Were children more open to the extraordinary?

He flushed as he realized the mother, or babysitter, was aware of his attention. Flushed darker when he realized she was staring at his . . . uh, jeans . . . and smiling in a way that was making him distinctly nervous. Picking up his pace, he made it to the concrete in time to turn and see all three of them pile into a later model station wagon.

Not a minivan.

Which was good; right?

Feeling vaguely nostalgic for the days when he knew what the h.e.l.l was going on, he went into the mall.

The air-conditioning hit him like a dive into the North Atlantic, and the sweat dribbling down the sides of his neck dried so fast it left goose b.u.mps behind. A trio of fourteen-year-old girls burst into high-pitched giggling as he stepped back and held open the door for them, the giggling punctuated by "Oh. My. G.o.d." at frequent intervals as they pa.s.sed. Dean had the uncomfortable feeling they were referring to the rip in the right leg of his jeans. Maybe he shouldn't have worn them out in public, but after years of being washed and ironed, they were so thin that they were the coolest pair he owned in spite of how tightly they fit.

He'd parked by the food court entrance, having a strong suspicion that a man carrying a basilisk in a hockey bag was going to need to cover as short a distance as possible inside the mall.

By the time he reached the edge of the seating area, he remembered what he hated about these kind of places. He'd seen dead cod with more personality.

Actually, in this kind of weather, dead cod had personality to spare.

Only the fact that the forces of evil were using this mall as part of their attempt to take over the world made it any different than a hundred malls just like it. Although not a lot different.

Austin had been certain the basilisk would be hanging around the food court.

Dean studied the area carefully, walked over to the ubiquitous Chinese Take-Out, and bought an egg roll and a coffee. He couldn't just sit down at a table in the food court without food, taking up s.p.a.ce he had no real right to; that would be rude. Tray in one hand, hockey bag in the other, he made his way through a sudden crowd of teenagers toward the more thickly filled of the two planters, the perfect basilisk hiding place.

The good news: the table closest to the planter was empty.

The bad news: either a chicken-lizard combo smelled like the shallows after one of the big boats had just flushed her bilges on a hot day or the basilisk wasn't the only thing the planter was hiding.

It certainly explained why the statue they'd found had been holding a trowel and a bucket.

He wasted a moment wondering why they'd positioned plastic plants under a skylight, then reached into his bag and took the top off the container of cooked cereal. With the open bag carefully braced between his feet, he set the mirror in his lap, and opened his coffee.

As he took his first sip, he heard his grandfather's voice, "For the love of G.o.d, bai, you don't go buying coffee from a Chinese Take-Out! That's why the good laird gave us Timmy Horton's!"

Dean put the lid back on his cardboard cup, forcing himself to swallow.

His grandfather had been a very wise man.

The egg roll probably would have tasted better if his sense of smell hadn't gone numb. On the other hand, had his sense of smell still been functioning, he wouldn't have been able to eat the egg roll, so he supposed it evened out.

How long was he supposed to be waiting, then?

"Dean McIssac? Christ on crutches, it is you!"

The young woman who dropped into the other seat had a blaze of red hair over startlingly black eyebrows and b.r.e.a.s.t.s that threatened to spill out over the top of her . . . Actually, Dean had no idea of what she was wearing. He remembered the b.r.e.a.s.t.s. When he wasn't playing hockey, dreams of those b.r.e.a.s.t.s had pretty much got him through his last year of high school. And occasionally when he was playing hockey, which was how he'd dislocated his shoulder. Unfortunately, she'd been dating the same guy since grade nine and no one else stood a chance. She'd been the perfect, safe, unattainable fantasy. "Sherri Murphy. What're you doing so far from home?"

"Working. Same as. Got a job out at the nylon plant." Sherri grinned across the table at him. "d.a.m.n, it's some good to see a familiar face. You here alone?"

"Yeah . . ."

Her grin sharpened.

Dean wondered why he'd never noticed the predatory curve to it before. No wait; he knew why. "Uh, Jeff . . ."

She shrugged, and he missed the first few words. ". .. boat with his dad. Like you can support a family fishing these days." Her gaze turned frankly speculative. "What about you?"

"Me?"

"You got a girl?"

"A girl . . . yes." Floundering without knowing how he'd gotten caught up by the surf, he clung to the thought of Claire. "She's around here somewhere." Which, if somewhere was stretched about as far as it could go, was the absolute truth.

Head c.o.c.ked to one side, Sherri studied his face. "You know, word was, Dean McIssac couldn't lie to save his life." The tip of her tongue traced a moist line over her lower lip.

Something warm and soft brushed up against Dean's ankle, and he felt his cheeks begin to burn. "Listen, there's a, uh, bar down in Portsmouth Village, the, uh . . ." The pressure against his leg increased, moving softly up and down his calf. ". . . Ship to Sh.o.r.e. Bunch of us from home are there most Sat.u.r.days."

"Talking about when you're going back east?" Her voice had picked up a wistful tone.

"Yeah. That, too. The owner has a load of Black 'a.r.s.e trucked up from home about once a month."

"Beer and nostalgia, hard to resist."

The lightest touch against the inside of his knee. Dean's whole body twitched although, crammed into the seat as he was, he couldn't jump back. He was amazed she'd found enough room to maneuver under these tiny tables.

"I'm not remembering you as being this jumpy."

Smiling like she knew a secret, she stood. "Sat.u.r.days, eh? Maybe I'll be stopping by, then. I'd like to meet the girl who finally got you."

More than a little confused, he watched her walk away.

Got me wha . . .

A gentle caress against his other leg.

Sherri had disappeared into the drugstore.

How did she . . . ?

Oh.

Ears on fire, he glanced down at the mirror in his lap. The chicken half of the basilisk was in his hockey bag eating Red River cereal. The lizard part, a long, prehensile, bright green scaly tail, was rubbing up and down his leg.

She must think I'm a total idiot.

Leaning forward, both hands under the table, he gently shoved the tail into the bag.

Claire could never find out about this.

A warm beak investigated his fingers. He pushed it back down toward the cereal.