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By Root 1586 0

toe, I hurt; I call you names, you get pissy. But you’re making a big mistake. Because, secundus, you had a weird dream. And you’re jumping to the conclusion that the two are related, that whatever you dreamed about is whatever happened to me. And you know what? That ain’t necessarily so. Correlation does not imply causation. Now—” she reaches over and pokes me in the chest with a fingertip “—you seem a little upset over whatever it was you dreamed about. And I think you ought to think very hard before you ask the next question, because you can choose to ask whether there was any connection between your weird dream and my night out—or you can just tell yourself you ate too many cheese canapés before bed and it was all in your head, and you can walk away from it. Is that clear? We may be entangled, but it doesn’t have to go any further.”

She stands there expectantly, obviously anticipating a reply. I’m rooted to the spot by the force of her gaze. My pulse roars in my ears. I don’t—truly I don’t—know what to do! My mind spins. Did I simply have a wet dream last night? Or did Ramona suck a serial rapist’s soul right out of his body then use me for sex magick to keep her daemon in check . . . ? And do I really want to know the truth? Really?

I feel my lips moving without any conscious decision. “Thank you. And if you don’t mind, I’m going to un-ask that question for the time being.”

“Oh, I mind all right.” A flash of unidentifiable emotion flickers in her eyes like distant lightning. “But don’t worry about me, I’m used to it. I’ll be all right after breakfast.” She glances down, breaking eye contact. “Jesus, stripy pajamas. It’s too early in the morning for that.”

“Hey, it’s all I’ve got; anyway, it’s better than sleeping in a tux.” I raise an eyebrow at her dress. “You’re going to have to get that professionally cleaned.”

“No, really?” She takes a mouthful of coffee. “Thanks for the tip, monkey-boy, I’d never have guessed. I’ll be going back to my room when I finish this.” Another mouthful. “Got any plans for today?”

I pause for thought. “I need to touch base with my backup team and file a report with head office. Then I’m supposed to visit a tailor’s shop. After which—” a ghost of a dream memory gibbers and capers for attention “—I heard there’s a nice beach up at Anse Marcel. I figure I might hang out there for a while. How about you?”

I EAT BREAKFAST ON A BALCONY OVERLOOKING AN expanse of white beach, trying not to flinch as the occasional airbus rumbles past on final approach into Princess Juliana Airport. Midway through a butter croissant that melts on the tongue, my Treo rings: “Howard!”

“Speaking.” I get a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach: it’s Griffin.

“Get yourself over here, chop-chop. We’ve got a situation.”

Shit. “What kind of situation? And where’s here?”

“Face time only.” He rattles off an address somewhere near Mullet Beach and I jot it down.

“Okay, I’ll be over in half an hour.”

“Make sure you are!” He hangs up, leaving me staring at my phone as if it’s turned into a dead slug in my hand. What a way to start a day: Griffin’s found something to go nonlinear over. I shake my head in disgust. As if I haven’t got enough problems already.

I’m just about up and running on local time. Even so, it takes me a while to figure out my way to the address Griffin gave me. It turns out to be a holiday villa, white clapboard walls and wooden shutters overlooking the road behind the beachfront. The temperature’s already up to the mid-twenties and rising as I trudge towards the front door. I’m about to knock when it opens and I find myself eyeball to hairy eyeball with Griffin.

“Get in here!” he half-snarls, grabbing me by my jacket. “Quick!”

I take in his red-rimmed eyes, stubbly chin, and general agitation. “Something bad happen?”

“You could say that.” I follow him into the back room. The windows are shuttered, several large nylon hold-alls are lined up against one wall, and there’s a mass of electronics spread across the dining table. After a couple of seconds I figure out that I’m looking at a