Page 52 of Joker's Ghost
Entering the bedroom, I throw off my robe and tug my maternity sleep shirt over my growing body. I hit the thermostat, making the room cooler, though in fifteen minutes, I’ll probably be freezing cold. Another joy of the last trimester—erratic body temperatures. I could go from boiling hot to freezing, shivering cold in sixty seconds or less.
I gather up Joker’s motorcycle magazines teetering on the edge of his nightstand, open the drawer, and am just about to drop them in when something catches my eye.
I lay the magazines on the bed and examine a black stone surrounded by a hard, dried-out material, like some kind of talisman or amulet. Possibly I’ve watched too many Disney movies with Deana.
The shiny stone has something wrapped around it like a black cord or—a dried-out umbilical cord. I pick it up, and a red-hot fiery heat burns my fingers. I drop it, and it shatters into pieces.
JOKER
The ground tilts under my feet. I grip my phone harder to steady myself as a searing, burning pain slices through my skull like a knife. I squeeze my eyes shut, and when I open them, I draw in a deep breath.
When the dizziness subsides, I show the message to Cobra.
“Shit!”
I hit Derek’s number and wait for what seems like an eternity. When he finally picks up, I bark into the phone, “Where are you?”
“I went out with some guys after class.”
“Get your ass home, then take Deana and Daisy to the clubhouse.”
“What’s goin’ on?”
“Just get them to the clubhouse, then stay there. Tell the prospects to lock up and not let anyone in until I get there.”
I disconnect the call, and Cobra grips my shoulder. “It might be nothing more than a miscommunication with the Nomads.”
“Do you believe that?” I stare into his hard cobalt eyes.
He mashes his lips together. “Let’s head out.”
DAISY
What the hell? I peer at the broken black stone. What was this doing in Joker’s end table?
An uneasy sensation sweeps over me, and I slam the drawer shut like that will keep any evil contained. No more keeping things from him, and club laws or not, I would demand he tell me what the hell is going on.
The door in the kitchen rattles, and I freeze. I lean down on Joker’s side of the bed and retrieve the baseball bat he keeps there. I tease him about it, but right now, it might be my only chance to protect Deana and myself.
I silently lift it and test the weight, choking down on it to make sure I have a good grip. I creep to the bedroom door, peek down the hallway, then keep my back against the wall as I sidestep down the carpet.
At the doorway leading to the kitchen, I stop, tighten my grip on the bat with both hands, cock it over my shoulder, and jump into the doorway.
“Shit!” Derek yells when I swing the bat, coming six inches from his head.
“Oh my God.” I lower the bat, then lean on it for support, my body weak from adrenaline and raw fear.
“What are you doin’?” Derek braces his palms against the counter.
“I thought you were the nutjob who’s been leaving stuff inside the house.”
“Stuff inside the house? What nut-job?”
Shouldn’t have said that, I realize too late.
“Nothing.” The last thing I need is Derek worrying too. “I didn’t think you’d be home till later.”
“Dad called me about twenty minutes ago. He said he tried your phone, but no one answered.”
