Slate Gray

Chapter 23.2: Ace Slate

"D'oh!" Uncle Morgan wobbles under the assault but doesn't waste time in hugging me back. "Oh, Aceline... Shhh, it's ok, honey. It's all going to be ok."

His reassurance, while well meaning, only ups the pressure on my waterworks.

But unlike Dad and Perrin who view emotions as fatal cracks in a slayer's armor, Uncle Morgan lets me cry with zero judgement, murmuring a string of kind nonsense and patting my back until tears run dry and no snot remains in my sinuses. Until I detangle my fingers from his wrinkled shirt and take a self-conscious step back.

"Sorry," I snuffle, wiping the excess moister with the heel of my hand. "It's been a rough couple days."

Uncle Morgan dismisses my apology like a bad smell. "I indulged in a tidy cry just yesterday. It was supremely satisfying."

I giggle and there's a small, insistent bump against my ankle. It's Fiona, purring like a V8 engine to a) make sure I see her and b) confirm I've ceased the sad, upsetting noise.

"Aren't you the sweetest kitty in the land?" I gush, filled with the warmth of feline affection.

"That's not a kitty," Morgan grumbles, tactfully buttoning his overshirt to conceal the damp spots I left on his tank. "That's a demon."

"Awwww, don't say that." I crouch to fill her quota of pets and she nuzzles my hand. "There's no way she's that bad."

Behind Morgan, the lilac beads rustle as Odette reappears with his ebony cane and a bulky "Sable Books" tote. I hadn't noticed her slip away but I appreciate the discretion. It's embarrassing enough to bawl in front of a stranger but even more so when they call attention to it.

"These were clogging the stairwell," she says, tapping Morgan on the bicep so he knows where she is. "I assume you dropped 'em when you ate it?"

"Ah, yes. Merci, Odette." He accepts the cane and shoulders the bag, listing a bit under the weight as the sound of tinkling glass snakes out.

"Whatcha got there?" I ask, excitement ballooning in my belly. "Jars of graveyard dirt? A grimoire?"

"Among other things. A little birdy told me your friend needs assistance." He pauses as a customer near the front draws his manager's attention and when she's out of earshot, he whispers with an impish grin, "It's me. I'm the birdy."

A shard of guilt punctures my balloon and the whoosh of released air forces me to my feet. "Is it my fault?" I blurt. "What's happening to Terry?"

"What? No." And he seems genuinely shocked I would even suggest it. "Unless you were the one who stabbed him?"

"But Perrin said —"

He raises his cane to silence me, a cynical edge creeping in. "I think we can agree your sister likes to shoot first and ask questions never when assigning blame. Because from what I saw, you saved that young man's life with your quick thinking."

He punctuates this by thumping his cane on the floor. But then, the strangest thing happens: his head snaps in my direction and behind the copper sunglasses, cloudy eyes widen in awe. As if he just caught a glimpse of me standing between the bookshelves.

My heart stops dead like the pause before an EDM drop. When Morgan was possessed, Naberius apparently used his damaged eyes without issue. Is that what's happening here?

"Morg?" I try as he continues to gape, laser focused on my position. "Weird question but... can you see me?"

Blinking, he unclogs his throat and his line of sight drops to the floor. "Course not. Don't be ridiculous." But the words are thickwith a sediment of prevarication. Which confirms that I didn't imagine it.