“Your girl won’t last the year.”
The wingback chair next to me makes a crackin’ sound as my hand squeezes it too tightly. “You’re my girl. I’m not gonna let anyone hurt ya.”
She looks confused for a second. “I meant Evie,” she says, uncertainly.
Her glance my way only feeds my desire for her. “You don’t know the future, and Anya, you’re my only girl,” I state again unequivocally.
“Once maybe, but now...”
I lift my eyebrow. “What’s that above your heart then?”
Her fingers glide unconsciously over the bindin’ mark on her skin. “A mistake,” she replies.
Her words make my heart contract painfully. It’s a feelin’ that I know comes from missin’ a life that I’ve left behind—from missin’ her. “You have to stay with me for now, Anya. That’s non-negotiable.”
“You don’t even remember me.”
“I may not remember everthin’, but the crickets that I feel whenever you’re ‘round mean somethin’.” My eyes shift to Zephyr who has been watchin’ our exchange with fascination. He stands as I say, “We gotta move. This place is feelin’ downright creepy, Zee.”
He frowns. “What do you feel?”
“My flesh is crawlin’. It’s like they’re peekin’ at us through the shadows, gatherin’ in the crevices of this place. Whatever it is, it’s here—under the bed, tryin’ to get inside my head.”
“It?”
“The evil that just kicked our asses out in the snow. It’s back.”
“Then I won’t say aloud where we’re going, should it be listening.” His assurance that I’m right makes me uneasy. “Brownie, Buns...” he says in a tone that hardly rises at all.
Buns wobbles stiffly through the door of the library with Brownie not far behind. They’re both twice their normal size because they’re wearin’ several layers of clothes, givin’ them the appearance of bohemian Eskimos.
“Buns,” Zephyr’s tone is admonishin’, “we discussed the need to travel light.”
Buns gives him a petulant look. “Do you see me carrying luggage?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the problem?” Her chin juts out.
I clear my throat. Zephyr’s sharp eyes pierce me. I shake my head, hopin’ he picks up what I’m layin’ down.
Zee turns back at Buns and murmurs, “You seem uncomfortable.”
“I’m really hot,” she admits with annoyance, “but what do you want me to do? I have to plan our wardrobes without even knowing what SEASON we’re heading into because NO ONE has let me know where we’re going!” She stabs her finger at Zephyr.
“You’re good with surprises, Buns.” His smile is placid.
She sniffs the air in derision and waddles forward like a golden-haired sumo wrestler. “I do like a good surprise,” she reluctantly agrees.
“The portal is not activated to pull you through. You will need to shapeshift,” Zephyr says, suppressin’ a smile.
“That’s something you could’ve pointed out to me an hour ago!” Buns sweeps her hands in front of her, indicatin’ the pile of clothes layered on her. “Maybe I don’t feel like becoming butterflies right now! Did you ever think of that?” Her hands find their way to where her hips might lie beneath the fabric.
Brownie gathers her hair away from her neck and fans her sweaty face with her other hand. “I can maybe manage moths—butterflies are a stretch.”
“I’m okay with that if you can manage to change into them in the next few seconds because we’ve stayed here too long as it is.” Zephyr holds out a delicate earthen vase. Crack lines in the gold and black enamel run through the angels depicted on its sides. He lifts the lid from it. The immensity of time and space swirls in a spiral within it; ready to devour us like a black hole does a star going supernova.
“None of us is going to look very good when we get wherever we’re going in that portal,” Buns pouts.
“I don’t even care anymore,” Brownie says irritably. “I just wanna go. There’s something oppressive in the air we’re breathing. It’s starting to feel like two and two makes five around here.” At that, Brownie bursts into a shimmerin’ copper cloud of moths, shapeshiftin’ to fit inside the portal. The clothes that she was wearin’ fall to the floor, a discarded chrysalis of cotton, linen, and denim. One moth at a time, Brownie rains down into the vase that Zephyr holds open.