Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

ALIX

Walking through an airport hungover feels like a war crime. The relentless noise, bright lights, and swarms of people are a punishment that is both unusual and far too cruel.

I'm standing by the Lehigh Valley International Airport baggage claim. I'm wearing sunglasses and clutching a blue Gatorade in one hand and my violin in the other. I had to shell out the extra $70 to check my suitcase, because my violin counted as my carry on. I do the math in my head: counting that $70, I now have exactly $159 in my only bank account that Ryan doesn't have access to. It's not even enough to cover the minimum payment on my credit card. Awesome.

I knew when I decided to become a musician that I'd never be rich, but I hadn't pictured it being quite like this. Right now, I feel like I'm literally starving for my art…in more ways than one. I haven't eaten anything all day, except the Gatorade and some complementary potato chips, and now it's pushing 8:00PM.

"You can do this," I mutter to myself. "Only a bit longer, and then you can rest."

A woman standing a few feet over, looks up from her phone, and gives me a disgusted look. "Did you say something?"

I blanch. Now I'm talking to myself in public. That's fucking awesome.

I force myself to smile at the woman, and tap my ear, as if there's a headpiece hidden behind my curtain of curly red-brown hair. "Bluetooth," I mouth silently. "Sorry."

She relaxes and smiles down at her phone, clearly comforted by the notion that the woman beside her isn't a raving lunatic speaking to invisible people. I smile too, but then I realize that now I'll look even crazier if I just stand here silently.

"Um, sorry Ryan," I say quickly, pretending to tap my ear again. "I'm about to get in a taxi. Got to go."

My cheeks burn. I hate myself right now. And I hate it more that a pretend phone call is the most I've heard from my husband in twenty-four hours.

I collect my bag, then practically sprint to the exit where I dive headfirst into the nearest taxi.

"Where too?" the driver asks. His phone is attached to the dashboard with one of those plastic, suction-cup stands, and he begins tapping at it, pulling up the GPS app as I give him the address in Ironhill. The driver stops tapping, and looks up at me in the rearview mirror. "You serious?"

"Yeah," I say quickly. "That a problem?"

I cross my fingers in my lap, but it seems that luck has abandoned me entirely.

"Yeah, it's a problem," the driver laughs incredulously. "You sure you're supposed to be heading to Ironhill?"

"Very sure," I say.

"That town's abandoned. No one has lived there in forty years."

"Not exactly," I reply sheepishly. "There's still a few people out there."

"Crazy people, maybe. Or anyone with a death wish. I can't take you out there."

"I told you, it's not completely abandoned, I–"

"It's not that," he interrupts, pointing at the GPS. "That's a 90 minute drive. I can't go that far outside of my area, sorry."

Shit. I didn't think of that.

"Well, what am I supposed to do?" I groan, not really expecting the driver to answer.

"I don't know, lady. Rent a car?" He sounds annoyed. "But whatever you do, you need to get out. If you don't want to go anywhere, I need to take the next person."

"Right, sorry," I mumble, and slide out of the back seat.

Without missing a beat, the woman who saw me talking to myself in line steps up and takes my cab. I sigh loudly, my shoulders slumping in defeat. So far, my plan to escape my life is failing miserably . Maybe I need to face the fact that the problem isn't my life, it's me.

By the time I find the rental desk, hand over my credit card, and retrieve my shiny silver sedan, it's 9:03PM. I 'm exhausted and starving, but I don't allow myself to stop, even to drive through a McDonalds. The rental car cost more than I expected and I'm running low on money. Nana will have food at the house, and she won't mind if I take some. It's not like anyone else is going to eat it.

A fresh wave of depression washes over me.

For some reason, the darkness and silence of the empty road makes me feel even lonelier than I already did. I clench my hands on the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. My lip is so cracked from where I've been gnawing on it that it's bleeding, and the backs of my eyes burn with unshed tears.

If I was driving to Nana's house to see her, then maybe things wouldn't be so bleak. I wish I could cry on her couch like when I was a teenager and tell her about my shitty day. I wish I could tell her about Ryan and Jenna, and hear her curse them out far worse than I have.

I still will tell her , I remind myself firmly. Nana isn't dead, she's just…getting old, I guess.

As I pull off the highway, I spot the familiar "danger" signs. A couple of miles further, and there are more signs: "Underground fire." "Warning, unstable ground." "Road closed, seek alternate route." I ignore all of them, and continue through the completely empty town square.

I'm used to seeing the occasional condemned farm house, or abandoned car on the side of the road, but Ironhill is on a whole other level. Most of the buildings have either been demolished or fallen down on their own, but the occasional dilapidated house remains. There are 80s and 90s style cars rusting in old driveways, and even an abandoned gas station that advertises $0.62 per gallon.

Nana's house is one of the very last homes standing that looks lived in and taken care of. She has a huge garden out front, which somehow manages to flourish despite the contamination of the soil.

Even though I know she's not here, the sight of Nana's car in the driveway is somewhat comforting. I park behind her, and get out.

The air is crisp and dry, the heat of summer already turning into fall. The sound of crickets fills the air, and I suck in a breath. I know the air here is supposed to be contaminated by the mining fire, but it smells fresh to me. Far better than the city air in Chicago, at least. I close my eyes and saver the moment. It's just so…quiet here.

