I blew out the breath, telling my heart to quit slamming into my ribs. Shelly was still coasting, rolling forward on momentum, and when we reached a certain point, she tugged the wheel just slightly to the right.
“She’ll go in the garage. If they come down this way, she’ll be hidden.”
Comprehension was slow to arrive. “You’re renting this place?”
“Yes.”
“From Mr. Tanner?”
“Yes.”
I didn’t like this fact one bit. Sure, it was on several acres, with a private slope on Bandit Lake. Launch off the dock was possible even though it was in severe disrepair. The location was ideal, but if memory served, the place was little more than a lean-to.
We rounded the main structure; calling it a cabin would’ve been too generous. Shelly flicked on the parking lights, illuminating a Quonset hut similar to the one on our property.
“I don’t remember this being here.”
“I added it.”
That had me looking at her. “Mr. Tanner let you add it?”
“I didn’t give him much of a choice.”
“How so?”
Her eyes darted to mine, and then back to the corrugated structure. “I didn’t ask.”
I chuckled. “Well, that’s one way to do it.”
“It’s pre-fabricated. When I go, I’ll remove it if he wants.”
When I go . . .
I tensed at that, and for a moment I was struck dumb by the words. Before I could ask whether she meant When I move someplace else in Green Valley that’s not a shack, or When I return to Chicago, she’d placed the car in neutral, engaged the emergency break, and hopped out.
It took me just two seconds before I unbuckled my seatbelt and exited the car to follow her. I heard her dogs barking from the direction of the house; clearly our stealth wasn’t stealthy enough for the giant animals.
By the time I reached her, she’d bent to unlock the thick-gauge padlock; the lock anchored a roller door to the ground.
Now wasn’t the time to question her about leaving, seeing as how the Wraiths might still double back and search private driveways. But something about how she’d said it, like leaving was inevitable, rubbed like sandpaper in my armpit.
Clearing my throat, I helped her lift the metal door, noting conversationally, “You know he’s the junkyard man, and he’ll probably use it for storage . . . when you go.”
She made a noncommittal sound, and then turned, jogging back to the car and slipping inside. Kicking a patch of dirt, I tried to curtail the impulse to mention the issue again.
I could wait.
I should wait.
We had plenty of time. I hope.
Distracted by this train of thought, I moved to one side, glancing into the interior of the semicircular structure, and started in mild surprise by what I found there.
It looked like a workshop, which wasn’t surprising. Everyone knew Shelly did metal work, engineering car parts and casting them on her own. But the source of my astonishment were the huge sculptures along the back wall. Metalwork, from the looks of it. The three figures were lined up, and each one must’ve been twelve or fifteen feet tall. They looked like birds.
Shelly pulled forward, casting more light on the shapes and I saw they weren’t birds, they were angels. My breath caught. Each had feathery wings made from what appeared to be silver. Strong male bodies, entirely nude.
Drawn to them, I walked into the hut without thinking, navigating past machinery I might’ve admired if not for the sculptures. As I drew near, I realized the wings were made from reclaimed utensils. One had forks, one spoons, and the last knives.
Barely aware that Shelly had cut the engine but left on the lights, I reached forward and touched the wing, found it was moveable. The metal fabric created by the reclaimed silverware bent and moved like chicken wire, plus the entire wing seemed to be on a hinge.
“Holy shit.”
“They’re for a plaza, in Berlin. Over time, the wings will soften.”
I glanced at her, startled to find her at my elbow. “You made these?”
“Yes.”
“Holy shit.” This time, I said the words to her. “You’re an artist.”
She shrugged. “My major was sculpture.”
“In college?”
“Yes.”
“Where’d you go?”
“The Art Institute in Chicago.”
Wow. Impressive.
I turned my attention back to the angels and stared at the face of the one closest; he looked fierce, but not angry. “How long did these take you?”
“Three months.”
“Are the wings—”
“Made of silver, yes.”
“They must be—”
“Worth a lot.”
I huffed a laugh at her ability to finish my thoughts. “What are the bodies made of?”
“Copper. The bone structure of the wings is also copper.”
I thought about that, copper bodies and silver wings. Eventually both would oxidize, but neither would rust. The copper would turn green, and the silver black.
Absentmindedly, I said, “Unless they’re polished, their colors will fade.”
“Like a person.”
“Pardon?” I returned my gaze to her profile.
“People need to be polished, to be stroked, touched,” her tone was abstract, “and when they’re not polished, their colors fade. They fade, they change, warp, become something different.”
She overwhelmed me in that moment, her words, the enormity of her talent. Here I thought I was courting an auto mechanic with a few peculiarities.
Instead, this woman was an artistic genius. Picture pieces snapped together and Shelly Sullivan came further into focus.
“Incredible.” You’re incredible.
“Thank you.” She accepted the praise easily, assuming I meant the statues, her attention affixed to the right-most angel. “I’m not finished, but almost.”
“They look perfect to me.”
My eyes were drawn to the angel with silver knives for wings, a knot of unease in my stomach at the sight of the blades. She’d said she didn’t own any knives. I supposed maybe Shelly didn’t consider sculpting supplies actual knives. Plus, I saw they weren’t of the sharp variety. More like glorified butter spreaders.
The knot eased, leaving me with a sense of . . . unworthiness.
Yep. That’s what it was. I didn’t like it. I pushed it away, clearing the thought from my mind.
She was saved from responding by the hum of a lone engine in the distance. From the sound of it, the vehicle was still on the main road, and I couldn’t tell if it belonged to a bike or a souped-up car.
We both jumped into action. Shelly made for the GTO, turning off the lights and withdrawing the keys. I jogged to the roller door, pulling it down halfway until she exited, then closing and locking it.
“Come with me.” Shelly reached out her hand and I grabbed it. She steered us to the side door of the shack. Once there, she unlocked it, and pulled me through.
The room was dark, but I could see outlines of furniture, the space much larger than I remembered. Soon, the sound of galloping paws and excited barks greeted us, followed by dark outlines of the beasts themselves.
“Brace for impact,” she said, a hint of amusement in her voice.
She didn’t need to tell me twice. I turned to the side, spreading my feet apart, and opened my arms for whichever of the two mammoths pummeled me first.