Page 155 of Veil of Blood and Bone

I screw the cap on the mug and look at her. “Grab the keys. I’ll be ready in a second. I want to pack a few things.”

Her eyes are wider than grapefruit. “Helene.”

“Now, kid.”

Tiptoeing to the bag, I quickly loop a scarf over my neck, my stare latched on the bedroom door. By the time I drag on my coat, Audra has limped over and gotten her own winter coat over her shoulders.

The keys jingle when she palms them, and I wince.

“I’ll explain it in the car,” I grunt, tossing my head toward the door. “Manny dropped it off for us after fixing the belt. The key will still be in the ignition. No one wants to steal the old thing. And hopefully the fix gets us a few hundred miles down the road.”

She pulls it open into a bluster of cold from the rest of the house. It sinks into my skin, and I clamp down tight on my lower lip, using the pain to get me over the threshold. Her crutches wait outside the door.

She loops them underneath her arms and pauses there, squinting her eyes against the exhaustion.

“Come on. Let me help.”

“You’ll only trip me up. I’ve got a rhythm.”

Normally she doesn't need the crutches to get down the stairs. The banister is sturdy enough for her to grip to traverse the narrow treads. Today is different.

Today everything is different.

Tears burn the lash line of my eyes as we make it to the ground floor, time ticking down behind us.

Out on the street, snow packs the windshield of the old beater car we only have for emergencies. It got us from Tennessee to Massachusetts in one piece and promptly ate it.

I brush flakes aside with my bare hand while Audra takes the stairs, careful of black ice. The engine requires an eternity and a blood sacrifice to crank over and belch cold air through the vents. How long until it warms?

How long before our slim chance of escape disappears?

I lift my go bag and toss it on top of the pile of crap in the backseat, trying not to read too much into Audra’s limping gate as she walks around the side of the car.

She settles in the front and slides the crutches past the center console, clutching her purse on her lap.

After shoving the wheelchair into the trunk, I finish brushing off the rest of the windshield, fingers numb, and scurry to the driver’s side. Sneakers seep through immediately when I step in a puddle of slush at the curb.

“Hey, at least it's dry snow. Like dandruff,” I tell her with a falsely bright smile.

“Please, stop. What’s going on?” she asks curtly.

The moment the gauge shifts from cold to the next tick up, I press my foot to the gas. The laces of my sneakers tighten and the tires skid in useless circles before finding traction.

“Why are we leaving?” She tries again, lifting her voice above the hum of the heater. “We’ve got the money in our pockets, and that’s it. This isn’t smart.”

“On the contrary. This is the smartest thing I’ve done in a long time,” I assure her.

“I take grave issue with that.”

I lift my voice to normal volume, careful to modulate it. “Where do you want to go this time?” We pull to a stop at the light. “We can head anywhere. South, probably. South and away from the cold.”

And a town where Norse myth isn’t seeped into its history.

“How about New Orleans? At least there, the place is dripping in other cultures. Or Orlando! I’m throwing it out there. It’s devoid of any culture, only Disney.”

We pass the old hotel with its parking lot half empty. Lights gleam from the restaurant window and the small spa offering only massages and facials like sandpaper with too hard grit.

“Why? Why do you want to leave? And not Disney, if I even have a choice,” she replies, staring straight ahead.