More Than Fiends Read Free Page B

her way into my kitchen .
    â€œI’m not leaving.”
    That’s what you think, Grandma.
    As if to prove her point, she pulled out a chair and sat down. She plunked her purse onto the table, and I couldn’t help sneering at it. Now I was convinced she was an escapee. Only a nutball would have carried that thing.
    Let me explain. There are standards, you know? Vinyl was meant to be used on booths in diners or for car upholstery. Stepping out of its sphere was just wrong.
    I mean, some women have a thing for shoes. God knows I’m not one to throw stones at any woman’s personal addiction, but no way would I spend several hundred bucks on something for my feet . For chrissakes, streets are filthy, you know? Why would I spend all that money on something only to get it dirty?
    Nope. Shoes were just utilitarian to me.
    But a good purse was a thing of beauty.
    I sighed just thinking about my small but excellent collection. I kept up the IRA for Thea’s sake, but stashed spare cash to feed my addiction. Coach, Dooney & Bourke, Fossil, Fendi. I love ’em all. Which was why just looking at the weirdo’s cheap vinyl pocketbook was nearly painful.
    â€œCassidy Burke,” the wacko intoned like a voice from a bad horror movie, “it is your time.”
    I stiffened. This was suddenly not so funny. “How’d you know my name?”
    She crossed her legs, swung one foot and almost clipped Sugar’s nose. The dog whimpered.
    â€œMy name is Jasmine,” the woman said, which was just fascinating, but didn’t answer my question. She opened her purse to pull out a large spray bottle filled with a murky, light brown liquid.
    â€œFabulous. But that doesn’t tell me how you know my name. Or what you’re doing here. Or why I haven’t tossed your bony ass out yet.”
    She sniffed at that, as if she knew I wouldn’t carry through on my threat. Okay, fine, I talk a good game, but there was no way I’d actually toss her anywhere.
    â€œI’m here to guide you.”
    â€œThat’s really great,” I said, keeping a wary eye on her as I listened to Leo grunting and moaning over the old washing machine. Apparently, Bob had gotten through to him and convinced him to change his mind about taking the old machine away. One battle won. Now all I had to do was get psychic, crazy granny out of my kitchen. “But I don’t need a guide. Born and raised right here in La Sombra. I’m good. Really. And I’m too busy for a destiny, but thanks for asking.”
    She reached into her purse again and pulled out yet another large spray bottle. God, it was like one of those clown cars you see at the circus: Looked small, but apparently it was bottomless.
    â€œThese are your weapons,” she said, pushing both bottles toward me.
    â€œRight. Weapons. What am I supposed to do?” I asked, picking up one of the bottles to play along. The liquid was nasty looking and had lots of little green flecks floating in it. I so didn’t want to know. “What’s this for, anyway? To stain the bad guys?”
    She sighed. “This liquid is an antidemon mixture, a secret recipe which has been handed down from generation to generation.”
    Anti demon mixture?
    â€œWhat? They’re allergic to dirty water?”
    On the service porch, the washing machine crashed into a wall, and Leo yelped. Visions of lawsuits danced in my head.
    â€œYou are an unusually stubborn woman, aren’t you?” Jasmine asked, her lip curling just a little.
    â€œI think I’m being pretty broad minded, if you ask me,” I countered. “I’m letting you sit here in my kitchen instead of calling the home and getting you picked up, which is what I’m about to do.”
    She inhaled sharply and gave me a look that I’d once gotten from Sister Alphonsus in sixth grade when I tried to sneak in on the whole altar-boy-lesson thing. I mean, now girls can