“Had ta drive your pal Bruce home,” he announced. “Guess their Eagle’s actin’ up again.”

I laughed. “I’ll fix it. Elise is making me tamales anyway. What happened to Billy and Mel?”

“They headed out, too. Mel says she’s makin’ dinner for everybody tonight and you’re comin’ over. And Rob says—”

“Robert. He doesn’t like nicknames.”

“Robert,” Gary said with the patience of an old man humoring a young one, which was to say, no patience at all, “says you looked better when you woke up. Not so patchy, he said. He said you’d know what that meant.”

I looked down at my hands as if I’d be able to see what Robert saw in them, and smiled again. “Yeah. I know what he means. I think he’s right.” I knew he was. I couldn’t see my patchwork the way Robert seemed to, but there was no incessant ball of power beneath my breastbone any longer. I couldn’t even feel it anymore, not like it was something separate, anyway. It belonged to me, or I belonged to it, as much as my hand or eye did. It took less than a blink to be able to see silver-sheened magic coursing under my skin, and as little to turn that second sight off again. “I really need to practice,” I said, “but I think I’ve kind of got the hang of this thing now. It’s…” I looked up at the big gray-eyed old man and smiled. “I guess I’m not fighting it anymore. That’s good, right?”

Gary wrapped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me against his chest. “That’s great, doll. Now, you take a ride home from an old cab driver?”

“Promise not to drive using only the Force as your guide?”

“No,” Gary said cheerfully, and herded me out the door.

I made him leave me alone at home. It was hours till dinnertime and Petite, despite her wrinkled back end, would get me to the Hollidays’ home just fine. I also badly needed some time to sit and think and just be me without any magical interference or helpful friends hanging out to make sure I was okay. I took a shower, knowing perfectly well I was going about things backwards, and put on some grubby clothes and my driving shades before getting my toolbox and going down to the parking lot to work on Petite.

Morrison was leaning on the hood of his gold Avalon, arms folded across his chest, studying my Mustang when I got down there. He looked as though he was actively, even aggressively, trying not to look like he had when I’d stepped into his garden.

He wore a white short-sleeved T-shirt instead of a button-down suit shirt. It fit snugly, tight around his biceps, and I suddenly realized the suit shirts and jackets he normally wore added a thickness to his waist that wasn’t his at all. Either that or he’d had some amazing sculpting surgery in the two days I’d been sleeping. The T-shirt was tucked into dark gray slacks, making his hips and waist look much narrower than I was accustomed to. He wore loafers. I couldn’t remember seeing him in anything but shining tied shoes, either, not even at the Fourth of July picnic. His hair was bright with silver in the sunlight, and he was wearing dark sunglasses, which would’ve seemed like an affectation if they hadn’t looked so good. The entire ensemble was completely unlike anything I’d ever seen Morrison in before.

For one brief and rather glorious moment I wondered if my captain had actually dressed to show off for me. Then I got myself under control and came the rest of the way out of the building, putting my toolbox down and leaning against Petite. I wished I was wearing something better than an oil-stained tank top and jeans with the knees already torn out, but that was me, Joanne Walker. You take what you can get. We stood there for a while, both of us leaning on our cars, both of us with our arms crossed over our chests, both of us watching the other through sunglasses that hid our eyes.

Then Morrison said, “Was it real?” and I found I had to look away even with the protective lenses.

“I don’t know.” I pulled my shades off and pinched the bridge of my nose, setting the glasses on Petite’s roof, then looked at him. “Yeah.” I didn’t like how low my voice was, but I couldn’t get it any louder. My heart hurt, and so did breathing. Morrison might have let me get off with the I don’t know, but I owed a lot of people better than that, not least him. “It was real for me. This is my reality. Waking or not.”

Morrison took his own shades off and pushed away from the Toyota. I straightened up automatically to just his height, and there he was, close enough to kiss again, his eyebrows drawn down a little over very blue eyes.

“This is going to keep happening with you, isn’t it. Things that can’t be explained sensibly. Whether I try to keep my precinct running smoothly and without—” His mouth worked and he grated, “Paranormal incidents,” before resuming something of a more natural tone. “They’re just going to keep following you around, aren’t they.”

“Yeah, probably.” I sighed, knowing there was no probably about it. “Yes.”

“You and goddamned Holliday,” Morrison said, exhaled, looked away, and looked back again. “Would you take a promotion?”

“What?” My ears were suddenly ringing, disbelief sharp and tinny in my blood.

“To detective. I’d partner you with Holliday. He knows the ropes, and you two work well together. And there are things you’d work on better together than anybody else I’ve got.” The last words were spoken almost through his teeth, dislike of the truth colored with growing resignation. I knew exactly how he felt. That he could stand there and offer me a detective position, knowing what he was letting himself in for, was a measure of the man.

And I wanted it. To my shock I wanted it so badly I could just about taste it. It meant having license to follow the weird events that my life was becoming a part of. It meant, with any luck, being proactive enough to stop nasty, dark things from happening in my city. It meant working with somebody who believed in what I could do, with tacit understanding from our boss, whether he liked it or not. I had never thought of myself as ambitious, particularly with ambitions to be a cop, but Morrison had pulled me into it and I was starting to realize that I liked helping people.

But there was a huge chasm on the other side of that question. Two questions. He’d asked me two questions, and no matter what I said, answering the one precluded the other. Was it real did not, would not, could not fit into the same universe as would you take a promotion. And Morrison knew it. He hadn’t said, “I’m promoting you.” That would’ve closed the door on was it real. It would’ve told me something, and that he left that door open…

…that told me something, too.

Color pounded in my cheeks, so high I knew my tan would never hide it. My throat hurt. My heart hurt. My hands hurt. As if the bracelet and the necklace and the medal all lay tight and piercing those places, maybe trying to build a shield of protection that for the first time, I didn’t want and didn’t know how to do without. If I’d thought a sword was any good for stabbing myself with, I’d have drawn Cernunnos’s blade from its astral sheath at my hip and thrown myself on it, but that kind of behavior required something to prop it on, or someone else to hold it. I didn’t want to blink, knowing more of those tears that were coming too easily lately would fall. Regardless of what I said, I was going to lose something.

I knotted my hands into fists until my fingernails cut into my palms, and said, “I’d take the promotion.”

Morrison let out a breath like he’d been holding it and inclined his head. “Congratulations, then.”

That was all there was to say: he stepped away, turning to his vehicle. I whispered, “Thanks,” as he pulled the door open, then raised my voice abruptly to say, “Morrison.”

He looked back over the Toyota’s door, squinting in the sunlight. “Mel’s making dinner for everybody at their place tonight. You want to come?” I heard my own voice with a distant sense of astonishment, wondering what exactly I thought I was doing. Trying, maybe. Trying to tell him something my choice didn’t allow for.