Uncle Mike made a neutral noise. "Her premonitions aren't specific to the fae," he said. "Something bad is going to happen unless the two of you somehow manage to stop it. Or not. Her predictions aren't perfect." His voice got very serious. "You have to understand. This is not a favor you are performing for the fae. It may have nothing to do with the fae at all. We just saw to it that you are in the right place."
"Fine," said Adam coolly. "Have it your way for now. We'll discuss this again when Mercy and I return."
He hung up the phone.
"I was wrong," I said.
"About what?"
"Gordon Seeker wasn't as bad as the fae. At least he didn't engineer our presence at a disaster."
"You think seven otter-sized fae with very little magic comprise a disaster?"
"No," I told him. "But something bad is coming. It doesn't sound like Edythe has premonitions about stubbing your toe or even about some poor guy getting his foot taken off. And Uncle Mike knew it when he sent us here."
Chapter 6
ONE OF THE REASONS I HATE TO TAKE ANTIHISTAMINES is because of the dreams. They never make any sense, but they are consuming and difficult to throw off the next day.
That night I dreamed I was encased in stone. No matter how hard I struggled, no matter how hard I fought, I could not move. I grew hungry, and there was no surcease, no ease of the great appetite of my captivity.
I dreamed that I was freed at last, and I feasted on an otter that filled me more than an otter should, appeasing my hunger for a moment. So I didn't eat the other otters who swam around me.
They looked like the otters who had watched me pull Benny's boat out of the brush.
I woke up with the dry mouth and feeling of impending doom that were not unfamiliar after I'd taken antihistamines. I felt the same way after vampire, demon, or fae attacks, too. After, because, not being prescient, I never knew when the sword of Damocles was going to fall.
It didn't matter that I knew quite well that the dream meant nothing. It didn't take a Carl Jung to see where the otters had come from. And I suspected that the imprisoned feeling was the effect of the antihistamine itself, which left me sluggish. The hunger? That was even easier. I'd been hopping back and forth from human to coyote yesterday; it would make anyone hungry.
I almost matched Adam's appetite when we sat down for breakfast--cooked in utter civilization on the quarter-sized stove.
"Bad dreams," he said matter-of-factly. The mating bond had clearly given him insight at an inappropriate time again.
"Are we ever going to be able to control the mating bond when it does that?" I asked, shoveling in hash browns as fast as I could without having them dribble out the side of my mouth. "Did you get the whole thing?"
He smiled and nodded. "Otters and all. At least you ate one of them." He ate almost as fast as I did, but he was better at it. Unless I really paid attention, I never noticed him getting the food from his plate to his mouth. It was not so much a matter of speed but of exquisite manners and distraction.
"How's your leg and feet?" he asked as I washed up. He'd cooked, so I cleaned. I wiggled my bare toes and did a few deep knee bends. "The calf aches a little, but the feet are fine."
"ARE WE DOING THIS BECAUSE GORDON SEEKER TOLD us to?" I asked Adam, as he drove us the short distance to the Maryhill Museum of Art.
"I'd intended to take you this morning," he answered slowly. "But I have to admit that I'm curious."
I put my hand on his thigh, and said, "We could head home--or drive to Seattle, Portland, or even Yakima and find a nice hotel." I looked out from the highway and down onto the river. From where the highway was, the river looked small and relatively tamed. "I have the feeling that if we stay, things might get interesting."
He gave me a quick smile before looking back at the road. "Oh? What gave you that feeling? People getting their feet bitten off? The ghost of your father? A mysterious old Indian who disappears at the river without a sign of how he left? Maybe Yo-yo Girl's prophecy of the apocalypse?" "Yo-yo Girl?" I yelped. "Edythe is Yo-yo Girl? Yo-yo Girl sent us here?"
He showed his teeth. "Feeling scared yet? Want to go somewhere safe?"
I couldn't help myself. I set my cheek against his arm and laughed. "It won't help, will it?" I said after a moment. "We'd just run into Godzilla or the Vampire from Hell. Trouble just follows you around."
He rubbed the top of my head. "Hey, Trouble. Let's go find out what your mysterious Indian wanted us to know."
IN SEATTLE OR PORTLAND, THE MARYHILL MUSEUM would have been a nice museum. Out in the middle of nowhere, it was spectacular. The grounds were green and well tended. I didn't see any of the peacocks as we walked from the parking lot to the entrance, but I could hear and smell them just fine. I'd seen it from the highway on the other side of the river while driving to and from Portland, but I'd never actually been in it before.
The first time someone tried to tell me about the museum, I thought they were crazy. In the middle of eastern Washington state, a hundred miles from Portland, a hundred and fifty miles from the Tri-Cities, the museum contained the furniture of the Victorian-era Queen of Romania and work by Auguste Rodin.
That was the first question answered by the slick brochure they handed us at the front door. Sam Hill, financier and builder of roads and towns --and this museum, which was meant to be his home--was a friend of Lo?e Fuller. Lo?e Fuller was a dancer of the early nineteen hundreds, famous in Europe for her innovative use of fabric and veils--and she was a friend of royalty and artists, notably Marie, Queen of Romania, (who designed furniture as a hobby) and the French sculptor Auguste Rodin.