Part 73 (1/2)

That would make things a little trickier.

Meryat was a foot shorter than he was, slim, and not entirely alive. If he shoved her out of his way, could she stop him? If he shoved her into the wall, was she still brittle enough to break?

”You can't, you know.”

Dean swallowed and found his voice. ”I can't what, then?”

”Just charge past me.” His eyes widened and she smiled. ”No, I'm not reading your mind; I'm reading your face. Everything you're thinking, everything you're feeling is right out there.”

”You don't ever hit someone smaller than you.”

”What about Brad Mackenzie? He's smaller than me, but he's plays for St. Pat's, and if I don't hit him, we'll ...”

His grandfather sighed. ”All right, fine. You don't ever hit someone smaller than you unless they're wearing hockey skates.”

From the way Meryat was smiling, that had shown on his face, too. He was some screwed because he'd never get her into hockey skates.

”Every hero needs a fatal flaw. Now, for the last time, Dean, open the bag.”

”And what if I'm after saying no?”

”Then I'll suck my darling Dr. Rebik dry, right in front of you.” A gesture brought the archeologist around to her side. She slid a slender arm through his and smiled. ”Your choice.”

Dean set the hockey bag down on the kitchen counter and began fumbling with the zipper. ”She's killing you, you know!”

Dr. Rebik matched Meryat's smile. ”I die of love.”

”Yeah, right . . .” The bit of basilisk he'd caught back in the food court was jamming the zipper closed. If he kept his eyes shut . . .

Would Claire be able to fix him if he was turned to stone?

If she couldn't, would she put him out in the garden?

Would pigeons s.h.i.+t on his head?

It'd be sea gulls back home, so he supposed pigeons would be an improvement.

”Are you stalling, Dean?”

Dr. Rebik moaned low in his throat and a patch of hair fell out, slid down the curve of his head and off his bowed shoulder to the floor.

”I'm going as fast as I can!” he cried, yanking at the zipper and fighting the urge to go for the whisk broom and dustpan. ”It's stuck!”

”I see. We'll just have to . . .”

Out in the office, the phone rang.

”Where are you going?”

”I'm after answering . . .”