Page 52 of The Sin Eater
“First time, actually. Last week it was ghouls.”
I turn to face him head-on. “Now you are fucking with me.”
“Nah, man, I’m totally not.” His hot little smile turns puzzled. “I know you’ve had experiences you can’t explain. I can see it.”
The frigid temperature outside is nothing compared to the chill that settles over me now, freezing me in place. I got nothing. My mind goes blank.
The line must have moved forward because he points over my shoulder and nods. I catch up, my back to Retro Dude, wondering if I should give up on coffee and find something harder. I mean, they sell liquor in the Safeway down the block.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I don’t mean to freak you out. I really thought you were... “
His voice fades away before he finishes, which annoys me even more. I whirl around. “Thought I was what? Stupid?”
He raises his hands in the universalcalm downsign. “Have you ever heard of SPAM? Special Processes and Management?”
“Nope.”
His heavy exhale turns into a laugh. “Sorry, dude. I fucked up. Forget I said anything.”
Giving him a glare that has wilted lesser men, I feel rather than see that the women in front of me have stepped away and it’s my turn. “Yeah, I’ll forget that, all right.”
I pivot in time to catch Jett’s smile, which is so wide and bright it almost hurts to look at. “Ezra, Micah, it’s good to see you two getting along so well,” Jett says.
“Hey, Jett,” Micah says, crowding closer to me. “I’m buying whatever he wants.”
I bite back anoh, hell noand order my drink, adding one of Jett’s big-ass cinnamon rolls for good measure.
While Jett does his thing, he and Micah debate the odds of it actually snowing. It doesn’t take much snow to shut the city down, given that the only two directions are uphill and downhill. They talk and I do some quick mental calculations. I’ve never been psychic before, but maybe a guy who knows about vampires, ghouls, and weird-ass carnivals might have some insights I lack.
And dude at the carnival said I should tell my friend the truth. Yeah, that ain’t going to happen any time soon, if ever. That said, since Damon and the cop seemed to believe the psychic thing, what would it hurt to try it out on someone new? I might learn something useful.
If it doesn’t blow up in my face.
It’s the devil talking through you.
Jett sets the cinnamon roll in front of me, a big pile of sugar and starch on a ceramic plate. “I guess I’m eating here,” I say, reaching for my phone. I shoot Shanny a quick text, making surenothing new has come in, then gather my metaphorical ’nads and turn to Micah.
“You got a minute?”
“Sure. Anders won’t be here till later today. Let’s grab a table.”
An ordinary person might ask who Anders is or offer some insight as to the possibility of snow. My social skills aren’t equal to that task, so after Micah pays for our coffees, I thank Jett and head for a corner table with some distance between it and any of the other customers. As soon as we sit, Micah starts apologizing again. I shut him down with a quick, “It’s fine. I might not know what your management thing is, but I guess I’m a little, uh, psychic.”
He gives me an encouraging nod. “Figured it was something.”
I pick at the cinnamon roll. “It’s only been a couple of weeks.” I glance at him, and his expression has gone skeptical.
“Tell me what’s going on.”
I stuff a frosting-covered chunk in my mouth, which gives me an excuse to avoid his question, at least as long as it takes me to chew and swallow. “I work in the hospital morgue, and one night at the end of my shift, I was taking care of a body and had a, a, vision, I guess you’d say.” I pause, both so I can congratulate myself for very nearly telling the truth and to get ready for the punch line. “I saw the guy murder a woman, and now she’s haunting me and someone left her picture at Damon’s apartment.”
Okay, that was too many words. I sit with my jaw clenched, waiting for drama. For some reason Micah didn’t excuse himself and make a quick exit. Instead, he asks an unexpected question. “What prompted you to go to work in the morgue?”
Nope. Not touching that one. “The job appeals to my inner goth.”
He makes a show of examining one of my hands. “Maybe if you had black-painted fingernails, I’d believe you.”
“Would you believe I like offering people that last little bit of comfort?” I sound bitchy and I don’t even care.