Rans brought the bike to a sedate halt in the driveway of my little house and deployed the kickstand. I eyed the scratches and dents on the front door with trepidation. It looked like the police had broken in the front rather than bothering to try the back door first.
“You really think it’s safe for me to be here?” I asked, a hint of skepticism creeping into my tone.
He shrugged. “Frankly, luv, I think you’re going to have to stand up and stake a claim on your life, unless you want to end up hiding in the shadows from now until doomsday. The Fae Court agreed to let you go, and any Fae who came at you now would be defying that order.”
I stilled as I considered the idea that I might be safe. Could I somehow step back into my old life?
But, no.
As Rans had said at the airport, all this meant was that the terms of engagement had changed. I didn’t know yet how that was likely to manifest, but maybe it was a moot point. I wasn’t sure I could go back to my old life, knowing what I now knew about myself and the world around me. Or perhaps more to the point, the worlds around me.
I stepped off the bike.
Rans followed. Even if I hadn’t lost my house key long ago, the front door looked like it had been nailed shut with a couple of boards. But this entire farce had begun with a broken patio door lock. I was willing to bet that St. Louis’ finest hadn’t gone out of their way to repair it after rifling through my belongings. And, indeed, the back door slid open on its tracks with an unpleasant grinding noise.
The interior was on the bad end of what I had mentally prepared myself for. Furniture lay upended; some of it broken. My possessions were scattered randomly on the floor in such volume that it was clear they’d emptied every shelf and drawer in the place. I couldn’t stop a small noise of distress from sneaking out.
Rans surveyed the carnage and shook his head in disgust. “Vicious twats,” he muttered. “Right, then. We’ve got about three hours before we need to leave and meet Guthrie. What do you want to focus on this morning?”
I tried to organize my thoughts, which were in roughly the same shape as my living room. “Um... fix the lock. See if some of my clothing is salvageable. And... look for important papers, I guess? Though I’ve been using a fake identity more than my real one lately.”
He nodded. “That all sounds reasonable. Is there a hardware store nearby?”
For the next three hours, we worked in companionable silence. Rans replaced the lock on the patio door—which only seemed fair, since he’d been the one to break it. Meanwhile, I sorted through the detritus of my former life, swallowing a fresh stab of grief whenever I stumbled across something with sentimental value related to my mother.
I’d had a small collection of photos, some in frames and some not. Many were torn, but I gathered the pieces up carefully and put them in a box to deal with later. A couple of them were still intact behind the broken glass of their frames. Those, I carefully stowed in an old backpack I’d unearthed from the mess in my bedroom. I also packed some additional clothing that had been strewn around the floor.
As far as I could tell, all of my important papers and documents had been taken away. The realization twisted something inside me unpleasantly. It was just so... intrusive. I felt like I’d barely made a dent in the chaos when eleven-thirty rolled around and we left, locking up behind ourselves.
“I’d worry about whether they used my bank statements to close my account or put it on hold, or something,” I tried to quip. “Only it probably had more cobwebs than money in it to start with.”
Rans clasped my shoulder as he went around me to mount the bike. “If it’s any consolation, money causes as many problems as it solves.”
I let out an indelicate snort as I strapped on my helmet. “Sounds like a saying coined by a rich person.”
“Probably,” he agreed, as I settled the backpack across my shoulders and got on behind him. The roar of the engine cut off anything else I might have wanted to say.
* * *
On any other day, I would have enjoyed lunch. People went to Blueberry Hill for the atmosphere more than anything else. The place was something of an institution in St. Louis, and I got the impression Guthrie was a regular. Over the five decades since it had opened, the restaurant had become a sort of pop culture museum, with a jukebox collection, taxidermy on the walls, and dozens of display cases full of everything from old music memorabilia to Pez dispensers.
It didn’t hurt that the burgers and fries were pretty good, too.
Guthrie and I ate and chatted about the local music scene, while Rans pretended to sip a cherry cola. Despite the aura of old sadness that hung over him like a cloud, I liked Guthrie. He was smart, interesting, and had a dry sense of humor that he wasn’t afraid to aim in Rans’ direction as required. All in all, it was a nice way to kill ninety minutes of a day that I desperately wanted to be over. Guthrie eventually excused himself to head to the airport for his business trip, leaving us alone.
“Back to my house for more cleanup?” I asked, dreading the idea.
Rans shook his head. “Not today. That’s a multi-day job no matter how you look at it, for one thing. Since I’m guessing you won’t let me pay someone else to do it for you, we’ll at least need to bring along some bags for the refuse, and rent a lorry to
