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Mics were thrust in her face as she stepped toward the front stairs.
“How do you feel about Ray Bartello’s murder?”
“Do you have a statement for the press?”
“Is it true that your drawing predicted Bartello’s death?”
“Why would you draw him eyeless?”
“Are you the murderer?”
She waited until that last crappy question—more an accusation—to say anything. Then she stared at the reporter. With scalding rage contained in a deceptively quiet hiss, she said, “Ray Bartello was a good friend of mine. I’m heartbroken by his passing.”
She glanced at Oryn for moral support. His slightly narrowed eyes seemed to say, Go slow, you don’t owe them. She agreed. After the supernatural attacks, she was not going to hint that she knew a damn thing, because the more that bad entities knew she was trying to figure out the case, the more they would try to maul, even kill her. Oryn gave a faint nod, his eyes tinting green. She went on.
“I know nothing about how this happened. You could camp here for days, and I still couldn’t tell you more. The proper place to provide any tips or leads is to the Savannah Police.”
As she pushed through the group, Oryn walked slightly behind her, since the reporters were busy photographing them together, no doubt fuel for salacious media.
“How do you know Miss LeBlanc? Are you dating her?” some ballsy reporter asked Oryn. He didn’t answer.
“Did you know Ray Bartello? Did you or Miss LeBlanc have a fight earlier on the day he was found?” asked another.
“Can you tell us anything more about the case?” asked a third.
Oryn face wrinkled in disgust. “Look, Miss LeBlanc needs peace. She’s said what she can. Yes, we’re friends, not that it’s your business,” he added sharply. “You may as well go get some sleep. Camping out here won’t get you what you seek.” He swept his arm around
Celestine, and they hurried up the stone stairs leading to her place.
Oryn stopped on the stoop while Celestine unlocked the door. “So, I’ll see you at class tomorrow? Will you be okay?” he asked. “If you want, I can cast a few air wards around the house so you can get a worry-free night’s sleep. Otherwise—”
“It’s not your job to protect me,” she said, gazing up at him and realizing how very much taller he was, next to her five-foot, seven-inch frame. Good goddess, the man must be six and a half feet tall if he’s an inch.
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Award-winning paranormal and contemporary romance author, Abigail Owen was born in Greeley, Colorado, and raised in Austin, Texas. She now resides in Northern California with her husband and two adorable children who are the center of her universe.