My phone rings loudly. My heart leaps and I yank it out of my pocket without even processing the name flashing on the screen. "Ryan?"

"What?" my mom says. "No, it's me."

I let out a breath, and press my palm to my forehead as my heartbeat slows back to normal. "Oh, hi mom. Sorry, what's up?"

"I was just calling to make sure you made it to the house. I thought I'd hear from you hours ago, but I know how the cell service is there."

"Sorry," I say again, as I walk around the car and pull my suitcase out of the trunk. "I'm here. Just pulled up to the house, actually."

"What?" she yells, like she's standing on the opposite side of a football field. I repeat myself, even as the line crackles.

"Oh, good," she says, her voice sounding slightly far away. "I'll wait for you to head inside. I want to know what we're dealing with."

"What do you mean?"

"You know how your Nana is. Her house is always a disaster, I just want to know how bad it is."

While she talks, I drag my suitcase across the grass, and up the front porch steps. The inside of the house is dark, but the porch light is on. The yellow paint shines brightly in the warm glow, and a crowd of moths and june bugs hover around the hanging lamp.

"I'm sure it's not bad, mom."

She scoffs. "Maybe not by your standards."

I bite my tongue. She's right, actually. I love Nana's house. It's not dirty, it's just a little eclectic. My mother, however, thinks having anything out beyond a single coffee table book is "slovenly."

I hold the phone with my shoulder as I bend to move over the flower pot beside the welcome mat. The hidden key is exactly where I expected it to be, and I let myself inside. Immediately, the familiar scent hits me. It's like cinnamon and oil paint and lemon-pledge. I flick on the hall light and smile.

The front door opens onto a small entry way. The stairs to the second level are directly in front of me, and there's a living room to the right and a dining room to the left. The dining room table is covered in hundreds of books, stacked in messy, teetering piles.

I reach for the nearest book.

Nana's publisher must be changing the covers on her Thorns series, because this is the first time I've seen this edition of A Kingdom of Thorns. The cover features a blonde man with pointed ears, standing shirtless in a field of wild roses. Sighing, I put the book back down.

"Well?" my mother demands.

I jump, having almost forgotten she was on the line. Her voice is clearer now that I've moved to the kitchen, and the line sounds almost normal. "Sorry. It looks fine, mom. Just like it usually does."

"Ugh," she sighs angrily. "That's what I was afraid of. We're never going to have the time to go through all her stuff."

"What's the rush?" I ask, as I turn on the light in the kitchen.

"I've been wanting to get the house sold for years. It's dangerous. I don't know why she insists on staying there when there are only a handful of people left in town. I don't want to leave mom any choice but to move after the hospital releases her."

I chew on my lip. It's only when my mom refers to nana as "mom" that I'm reminded she's her daughter. Of course, I know that, but they're so absurdly different it barely makes sense.

I cross the kitchen and open the refrigerator as my mom keeps ranting about selling the house. My heart sinks. There's almost nothing in here–just a jar of pickles, some ketchup, and a carton of expired eggs. I check the cupboard and it's not much better.

"Mom," I say sharply, interrupting her musing about the house. "When was the last time Nana was home?"

"Um, a few weeks? We've been traveling for her book signings, remember?"

Fuck. I close the fridge, and let out a sigh. "Okay, sorry but I have to go. I haven't eaten all day and I was expecting there to be something here, but I guess I'm going to have to go to the store."

My dismay must be evident in my voice, because for once, mom says something helpful: "Go down to Ted's."

"Where?"

The line crackles a bit, and I have to strain to hear her. "Ted's place. It's a bar just over the border into (town). They make great burgers."

I'm so taken aback by this extremely out of character comment, it takes me a moment to reply. "Are you sure they'd be open?"

She laughs. "Growing up in the middle of nowhere you start to learn what stays open late. It's not exactly gourmet, but it's the only restaurant in miles and they haven't changed their hours in thirty years."

"Hmmm, okay," I muse. "Thanks."

"Go now before you get settled, and I'll call you in the morning."

We hang up and I turn right back around and retrace my steps to the door. I don't really have the money to eat out right now, but my stomach isn't giving me any choice. I only hope my mother is right and this mysterious Ted's is still open.

On my way out to the car, something glittering catches my eye. I pause for a moment to glance again at the books on the table.

On top of the nearest stack, is a large gold and ruby locket, the chain curled in a table beneath the pendent.

I recognize it immediately as Nana's. When I was younger, she wore it everyday, and still brings it out for special occasions even now. Why would she leave it here, where it could easily get misplaced? Maybe Nana's memory is really starting to fracture and she forgot she left it here?

I reach for the necklace. Picking it up, once again reveals the blonde man on the cover of the book. It's not a photo, as I initially thought. It's a shockingly realistic drawing. The man is almost unnervingly handsome, and the artist has drawn a smirk on his face, as if he's admiring the person watching him. There's something about his eyes too, that makes it seem like he's alive.

A nervous shiver travels down my spine, but still, I loop the gold chain around my own neck, and tuck the pendant into my tshirt for safe keeping. The cold metal immediately warms against my skin, almost seeming to pulse with life.

As I turn toward the door, another change on the cover catches my attention. Leaning closer, I furrow my brow. Beneath the familiar title, the publisher has added a new tagline: The Beast is coming.