said flatly, and I nodded, making the connection now between Ku’Sox and the shadowy figure I’d seen fighting Al before I’d come over and found Pierce ready to finish him off. Maybe I shouldn’t have banished Ku’Sox to the ever-after.

“He lived my entire life in eight heartbeats,” I admitted. I tried not to whine, but I knew by Al’s “So what?” rise to his eyebrows that it was there.

“Bet that was fun,” he said, and I wondered if Al could do the same and hadn’t, knowing it for the gross violation of self that it was. Not rape, but worse almost. “That adds something a little unexpected to the mix,” he said as an afterthought.

“Sorry,” I said, and Al slumped, rubbing his forehead with his stubby fingers. From behind us, the tapestry finally became quiet, and the silence was almost creepier than the weird burbling sound it had been making. Licking my lips, I stood. “What is he?” I asked. A shiver went through me, and I wondered if it was the need to feel like I wasn’t alone, that I wasn’t a freak. “Is he like me?” I asked, lips barely moving.