If ignorance was bliss, I was fine with being stupid and happy for as long as possible. I knew it wouldn’t last, so I’d enjoy it while I had it.
It was nearly nine o’clock in the evening of one of the longest days I could ever remember; and to tell you the truth, I really didn’t mind the thought of spending the night at headquarters. And since Dr. Stephens had come in and told me I didn’t have a concussion, I wouldn’t have either him or one of the nurses waking me up every hour, to make sure I could wake up, and shining that little penlight in my eyes.
My eyelids were getting heavy, and I thought with a little silent cheer that I might actually get some much needed sleep.
It’d been only two days ago that we’d been racing against entirely too little time to protect the supernaturals of the tristate area from death by cursed diamonds. Those who depended on glamours and other magic to hide what they really were from humans would have had that protection stripped from them; they would have been the lucky ones.
Needless to say, during the forty-eight hours leading up to that, no one had gotten any sleep. Halloween had been on a Saturday. Sunday, I’d still been too keyed up to sleep. Today was Monday and I was running on fumes.
Yes, I was in a hospital room, but I could mostly feel my legs, and there wasn’t any permanent damage to them or to the insides of my skull. Whether I merely felt safe being in a secure complex with one of our commando teams on duty and the other on call, or I was simply exhausted, or a combination of both, I slept like a baby.
The nurse on duty, God bless her, didn’t wake me up during the night or even the next morning. I got to wake up on my own. Aside from a brief bout of heart palpitations from waking up in a strange bed, it was a night well spent.
I really wanted to smell coffee, but instead, my nose twitched at the scent of flowers.
The nurse—or someone—had been in during the night and made a floral delivery. A cut crystal vase holding at least three dozen roses stood on the bedside table. Their petals went from a pink blush for the outer petals to a pale golden glow in the center. They looked like tiny sunrises. I made a soft sound. I loved roses, and these were the most beautiful I’d ever seen.
And there was a card.
I leaned over to get it and winced at stiff and seriously sore muscles. I saw a stretching session in my immediate future.
I opened the small envelope. Even the paper felt expensive.
Rake.
I’d check with the nurse, and if she hadn’t brought them in, I’d have Kenji check the security cameras for one stealthy and determined goblin.
I read the card.
Dearest Makenna,
Lunch (or dinner) awaits your pleasure, as do I.
Be well and be careful.
Yours,
R
Very nice. Caring, polite, yet not pushy. Brownie points earned.
Sleeping in, floral delivery . . . the SPI infirmary was starting to feel more like a hotel. I was wondering if I could get room service and schedule a massage when there was a knock, and Ian came in with a familiar pink box and a cardboard tray with two cups of life-restoring coffee.
Ask and ye shall receive.
I wasn’t going to push my luck with the massage request.
A box of anything from Kitty’s more than made up for it.
Katherine Poertner—or Kitty to her friends, and I was fortunate to count myself as one—was the owner and pastry chef extraordinaire of Kitty’s Confections. She was a veritable wizard in the kitchen. Though to be perfectly accurate, Kitty Poertner was a witch. As far as those of us at SPI with a sweet tooth were concerned, Kitty’s superpower was her baking skills. Everything that came out of Kitty’s kitchen made people happy. She brought joy to the world—supernatural and mundane—one cookie at a time. Pink boxes turned up so often on SPI break room tables and in meetings that a lot of the folks here had started referring to her as the Goodie Goddess.
One thing Kitty didn’t bake was gingerbread.
Between Thanksgiving and Christmas every bakery and coffee shop in the city was selling anything and everything gingerbread.
Kitty wouldn’t touch the stuff.
In her defense, she had a good reason. Her entire family had a ton of bad karma to live down. Kitty’s great-great-great-grandmother made Hannibal Lecter look like a cannibalism dilettante. She’d chow down on adults in a pinch, but she preferred children. She lured them in with sweets, most notably gingerbread.
Yep, she was that witch.
A cannibalistic child abductor was a heavy load on a family tree.
Ian saw the flowers on the bedside table. Everything else in the room was stark white. How could he miss them?
“Danescu?”
I tapped the tip of my nose twice in reply.
Ian held up the box, roses ignored, but, I was sure, not forgotten. “Lemon-blueberry scones fresh out of the oven.”
My favorite.
I made a sound halfway between a moan and a . . . Okay, it was moan. Meg Ryan’s deli experience had nothing on Kitty’s scones. And from the size of that box, there were four warm wedges of pure heaven inside.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I said rapidly as I reached for the box with shamelessly greedy hands. “This is even better than Krispy Kreme when the ‘HOT’ light’s on. I’m getting all kinds of presents this morning. If I didn’t have to wrestle with a squid demon to get them, I’d do it more often.” I opened the box and looked down. “One’s missing.”
Ian pulled the lid off his coffee to let it cool. “Pickup and delivery fee.”