Blood Moon: A Rowan Gant Investigation (14 page)

“Ta’ be honest, I appreciate the offer, but I
can’t stay,” he returned. “I actually got plans with
Constance.”

“Uh-huh,” I grunted. “You just don’t want to
be here when Felicity gets home.”

“Well, normally I’d say you’re right, but the
way you look and after what ya’ told me, I ain’t leavin’ ya’ alone.
So I’ll be here until she gets in.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Nope. Ain’t arguin’.”

“Okay, fine. If you’re just going to stand
around then make yourself useful,” I said as I reached into the
pantry and grabbed a bag of coffee beans. I turned and tossed them
to him then pointed. “The grinder is in the cabinet above the
coffeemaker.”

“How much?” he asked, waving the bag.

“Better make it extra strong,” I replied.

I was already turning my back to him as I
embarked on a personal mission. The ever-so-brief encounter with
the pantry had managed to spark an idea. I didn’t know that it was
necessarily a good one, but I hurt bad enough that my tortured
brain was blindly following along anyway. I swung the door wider,
tugged on the swing-out rack, and then started fumbling around the
liquor shelf in the far back.

“I don’t use all this fancy ass shit like
you, Kemosabe. How much do ya’ put in for extra strong?”

“Just fill the grinder up to the rim,” I
called over my shoulder. “Then put the cap on and hold the button
down for ten or fifteen seconds until it looks like what you would
normally get out of a can. Sound doable?”

“Y’okay. Full, cap, button, can. Got it.”

By the time Ben set about the task, I already
had my head partially buried in the opening of the deep cabinet,
inspecting bottles as I shuffled them around in the dark interior.
Even so, behind me I could hear an initial hesitant clinking,
eventually followed by an all out dull rattle as he poured the
roasted beans into the device. I continued working on the task at
hand, and when I finally hit upon what I was after, I wrapped my
hand around the neck of the bottle and pulled it out. It was at
just about that same moment when I was closing up the pantry that
my friend finished replacing the cap and leaned on the grind
switch.

The screaming whirr of the blades was joined
by the sharp clatter of the java beans being violently crushed. The
blended clamor instantly bit into my ears and ricocheted around the
inside of my skull. Unfortunately, as the coffee was ground, the
blades began to move faster, and as they did, their pitch
increased. In direct proportion, so did my agony. When he finally
released the button, even though I could barely see straight, the
relief of the relative silence was almost overwhelming.

I let out a heavy sigh then hooked around the
island as he emptied the fresh grind into the filter basket and
swung it shut. While he was filling the reservoir on the
coffeemaker with water, I was in the process of rummaging through a
nearby cabinet for a tumbler. Finding one in short order, I pulled
it out then uncorked the bottle of bourbon I currently had
death-gripped in my other hand. After pouring roughly the
equivalent of a shot and giving it a quick glance, I turned the
bottle up once again and didn’t stop until I’d counted to five.

I set the still open bottle to the side and
glanced over at Ben while pointing past him at a basket on the
counter. “Do me a favor. Could you hand me that bottle of
aspirin?”

He pulled the bottle out and gave it to me. I
popped the cap and shook five or so into my palm while he
watched.

“Think maybe you oughta take it easy with
those?” he asked.

I tossed them into my mouth without answering
and twisted the cap back onto the bottle. Settling it on the
counter, I picked up the tumbler of bourbon.

“You ain’t really gonna wash those down with
booze, are ya’?”

I didn’t bother to answer that question
either. I simply placed the glass against my lips then tilted my
head back. When the tumbler touched the surface of the counter
again, it was drained.

“You’re fuckin’ nuts,” my friend grunted.

“Want one?” I asked.

He glanced at his watch. “Thanks, but I’ll
wait for the coffee. I still got some time yet before I hafta
go.”

I could already feel the first twinge of the
alcohol rushing into my system. It seemed a bit quick for that to
be happening already, but by the same token I also knew I was
downing it on an empty stomach. At any rate, I wasn’t worried. In
fact, I began to wonder if maybe bourbon was a better catalyst for
the aspirin than java.

I turned the bottle up and began filling my
glass once again.

