Tears of frustration gathered in her eyes. “You’re my friend, damn it. Damn, damn, damn it! I put you first! Before witches. Before everybody!”
I smiled. Molly had just cussed out loud, where her kids might overhear, which she never did. I said, “I know you do. And I love you too.” At which point Molly’s tears pooled over and spilled down her cheeks. I was making everyone cry. I sat and patted the mattress and she fell on the bed beside me, doing the pregnant-woman boohoo at a loud wail and with full waterworks. I put an arm around her and gathered her close. Big Evan opened the door, took us in, and closed the door, leaving her to me. Coward.
I held Molly and rocked her while she cried and moaned and said things like “You can trust me.” And “I’m not a death witch anymore.” And “I love you. I love you. I love you. You’re my bestest friend in the whole entire world!” And “I never held Evangelina’s death against you!” And a dozen other things that may have been in Gaelic, but were sure not English, and made no sense. At all.
When she calmed a little, enough that I thought the baby might not suffer from the emotional overload, I said, “I trust you, Molly. I’ve always trusted you. Even when the death magics rode you so hard.”
“You do? You have?”
I patted her shoulder even while I eased her away from my now-drenched clothing. “Yes. I do. I have.” I patted a time or two more, wondering if this was enough physical contact or if Mol needed more. I wasn’t good at this stuff. After a few more pats, I said, “So, while you’re up close and personal, can you check out my hands and body for any spells and crap that may be clinging to me?”
“Spells and crap?”
I gave an overly nonchalant shrug. “Workings. Come on, Mol.”
Molly wiped her eyes and dried her tears on her skirt. She took my hands, turning them over and inspecting both sides. I felt a tingle of power, of her magics. They feathered across my palms, delicate energies, a soothing warmth, and then stronger, like the hot/cold electric touch of sparkler fireworks when lit. Oddly similar to a master vampire’s magics, cold and hot all at once.
I pulled in a breath, sharp and quick. “I guess you’re inspecting me for the spell.”
The ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Gotta bring home the bacon. And to that, I gotta have a bill to hit Leo with. Now shut up. I’m working here.” She set my right hand in my lap and held my left, her fingers tracing across my palm. The sparkler heat changed and she pressed her fingernails into the pads of my palm. A branding iron of heat shot into my hand. Into my nerves. My bones. It was all I could do not to jerk away, but I bared my teeth and my breath hissed. “Oh,” Molly muttered. “This may hurt a bit.”
I breathed through the pain. Hurt a bit, my butt.
After what seemed like an hour later but was more likely only ten minutes, Molly shook her head. “I can see leftover energies. Nothing more. If there’s anything here, I don’t know what it might be.”
“So there’s no chance it’ll explode and blow us all to smithereens?”
Molly laughed, a happy, healthy laugh, and rewiped her cheeks. “I never said that. There is always a chance for destruction and violence, big-cat.”
She had a point, but I still felt better, and by her scent, so did Molly. “I gave you the general descriptions of the witches who attacked the house. Do any of the names match the descriptions?”
Molly’s tears had stopped; her eyes were still red and watery as she said, “Several of them are large women, but only one matched the little woman. This one.” She pointed to the name. It was only three letters, no surname. “It might be a nickname.”
“Tau,” I said. “Okay. Thank you. It’s a place to start. But I havta ask. Why no last names?”
Molly shook her head. “Lachish says that after the coven couldn’t stop hurricane Katrina, the anti-witch sentiment was so bad that most witches went underground and stopped using family names. To protect the humans in the families. She refused to give me more.”
Which made sense and eased away some of the worry that clutched my spine. But only some of it. Witches might have tried to kill me. Why not give me the full names to protect me?
* * *
Later, on the way out of the house, I left the list with Alex, with the request “See what you can find?”
“I heard,” he said, taking the folded paper and snapping a photo of it on his phone before handing it back. “We all heard. Emotional women.”
From upstairs Molly shouted down, “You try carrying a baby for nine months while chemicals and hormones run through your body making you nutso and fat and swollen and then push an eight-pound lump of squalling human out through an opening big enough to fit a straw in and see if you don’t react from time to time. Until then, shut your trap.”
Wisely, Alex did.
* * *
On the way to vamp central, I wondered again how I survived the lightning that struck me. And if the angel Hayyel had saved me in a far more concrete way than I had originally thought. Did God want me alive for some reason? Did the angel work deliberately and independently to stop the witches trying to kill me? Are angels even allowed to interfere? If Hayyel acted to save me, was he in trouble with the Big Guy Upstairs?
If anyone could do something with the list of names, Alex could. Maybe he’d have something for me when we got back. Like full names. Photos. Their social media pages. Or their favorite things—walks in the rain, puppies, honesty, and laughter. Oh! And using magic to try to kill Jane Yellowrock and start a vamp-witch war.