engineering product failure.
But Petra knew. She knew that it had been her fault. Sheâd picked the spot. Even though she wasnât legally culpable, she knew that Des would be alive if it wasnât for her. As time passed, that certainty grew, sank past the shock into the marrow of her bones. Though the edges of Desâs face seemed to grow fuzzier in her dreams, and her scar was fading, she still felt that hurt in her chest when she took a deep breath.
She shivered a bit in the chill, tugging the tobacco-Âscented blanket closer around her. Her feet felt curiously hot, and she wiggled her toes. Her ankle seemed better. She missed the warmth of sleeping beside Des, how he let her put her cold feet in the crook of his knees in the cramped bunk.
Something moved at the foot of the bed, and it wasnât her.
Holy shit.
Petra scrambled bolt upright, reaching clumsily for the pistol on the floor. It rattled away from her fingers, skidding under the futon.
A gold-Âflecked ear lifted above the blanket. Then a black one. The coyote turned his golden eyes, half-Âlidded in sleep, toward her.
âWhat the hell are you doing here?â
The coyote yawned. He was curled up around her feet, not much larger than a big house cat.
âOkay, I get that you were asleep. But how did you get in here?â
Petraâs gaze flicked to the open window. She didnât know that coyotes could jump. Hell, Mariaâs dreamcatcher must have knocked her entirely out for her not to have noticed a coyote scrambling into her bed. No matter how much he looked like a dog, Petra was conscious that he was a wild animal. With teeth.
The coyote stuck a foot in his ear and scratched. Jesus, she hoped he didnât have fleas.
Petra extended her hand gingerly. She had no idea if she could get a rabies shot within a hundred miles of this place. The coyote didnât look sick . . .
The coyote sniffed at her hand. She reached for his head to pet him, but he ducked. She didnât push it. Eventually, he let her touch the back of his head. His fur was rough and coarse, not the soft coat of a domestic animal. He was nervous; she could hear a fine whistle in his chest as his breathing quickened. She took her hand back.
âAre you sticking around, then?â
The coyote climbed to his feet, stretched. He placed his paws on the windowsill, scrambled over it with claws scraping on the metal. He landed in the dirt with a huff and vanished under the trailer.
Petra looked after him, resting her cheek on her arm. Perhaps it wasnât such a bad thing to have something to keep her toes warm, someone to watch over her. Even if it was only for want of salami.
Â
Chapter Five
The Alchemist
C al hated disturbing the Alchemist at work.
He hesitated on the basement steps, his knuckles white on the railing. He avoided coming down here, hated everything about it: the creak of the steps if he forgot and walked down the middle of the treads; the smell of sulfur; the snap and crackle of fire. It reminded him of hell. Maybe not hell with capital letters, not the Hell, but certainly a bit of the outer reaches of it.
He waffled, contemplating going back.
âWhoâs playing on my back stair?â The Alchemistâs voice drifted up the steps, the craggy voice of a man whoâd smoked a lot of cigarettes. Among other things.
Cal shut his eyes. Damn. âItâs me . . . Cal.â
âCome down, Cal.â
Calâs boots clomped on the rickety wooden steps, laces flapping against the risers. He put his sweaty hands in his pockets as he reached the last step and looked around for the Alchemist.
Glass bottles lined innumerable shelves, creating a maze that flickered in blue light from a furnace in the corner. Wooden apothecaries leaned against the crumbling walls of the basement. Powders and books and bits of bone were strewn across uneven worktables made from cinder blocks, mismatched table legs of
But Petra knew. She knew that it had been her fault. Sheâd picked the spot. Even though she wasnât legally culpable, she knew that Des would be alive if it wasnât for her. As time passed, that certainty grew, sank past the shock into the marrow of her bones. Though the edges of Desâs face seemed to grow fuzzier in her dreams, and her scar was fading, she still felt that hurt in her chest when she took a deep breath.
She shivered a bit in the chill, tugging the tobacco-Âscented blanket closer around her. Her feet felt curiously hot, and she wiggled her toes. Her ankle seemed better. She missed the warmth of sleeping beside Des, how he let her put her cold feet in the crook of his knees in the cramped bunk.
Something moved at the foot of the bed, and it wasnât her.
Holy shit.
Petra scrambled bolt upright, reaching clumsily for the pistol on the floor. It rattled away from her fingers, skidding under the futon.
A gold-Âflecked ear lifted above the blanket. Then a black one. The coyote turned his golden eyes, half-Âlidded in sleep, toward her.
âWhat the hell are you doing here?â
The coyote yawned. He was curled up around her feet, not much larger than a big house cat.
âOkay, I get that you were asleep. But how did you get in here?â
Petraâs gaze flicked to the open window. She didnât know that coyotes could jump. Hell, Mariaâs dreamcatcher must have knocked her entirely out for her not to have noticed a coyote scrambling into her bed. No matter how much he looked like a dog, Petra was conscious that he was a wild animal. With teeth.
The coyote stuck a foot in his ear and scratched. Jesus, she hoped he didnât have fleas.
Petra extended her hand gingerly. She had no idea if she could get a rabies shot within a hundred miles of this place. The coyote didnât look sick . . .
The coyote sniffed at her hand. She reached for his head to pet him, but he ducked. She didnât push it. Eventually, he let her touch the back of his head. His fur was rough and coarse, not the soft coat of a domestic animal. He was nervous; she could hear a fine whistle in his chest as his breathing quickened. She took her hand back.
âAre you sticking around, then?â
The coyote climbed to his feet, stretched. He placed his paws on the windowsill, scrambled over it with claws scraping on the metal. He landed in the dirt with a huff and vanished under the trailer.
Petra looked after him, resting her cheek on her arm. Perhaps it wasnât such a bad thing to have something to keep her toes warm, someone to watch over her. Even if it was only for want of salami.
Â
Chapter Five
The Alchemist
C al hated disturbing the Alchemist at work.
He hesitated on the basement steps, his knuckles white on the railing. He avoided coming down here, hated everything about it: the creak of the steps if he forgot and walked down the middle of the treads; the smell of sulfur; the snap and crackle of fire. It reminded him of hell. Maybe not hell with capital letters, not the Hell, but certainly a bit of the outer reaches of it.
He waffled, contemplating going back.
âWhoâs playing on my back stair?â The Alchemistâs voice drifted up the steps, the craggy voice of a man whoâd smoked a lot of cigarettes. Among other things.
Cal shut his eyes. Damn. âItâs me . . . Cal.â
âCome down, Cal.â
Calâs boots clomped on the rickety wooden steps, laces flapping against the risers. He put his sweaty hands in his pockets as he reached the last step and looked around for the Alchemist.
Glass bottles lined innumerable shelves, creating a maze that flickered in blue light from a furnace in the corner. Wooden apothecaries leaned against the crumbling walls of the basement. Powders and books and bits of bone were strewn across uneven worktables made from cinder blocks, mismatched table legs of
Similar Books