“You sure you wanna do that?” Ben asked.

I ignored him again and kept pouring. When it
was at about the same level as before, I lifted the tumbler, but
this time a large hand slipped in and clamped onto my wrist. I shot
an annoyed glance at my friend but didn’t fight him.

“I don’t know what you’re worried about,” I
said. “I’m not the one planning on driving anywhere.”

“Yeah, maybe so, but have you asked your
liver how it feels about what you’re doin’ to it?”

I half chuckled. “So when did you become the
health police?”

He shook his head. “I keep tellin’ ya’ that
I’m just bein’ concerned about ya’, Row. If what I just saw is any
indication, you’re eatin’ aspirin like breath mints, and ya’ know
damn well you ended up poisoned and in the hospital last time ya’
did that. An’ if that ain’t enough, I haven’t seen ya’ drink like
this in forever… Not since Eldon Porter was on the loose at the
very least.”

“That’s because I’m pretty sure I haven’t
hurt this bad since then. Hell, to be honest I’m pretty sure I’ve
never hurt this bad at all.”

“Well ain’t there somethin’ else you can do
ta’ help with that? Some kinda hocus-pocus or somethin’?”

“That’s what I was doing until you grabbed my
arm.”

“Yeah, right. I meant Witch stuff… you
know…”

“I’ve been down that road already…” I
shrugged. “I guess I could go out on a limb and try Voodoo.”

“Okay. So how do ya’ do that? There some way
I can help?”

“Sure. You can put the bourbon away and get
me the rum instead.”

“Dammit, Row, get serious. You know what I
mean.”

“Yes, I do, but I’ve exhausted all those
other options, Ben.”

“Well crawlin’ into a bottle ain’t gonna
help.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’ve said yourself that booze
doesn’t fix it.”

“Yeah, right. When did I say that?”

Before he could answer, a higher pitched and
softly accented voice interrupted. “Several times that I can
remember, then.”

There was certainly no mistaking to whom the
Celtic lilt belonged. I looked past my friend as he was turning
toward the source himself and found Felicity standing in the
doorway between the kitchen and dining room. Obviously she’d been
there long enough to hear at least the most recent exchange in our
conversation. Her eyes were fixed on me, and she definitely didn’t
look happy.

“Why didn’ju come in the back?” I asked, as
much out of curiosity as to divert the conversation.

“Someone’s van is blocking the driveway, so I
couldn’t drive around,” she replied then looked over to Ben. “How
much has he had to drink?”

Obviously it didn’t escape her notice that my
tongue was no longer in complete synch with my brain. I couldn’t
honestly say that I was oblivious to that fact either, but given
the analgesic effect the bourbon seemed to be having on my
migraine, I didn’t really care.

Ben held his hands up in front of himself as
if surrendering. “Listen, Firehair, before this get ugly, he called
me. I’m innocent here…”

“Thangs a lot, Sheef,” I mumbled.

“You’re just pissed ‘cause I said somethin’
first,” he replied.

“Yeah, well whad I actually thing is pritty
funny that you’re ‘fraid of ‘er.”

“
Cac capaill
,” my wife almost snarled
the words. “Will you two just stop? You’re both acting like a
couple of little boys caught stealing from the liquor cabinet.”

“Like I said, it was his idea,” Ben
quipped.

“
Damnú
, don’t even go there,” she
replied with a roll of her eyes.

“I’m just sayin’ he’s the one who’s
snockered, not me…”

“Obviously. So stop worrying about passing
blame around. I don’t doubt that he called you, but that doesn’t
make you innocent either, and it definitely doesn’t explain what’s
going on then.”

“I’m self medicaning,” I slurred.

“I see that,” my wife snipped. “Why? What
happened?”

“Headaig,” I said.

“Is that all?”

“An’ the swans…”

“Swans?”

“Yeah, the den swans.”

As fast as I had thought the alcohol was
working a few moments ago, it seemed to have shifted into high gear
now. My face was actually beginning to feel numb, and for the first
time since this all started, my head didn’t hurt in the least. Of
course, the apparent tradeoff was the fact I was no longer able to
focus my eyes or successfully convey a complete thought to anyone
but myself, and even that was suspect.

