Page 77 of Wind Called

“I can understand that,” his grandmother said briskly. “And it does seem as if you’ve done everything you could to make sure no civilians ever find out about what happened.”

Levi’s expression seemed to darken. “Still, I wish we could have learned more about the Collector.”

That would have been nice, but mostly, Marc and Bellamy had just been concentrating on staying alive. “Well, we know for sure that he’s a warlock, because the guy definitely referred to him as ‘he.’ And we also know they must not have had any kind of magical connection, or you would think the guy’s boss would swooped in to save him.”

“Or at least to collect the orb before it fell into our hands,” Bellamy added, her suddenly grim expression an indication that she didn’t think the Collector was too worried about the health and well-being of his servants. “But we didn’t see any sign of the man.”

“I suppose that’s a good thing,” Levi said. “I would hate to think he’s omniscient. As it is, it seems we can go on with our lives without having to do much beyond being a little more cautious.”

Marc thought he could manage that.

“But thank you for coming and speaking with us,” Allegra put in. “I think your grandmother and Levi and I have plenty to discuss.”

That seemed to be the signal that the meeting was over, which was just fine with Marc. He let go of Bellamy’s hand and rose from the couch, and she did so as well, sliding her purse strap over her shoulder at the same time.

“Just let us know if you think of anything else you need to ask us,” she said, and then they headed outside and over to the spot at the curb where Marc had left his truck.

They climbed inside, and he looked over at her. “Want to get out of here?”

“Hell, yeah.”

When they reached the bottom of the hill, rather than head down into Clarkdale or veer to the right so they’d remain on 89A, Marc instead pulled into the gas station that had sat at the roundabout there ever since Bellamy could remember.

“You need a charge?” she asked. Most of the fuel pumps had been replaced by quick-charge stations, although a couple remained for those holdouts — like Bree with her ancient Suburban — who’d refused to get rid of their internal combustion engines.

“No,” Marc said with a grin, and fished something out of his pocket. “I think we should check this.”

In his hand was the crumpled lottery ticket he’d found in the thief’s pocket, the one that Levi had inspected just a short time earlier. Bellamy stared at it blankly for a second or two, then said, “That’s yours.”

“No, it isn’t,” he replied, still smiling. “Sure, I found it, but considering we’d both be dead if it hadn’t been for your talent for calling the wind, I think you deserve it way more than I do. Go ahead — check the numbers.”

For a second or two, she only continued to look down at the ticket. Because the man hadn’t signed it, the thing was basically like cash, which meant anyone who found it could turn it in.

Still….

“It’s probably worth five bucks, if even that,” she said, and Marc only shrugged.

“Maybe so. I have a feeling, though.”

She felt her eyebrows lift. “A vision?”

“Not exactly,” he replied at once, which she probably should have already realized. As far as she’d been able to tell, his visions only came to him when he was asleep. “I know we’ve been through a lot,” he continued, his expression now earnest, “and maybe this is just a waste of time. Something is telling me you should check the ticket, though, so the only way to find out for sure is to go inside and have the clerk run the numbers for you.”

This was crazy, wasn’t it?

However, since it looked as though Marc wasn’t going to budge on this one, she decided not to argue about it, especially since she wanted to find a quiet table at a restaurant in Cottonwood and have a late lunch.

And maybe a glass of wine. Sure, she and Marc had managed to hold it together after the confrontation in the cave, but her nerves still jangled and she knew she’d probably feel better after she’d done something to calm them down.

“Okay,” she said, and got out of the truck and walked into the convenience store. It had racks filled with all kinds of junk food and the usual sunglasses display and a few shelves of car-related items, like tire-pressure gauges and mobile quick chargers.

The most important thing about the place, though, was the guy standing behind the counter, who sent her a speculative gaze as she approached. He was probably in his middle thirties, sort of gangly, and she really hoped he wouldn’t laugh at her when she handed over the ticket to have it checked.

“Can you run these numbers for me?” she asked, glad that at least she sounded normal enough. “I forgot to check online.”

Luckily, the clerk didn’t seem to see anything odd about her looking up her lottery numbers at an out-of-the-way service station in Clarkdale, and obligingly smoothed out the ticket before putting it in the machine behind the counter. A second or two passed, and then the man let out a low whistle.

“Good thing you checked,” he said. “I heard the winning ticket had been sold at a convenience store in Prescott, but no one’s claimed it yet.”

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