“Close to what?” he snorted. “The edge of the world?”
“We need to turn right soon. There.” She pointed. “Is that a road?”
It was. After another thirteen kilometers of spruce bog and snow, they passed the first house. Then the second. Then a boarded-up business. Then, suddenly, they were in downtown Waverton—all five blocks of it.
“Park in front of the bank.”
Braking carefully, Dean peered down at the thick, milky slabs of frozen water. “I don’t know, Claire; it looks some icy.”
“We’ll be okay.”
“If you’re thinking of using my kitty litter to make it okay, think again,” Austin muttered, climbing up onto the top of the seat.
“You mean because I’m only a Keeper with access to an infinite number of possibilities and wouldn’t be able to get this truck moving without a bag of dried clay bits designed to absorb cat urine?”
“Essentially…” He paused to lick his shoulder. “…yes.”
Lips pressed into a thin line, Claire reached into the possibilities and slid the truck sideways across the nearly frictionless surface, bringing it to a gentle stop against the slightly higher ice sheet that was the curb.
Dean released the breath he’d been holding and forced the white-knuckled fingers of one hand to let go of the steering wheel long enough to switch off the engine. “You need to warn me when you’re after doing something like that,” he said, still staring straight ahead as though he intended to keep the truck from ending up at the New Accounts desk by visual aids alone. “Sideways is not a good way.”
“Sorry.”
He turned to face her then. “Really?”
“No.”
“Austin!”
“Just giving him the benefit of my experience. You’ve never been sorry when you do that sort of thing to me.”
“When have I ever…?”
“Plevna. December 12th, 1997.”
“How was I supposed to know claws don’t provide traction? It was an honest mistake.”
“Uh-huh.”
Yanking her toque down over her ears, Claire got out of the truck. “He scored the winning goal,” she pointed out to Dean as she closed the door.
“How did you hold the stick?” Dean wondered, pulling on his gloves.
Austin’s head swiveled slowly around. “I. Didn’t.”
“Oh.” His hindbrain decided it might be safer to back away, making no sudden moves. He caught up to Claire by the corner of the bank.
“Someone set this fire,” she said, looking up at the damage. “And that opened the hole.” Hugging her own elbows, she shook her head. “There’s a lot of nasty coming through for the size. This might take some time to seal up; can you keep me from being disturbed?”
“You got it, Boss.”
“You haven’t called me that for a while.”
Their eyes locked.
“You haven’t told me what to do for a while.”
“Maybe I should start.”
“Maybe you should.”
A muffled “Get a room!” from inside the truck redirected their attention to the matter at hand.
“Excuse me, Miss!” Mr. Tannison, the bank manager, hurried toward his damaged building from his temporary office across the street, upstairs over the storefront shared by Martin Eisner, the taxidermist, and Dr. Chow, the dentist. “You can’t stay there. Bricks could fall.” He forgot about the ice until his front boot surrendered traction and he began to slide. Before he could steady himself on the truck parked in front of the bank, a large hand caught his arm and set him back on his feet.
“It’s okay, sir. She’s perfectly safe.”
“She is?” Something about the young man made him feel like a fool for asking. He considered himself a good judge of character—well, he had to be in his position, didn’t he?—and by voice, expression, and bearing, this stranger said, “I will have my withdrawal slip filled out properly before I approach the teller, I would never stand too close at the ATM machine, and your pens are sacred to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh.” The blue eyes behind the glasses made him think of contributions to retirement savings plans done monthly rather than left until the last minute. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“No, sir, St. John’s. Newfoundland.”
“Small world. One of my tellers is from St. John’s. Rose Mooran.”
“Does she have a brother named Conrad, then? I played Peewee hockey with a Conrad Mooran.”
“No, not her brother, that would be her husband.”
“Husband? Lord t’undering Jesus.”
They spent a while longer discussing hockey and the relative size of the world, then Mr. Tannison patted a muscular arm, flashed a relieved smile, and hurried back across the street.
The clutch of eight-year-olds were a little harder to impress.
When Dean limped back to the truck, Claire was standing by the passenger door looking a little stunned.
“Is it closed?”
She nodded.
“What’s wrong?”
When she held up her hand, her fingertips were dusted with black glitter.
“Char?”
“Demon residue.”
“Once you’re in the city, where are you planning on going, dear?”
Byleth stared out past the Porters’ heads at the Toronto skyline, thrusting up into a gray sky like a not particularly attractive pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. “As far away from you as possible,” she muttered.
To her surprise, Harry Porter lifted an admonishing finger toward her reflection in the rearview mirror. “That is quite enough of that, young lady. There is no call for you to be so rude. You will apologize to Mrs. Porter this instant.”
“As if.”
“Fine.” At the first break in traffic, he moved into the right-hand lane and began slowing down.
“Harry…”
“No, Eva. She apologizes, or she walks the rest of the way.”
Demons understood bluffing. Byleth folded her arms and waited.
When the car finally rolled to a stop, Harry put it into park and turned around. “Last chance,” he said. “Apologize, or this is as far as we go together.”
She tucked her chin into her collar and glowered.
“If that’s the way you want it.” He unbuckled his seat belt, got out, and opened her door.
When she stared up into his face through the blast of frigid air, she realized he wasn’t bluffing. “You actually want me to walk. We’re still miles away!”
“We’re still kilometers away,” Harry corrected. “And I want you to apologize. It’s your choice whether or not you walk.”
It