Out of reflex I raised the fresh tumbler of
bourbon, but before I could get it anywhere near my lips I heard
Felicity yelp “stop!” followed by something else.

My brain didn’t really register the rest of
the sentence, but it seemed as though Ben understood without
question because he quickly snatched the glass from my hand and
upended it over the sink.

I simply watched him pour the liquor down the
drain, then looked at my hand, then back to the drain. For some
reason I flashed on the fact that Ben had referred to me as
snockered. He was correct. I was flat out drunk and I knew it.
However, for some reason the word he had chosen to describe my
state of inebriation now struck me as hilarious. I started to
giggle and soon found that I couldn’t stop.

“Gods,” Felicity spat. “How much has he had,
Ben?”

“Just one,” my friend replied, taking my arm
and leading me over to the breakfast nook where he guided me into a
seat. “It was stiff, yeah, but still just the one, and I’ve seen
him drink a hell of a lot more without gettin’ like this.”

Even though I was almost completely unable to
communicate with them, I still seemed to be able to understand what
they were saying, but only if I made it a point to pay close
attention, which was getting harder and harder by the second. I
doubted I would remember any of this in the morning, but for now, I
was convinced that I was at least following along, be it a half
step or so behind.

“Something else is wrong then…” my wife
muttered.

“Listen,” Ben said. “Since he’s obviously in
no shape to tell ya’ I guess I’d better. He told me he did the
bleedin’ thing again today.”

“Again?” she barked. “Like last night?”

“Yeah, that’s what he said.”

“And you let him drink alcohol?”

“What am I, his goddamn babysitter? How is
this my fault all of a sudden?”

She ignored the question and aimed her gaze
back in my direction. “Gods, Rowan! Why didn’t you call me?”

I heard the question clearly, but even if I
had been able to make my mouth work, I couldn’t answer because I
was too busy passing out.

I held my head between my hands and imagined
that if I stayed that way, maybe, just maybe, my brain wouldn’t
burst through my temples and try to escape. The one semi-comforting
thought that kept going through my head was that I had a very good
imagination. Now, I just needed to remember where I put it.

I was squeezing my eyes tightly shut in a bid
to keep out the unnatural glare from the overhead track lighting of
the kitchen, but it still shone through with a vengeance. In truth,
the level of brightness was nowhere near what my retinas seemed to
believe it was, but it wouldn’t have mattered if I were sitting in
a pitch-black room. I would still be overwhelmed. That was just
part of the price one paid for stupidity.

“Rowan?” my wife’s voice blasted into my
ears.

The last time I had chanced opening my eyes,
she was sitting across the table from me at the breakfast nook, and
judging from the relative direction of the sound she hadn’t moved.
I was fairly certain she wasn’t speaking any louder than normal,
but once again my warped perceptions were starkly contrasting with
reality. To me it sounded like she was yelling directly into my ear
from no more than six inches away.

“What,” I grunted, wincing at the movement
necessary to form the word.

“I’m just checking,” she replied. “You seemed
to be drifting off again… Why don’t you drink some more coffee? It
might help.”

She had already forced me to drink her family
recipe hangover remedy followed by what seemed like a gallon of
water before placing the cup of java on the table and demanding I
down that as well. I had taken a sip, but that was about it. I
wasn’t exactly thirsty at the moment.

I carefully moved my left hand around and
pressed my index finger against the center of my forehead, right
between my eyes. I spoke slowly and deliberately. “Bullet. Right
here. Maybe. Coffee, I really don’t know…”

“Try it anyway,” she instructed. “I’m saving
the bullet for when you really screw up.”

I wasn’t really in the mood for sarcasm, even
if it was a joke, but I was also in no shape to argue. Of course,
there was also the fact that as far as any sort of defense was
concerned, I didn’t have a leg to stand on. So, rather than
complain, I simply tried to respond in kind.

“Shoot me anyway,” I said. “You have my
permission.”

“Aye, don’t believe for a minute I didn’t
think about it,” my wife quipped. “But then I decided it would be
better if you suffered for a while. Now drink some coffee
then.”