Cold Kiss

my face, and suddenly I’m not sure she’s even going to invite us in. My throat is dry, and Danny’s fingers are so tight around my hand, I’m beginning to lose the feeling in my fingertips.
    Rosalie sighs and steps back. “Come on, then. No need to do this in front of the neighbors.”
    An ancient, overweight beagle lifts his head drowsily when we walk in, and for a moment I’m sure he’s simply going to go back to sleep. Instead, he flinches when Danny follows me in, and gets to his feet as quickly as his stubby little legs will allow. His coat is bristling and he’s growling low in his throat, showing his stained yellow teeth.
    “Interesting,” Rosalie says mildly, and tilts her head to watch as the dog’s body begins to shake. “Okay, Barker, no worries. Be right back, all.” She scoops the dog up, whispering something soothing in his ear, and disappears down the hall, where a door is shut firmly a moment later.
    For his part, Danny either hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care that the dog was ready to rip his throat out, but Olivia is clearly a little freaked. She moves a pile of newspapers off a chair in the corner of the cluttered living room and sits down, studying the car keys she still has clutched in one hand. When Rosalie reappears, Danny and I are still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room like characters who have wandered into the wrong scene in a play.
    “Come on in the kitchen, kid,” Rosalie calls. “You have a seat,” she tells Danny. Like that’s going to work. He bristles like a threatened cat, holding on to me tighter still.
    “Wren.” It sounds like the dog’s growl, and I try not to shudder.
    “Danny, it’s okay.” I tug on his hand until he looks away from Rosalie, who, to her credit, seems remarkably unimpressed. “Danny.”
    When I finally have his attention, I focus and push my power through our joined hands, thinking Stay at him as hard as I can. It tingles beneath my skin, briefly hot but promising a burn, and Danny stares until he lets go of my hand and backs up, landing on the sofa. He blinks, but he doesn’t say another word.
    “Just like magic,” Rosalie says when I glance back at her, and the corner of her mouth folds into an ugly smirk.
    Not fair. I choke back the angry energy that flares to life and follow her into the kitchen. It smells like dog food and burnt coffee, but it at least looks clean. I take the chair opposite hers at the table.
    “So.” She opens a bottle of diet soda with a short hiss and drinks a mouthful. “You wanna tell me about your undead Romeo in there?”
    If this is part of the test, I’m definitely going to fail. For a minute I just gape, with no idea how to answer, since the only things I want to say would be ruder than even I can get away with.
    “Hey, if you can’t do the time,” she says, watching my face. “Olivia didn’t give me the whole story, but it’s pretty clear that at least one thing that boy is missing is a heartbeat. And I’m not sure what it is you want me to do about it.”
    “Help me,” I blurt out without thinking. “Help me figure out how to…”
    The words trail off into the silence. There’s never going to be a good way to end that sentence.
    “How to what?” Rosalie barks, and leans closer, eyes narrowed. “Kid, if you had the juice to bring that sixfoot cutie back from the dead, you’re a couple pay grades above me.”
    I know it’s not possible, but it suddenly feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room. My lungs burn with the effort of breathing, shuddering as my heart bangs between them. She was supposed to help me, and if she can’t, if she won’t…
    “A spell.” It’s a rough croak, but it’s all I can manage for a minute. Rosalie just sits there, impassive, as I struggle to get air into my lungs and stop panicking. “I thought you could give me a spell.”
    She snorts, an ugly noise. “Are you kidding? What do you think there is, some Big Book of Incantations out there with all the spells you’ll ever need?”
    Before I can say anything, Rosalie plunges ahead, her meaty hands joining in now. “One,” she says, holding up her index finger. “Most practitioners are wannabes who have about as much power inside them as a wind-up toy. Two, most people who do have power don’t even know it. Three, the rest of us do our homework, and hone our craft with a lot of boring, infuriating trial and error.”
    Those three thick fingers waggle at me briefly