As she was walking into the pie shop, Walt Benson himself was pushing the door open. He grinned broadly at her, displacing the much-maligned walrus mustache. “Hey there, sweet girl.”
Cordelia exclaimed. “Hi, Mr. Benson! I was just talking about you!”
Mr. Benson followed her into the shop, where she stood away from the crowd. To her immense relief, there was a slice of pear-cranberry tart left in one of the mismatched cake stands. Cordelia recognized several people in the booths, but instead of approaching her, they just waved and nodded while indulging in their own pie.
“What have you been up to?” Mr. Benson asked.
“Oh, just making a living.”
Mr. Benson scoffed. “Well, that doesn’t tell me anything. With the League, that could mean anything from working magic to washing socks.”
Cordelia only smiled. “Well, they would have to be awfully important socks.”
“Well, honey, I imagine you’re smart enough to head up a whole department full of important socks,” he snorted. “But surely the League has you assigned to something a little loftier, smart girl like you.”
She snickered. Walt reminded her of the nosy old men who used to loiter around the lot, lookie-loos who had no intention of buying a ticket to the show, but would try to talk Cordelia and the other carnival kids into giving them the secrets of the house—how the magicians did their tricks, how to win the games. It was annoying, but basically harmless, the human instinct to get something for nothing.
Cordelia winked at him, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Can you keep a secret?”
Walt’s big blue eyes twinkled with excitement. “Ayah, sure can.”
“I can, too,” she told him, making him burst out laughing. “So are you seeing anyone?”
Walt’s fuzzy blond-gray eyebrows drew together. “I’m flattered, but I think I’m a mite old for you.”
She didn’t mean to laugh that loud. Really, she didn’t. “No, not for me. For a friend of mine who is a little bit more in your…demographic.”
“You should work as a diplomat for the League,” he told her. “Besides, I thought you were sweet on that skinny Irishman that’s always hanging around you.”
“I happen to like that skinny Irishman very much,” she said. “But we’re talking about you. Bonita De Los Santos. She’s a nice lady. Funny and smart. And a hell of a good cook.”
“I’ll think about it,” Walt promised.
“That’s all I ask.”
Walt opened his mouth as if he was about to ask another question, but Siobhan interrupted him.
“Are you gonna order something, missy, or are you gonna stand there, taking up the bought air?” Siobhan asked.
“I better let you get to it,” Walt said, nodding toward the door. “Miss Siobhan takes her ordering etiquette pretty seriously.”
Cordelia shot an apologetic glance at Walt. “Miss Siobhan, is there any chance that the pie that will soothe my soul is that pear-cranberry tart, there?”
Siobhan squinted at her, as if she was scanning Cordelia for computer viruses. “No, you need something a little stouter than that.”
Siobhan turned and cut her a sizeable slice of the chocolate rhubarb pie, a strange pudding and crust concoction that included little chunks of pink fruit oozing into the filling. Cordelia lifted a dubious eyebrow at the pie. If she told Siobhan that pie looked like a tragic science experiment, she wouldn’t get pie again. So she just said thank you, paid for the pie, and retired to the gazebo on the town square, to eat in peace.
Siobhan was, of course, right. The pie, as off-putting as it looked, made her feel warm and relaxed, all the way down to her toes, like she didn’t have enormous pressure from the League or Alex or the confusion of her personal life, pushing in on her from all sides.
It was nice, sitting on the wide wooden swing in the sunshine, watching the trickle of traffic toodle through town, the faces of the locals as they went about their errands. Other than the weird fountain, which Cordelia now realized depicted most of the shifter species living here in the bayou, you would look at this idyllic scene and think Mystic Bayou was like any other town. Her eye slid across the people walking down the sidewalk across the street, not really catching on anyone until a short, dark-haired woman suddenly turned just as she passed Cordelia’s spot.
Her mother.
Bernadette Canton was standing across the sidewalk, grinning maliciously at Cordelia across two lanes of municipal road.
Cordelia recoiled, dropping her pie with a splat against the wood plank floor and nearly tumbling off of the bench swing. Multiple cars passed between them and like a blink, Bernadette wasn’t there anymore.
Cordelia stood, unsteady on her feet, her head spinning. Her hands were so cold. Why were they so cold? She could barely bend her fingers as she tried to clean up the pie mess she’d made.
This hadn’t been some dark forest imagining. Her mother was right there. In broad daylight, that same old awful, calculating expression on her face. And then as quickly as she’d appeared, she was gone. No one on the sidewalk acted like they’d just seen a woman disappear into thin air. So Cordelia could only imagine that this was happening inside her head.
Had her gift finally fractured her mind? Was she going crazy? Maybe it was the weight of working with the artifact. The casket was more powerful, more sentient, and more cunning than anything she’d ever read before. But at the same time, she’d been working on building a mind palace to strengthen her shield and make that work easier. Maybe it was all just too much at once?
She stumbled down the gazebo steps, her legs still wobbling. Suddenly, there was a body in front of her and Brendan caught her by the elbows.
“Hey, hey, are you all right?” Brendan asked.
Cordelia shook her head, her eyes unfocused.
“You’re scaring me, Cordelia. Just take some breaths with me, come on, sweetheart.” He cupped his hand around her jaw as he drew her close. “Through the nose, out the mouth. Come on, darling. You’re all pale and drawn. Did you touch something that gave you a fright?”
She shook her head, burrowing into his chest. Even in her panic, she recognized that she felt safe, not because someone was holding her, comforting her, but because Brendan was holding her. She needed him. And she hadn’t needed anyone since…she wasn’t sure she’d ever needed someone. She’d been alone for so long, and before that, she hadn’t had someone she could depend on. But since the moment they’d arrived, Brendan had done nothing but what he thought would protect her or make things easier for her—even that strange morning when he’d been pushy with her. Maybe he thought it was better for her to get back to work and meet the League deadlines. He understood. Why couldn’t other people understand what this was like? She could depend on Brendan.
She sniffed. “I need to talk to Jillian. Now. I don’t give a shit who’s in her office or whether Messina himself is parked at her desk. I need to talk to her.”
“All right. Do you want me to go with you?” Brendan asked.
She nodded. “Yes, please. Thank you,”
He put his arm around her. “It’s gonna be all right, Cordy, no matter what.”
“You don’t know that,” she said as she shakily made her way to the research village.