Days turned to weeks; Bobby had taught me nearly everything he knew about all the guns he had, and I found to my surprise that I was a pretty decent marksman. He had also assigned for me to learn everything I possibly could on about twenty creatures—including how to identify and kill them—and exorcism rituals.
"Dean called earlier," Bobby told me one night as I was curled on the couch, reading one of his books about werewolves. "He said John wanted to know how you were coming along on your training."
I looked up at him, surprised on several levels. For one, if John had wanted to know about my training, I knew he would've called himself; for another thing, I thought Dean didn't give a rat's ass about me to bother calling.
"So what'd you tell him?" I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
"I told him you're scaring the hell out of me," he said as he sat down behind his desk. "You catch on to everything so fast, it's like you were born to be a hunter, Kyra…he asked about your abilities, too, what I thought might be behind it."
"What do you think is behind it?" I leaned forward in my seat, truly interested.
"Well, there have been a lot of cases reported that some people—special people—find they develop psychic abilities after they've experienced some kind of trauma. I'd say you fit into that category."
"Not exactly," I replied. "That built-in lie detector first started going off a few months before the big showdown…how did that happen?"
"Don't know…did you ever have any psychic tendencies when you were a kid? Weird vibes that turned out to be right, déjà vu, that kind of thing?"
"Actually, yeah…I used to have déjà vu all the time. The only thing that really comes to mind is when I was in the fifth grade…I don't remember if I was dreaming or just daydreaming, but I saw myself in class and the teacher told us we were about to take a test, and the guy in front of me—Richard Barnes—turned around and asked me for a pencil. I didn't think much of it, but a day or two later it happened just like I saw it…as I got older, it just faded away. I haven't seen anything in years…but what does that mean?"
He stayed silent, obviously thinking hard. I knew he wouldn't lie to me about this; he knew how important it was to me to find out why I was suddenly turning into a catch-all for memories from other people. It was starting to get to where I picked up things from objects I touched, too—I saw that object's history in a millisecond.
"Kyra, it seems to me you've always had the potential for this…something must have triggered your abilities to turn your bullshit meter on, then when you lost your family, the trauma set off everything else," he said quietly.
"Maybe—can't imagine what would've triggered it to begin with, though," I replied honestly. The lack of migraine-inducing ringing in my head told me he was telling the truth, and I really couldn't think of anything that could have started the whole thing in the first place. The grief was still too fresh to examine that time more closely—I had already confided to Bobby my side of what had happened, and that breakdown wasn't one I cared to repeat ever again.
"Well, in any case, we need to pack up in the morning," he stated, making me look up at him again. "Three people murdered in their homes in Wichita in the last two weeks—no signs of forced entry, bodies ripped to shreds."
"You really think I'm ready to work a job?" I asked, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
"Maybe not ready to work one alone yet, but you'll never get ready unless you get some experience under your belt."
His words made me truly smile for the first time in weeks. Sure, I'd been through hell…sure, I'd been dealt a pretty shitty hand…but Uncle Bobby thought I was ready to start hitting the road, even if it was under supervision, and I was chomping at the bit to begin. My pain was my drive, the force that kept me going—and if I could save even one mother from feeling that pain, the curse that my life had become would be worth it.
The End