Page 72 of Dance With Death

“What’s happening?” The human woman stands and approaches Holly, with a gentle smile and places a friendly hand on her shoulder.

“Violet isn’t doing anything but supporting me; it’s good to see a friendly face.” Holly’s voice splinters.

“Friendly face?” The witch crosses his arms and snickers to himself.

“I don’t like how I’m watched all the time,” Holly says and lifts a fork. I examine the tray. Some human food is bland, whereas other varieties manage tastes and textures that even a discerning supe could appreciate. I say discerning, but most supes I know have a penchant for fast food and coffee.

Holly’s meal firmly sits in the bland category as she spreads butter onto an anemic slice of toast. “You watch me as if I’m going to choke on food and die,” she says.

“Due to the complexity of the matter across several jurisdictions, you can’t be alone,” says the woman.

“In case I die?” she repeats.

“No, Holly. But visitors arrived in your hospital room yesterday who we would’ve kept away, and we’d like to avoid that happening again.”

“Visitors you wanted to keep away?” I ask the woman. “Myself, you mean?”

“The shifter,” mutters the witch. “He’s facing more trouble than ever in his life.”

“Do you mean Dash? For saving my life?” asks Holly, the pitch rising in anger. “Don’t you dare harm Dash or hand him back to… whoever. He’ll die. Then I’ll die.”

Each time she mentions dying, guilt takes an extra bite out of my staunch demeanor.

“You’re beginning to remember some of the night?” asks the policewoman. “That’ll be helpful.”

Holly’s lips purse. To Holly, the experience was more than a night. Is this the story we’re hanging onto? Because Holly knows that isn’t true.

“I can’t sit with a lot of people in the room.” Holly drags a knife covered in red jam across her toast. My mind leaps to Grayson, and I blink. I am looking a triangle of toast and imagining the jam is blood. That is insane.

“Just the two detectives and Dorian will speak with you,” says the woman.

“And me,” I add.

“That isn’t your decision,” says Mr. Witch.

“I tend to make all my own decisions.” He opens his mouth, and I lift up a forefinger to silence him. “And they are invariably the correct ones. Lives saved; foes vanquished, or at least heading for a vanquishing.”

Holly snickers at me, as she often does at my archaic language, but it’s true.

“To balance out numbers, Dorian should have Violet here,” says Holly. “I’d like my friend beside me. You’re all frightening.”

“Holly has a point,” says the woman. She’s an overly friendly “Holly” type—perfect planning on behalf of the humans involved in order to gain my friend’s trust. “How about your parents? Would you like them with you for the interview? That’s your decision as you’re eighteen.”

Holly shakes her head. “Dad’s angry, and he’s against ‘bastard supes’ interviewing me. If he sees Dorian, Dad will look at him as a smartarse twenty something talking down to a man twenty years older. Dad won’t see the supe. I can’t cope with shouting and arguments.”

The witch laughs at her. “Once he steps into a room with Dorian, your father will know exactly who has the power.”

“Are you suggesting that Mr. Blackwood intends to use his supernatural abilities on humans?” The police officer narrows her eyes.

I wish I had time to speak to Holly alone before her interview, but that’s exactly what people are preventing. “I’ll be with you, Holly,” I say and pat her hand.

Throughout the detectives gentler-than-expected questioning of Holly, Dorian sits in the armchair that the police officer occupied earlier. He doesn’t speak to anybody, nor does he interrupt. Dorian couldn’t meld into the background as his presence engulfs the room, but I don’t detect the use of magic around him or Holly. My father spoke once to politely ask Holly how she’s feeling but has said nothing since then.

What’s he doing? The man is as incapable of staying quiet as I am.

“Don’t you have anything to ask or add?” asks Detective Harding as Holly pauses in recounting her poorly recalled memories.

Dorian lounges back in his seat and waves a hand. “No. Carry on.”

---