After giving my name, the woman informed me that I was booked into an economy sedan and the one sitting in the parking stall was the one I chose.
“Nope. That’s not what I chose,” I told her, because I’d booked the reservation myself. “Because I know better than that. No way that car’s gonna work.”
“Sir, I assure you that—oh,” she said when she finally looked up from her monitor and then up again and then had to tilt her head back just a bit more so she could meet my gaze. “Got it,” she stated, grinning at me. “I now understand the problem with the itty-bitty car.”
Which was why being nice was always preferable to being an asshole. She was very accommodating once she understood my issue.
At six five, two hundred and sixty pounds, me fitting comfortably into the Dodge Neon that had been waiting for me was not an option. When she offered me a Ford Explorer instead, I told her that would be fine.
Now, close to two hours later, having parked on the street in front of an auto repair shop—Garnet Bakery the sign read for some unearthly reason—I killed the engine and got out, locked the door, and pulled my phone from the breast pocket of my leather jacket, checked the address, confirmed I was, in fact, in the right place, and walked up the driveway toward the front door of the business.
When I got closer, I realized that to the left of the door was a path that led down a short alley between two buildings that was wide enough for two people, but not a car. It was done in worn cobblestones and, like the ground and everything else, was damp. Between the fine mist and the cold air, the only thing I could say about Rune, thus far, was that it was soggy and gray. The entire town, which was built beside Neacoxie Creek, had a pale charcoal wash to it, gunmetal and anthracite, pewter and slate. I stepped from the alley and into a parking lot, and it too was the color of wet clay. It all felt eerily like the opening scene of a horror movie.
To my left was a small garage, and over it was what looked like an apartment that had once been some sort of sky blue, judging from the paint that was still there. Across the lot from me was a large two-story A-frame house with a wide front porch and a yard that had clearly been cut back in preparation for winter, bushes down to branches sitting low to the ground. To my right was the front of the auto garage, all aged, chipping red brick, with various cars in the stalls. It made sense then, the business in front, home in the back, though I still had no idea why the sign said it was a bakery.
Sian Coburn had said in her email to Jared Colter that she would be there at the house to meet me, but glancing around, I didn’t see anyone. Thinking that the house was my best bet, I began crossing the parking lot, gravel crunching under my duck boots, and was surprised when an old Volkswagen bus flew by me to the garage with the apartment above it, throwing up gravel and fishtailing to a stop.
I crossed my arms and waited.
The driver parked the van, turned off the engine, and then climbed out the window of the car, because why not, and ran fast to reach me. It was a young woman, emphasis on the young from what I could tell, and when she was just a few feet away from me, her shoe must have caught on something because she went flying. How she tripped I had no earthly idea. It was flat gravel she was racing over, there weren’t any large seams in the ground, no big loose rocks, but when she was close, she suddenly lost her footing and would have done a face-plant if I hadn’t caught her.
Since she was right there, it was easy enough to intercept her, pluck her from the air, and set her on her feet. Being as she was small, at least to me, five four, maybe a hundred pounds, it was a simple maneuver. It took a second for her to realize she wasn’t going to fall, and she twitched and shivered for a moment, anticipating, girding, before she took a breath and looked up at me.
“Oh,” she gasped, her dark-brown eyes locked on my face. “Thank you.”
The blush was high on her wind-chafed cheeks, and I noted the freckles across the bridge of her nose, the deep dimples as she smiled, and I heard the whimper along with the sigh.
“You’re from Torus Intercession, right?” she asked excitedly.
She couldn’t have been more than fifteen, so how she was driving a car alone was beyond me. I scowled at her. “I am. Who’re you?”