Chapter Fourteen

Wade stood in Twyla's front yard with his mother, thanking a buddy who served in the local fire brigade, while Twyla, who was now drowning in Frank's bathrobe, tried not to cry on the fire chief.

"What do you mean, I can't stay here?" she asked him.

"There's a hole in your roof, Twyla."

"I could use one of the other bedrooms until I have it fixed."

"You're going to have to replace the wall of the adjoining bedroom, and the whole house has extensive smoke damage. You need to stay somewhere else until it's fixed, and that's going to take weeks, if not months."

"But I'm heading to Tanria tomorrow morning."

"Today, actually," said Wade as he came to stand beside her.

"How am I supposed to get someone to fix this while I'm gone?"

"I'll take care of it," Wade volunteered.

Wade.

Actually volunteered to help her.

Her eyes went wide with wonder as she looked at him. "You will?"

"Yeah, I'll take a couple of days off and find a contractor and everything. You've got insurance, don't you?"

"I… Yes?"

"With Cadmus Family Insurance, right? You're the one who helped me and Anita set up homeowner's insurance when we got our place, so I'm assuming it's the same."

Twyla couldn't believe what she was seeing and hearing. Wade—her Wade—was an adult who knew about homeowner's insurance.

"That's right," she said.

"Okay. I'll take care of it."

"You will?"

"Of course. You're my mom. You've taken care of me my whole life. I can handle getting someone out here to fix your house."

Speechless, Twyla hugged her little boy (who was six inches taller than she was).

"That's settled, then," said the fire chief. "Good luck, Twyla. Thanks, Wade."

Wade gave the man a wave goodbye as Twyla continued to squeeze the life out of him. And then Twyla jolted in her son's arms, remembering that her daughter was going to come home to an uninhabitable house. "Oh no! Hope!"

Wade patted his mother on the back. "She can stay with me and Anita. I'll try to head her off at the train station before she shows up here."

"Really?"

"Mom, it's no big deal."

"It's a big deal to me," she cried against his chest.

"Least I can do."

She gathered her dignity, since some of the neighbors were rubbernecking by the curb, and let him go.

And then he completely did her in when he said, "Love you, Mom."

Once Twyla stopped crying all over her son, she sent him home and girded herself to return to Frank's house. The idea occurred to her that she could grab the shovel out of the garden shed and dig a big hole in her backyard and hide there forever, but she knew she would have to face Frank sooner or later.

He's your friend, Twyla, she reminded herself. You're going to get through this.

With those faint words of encouragement, she crossed the lawn and stepped through his front door.

Frank was setting a carafe and several mugs on his coffee table so he didn't look up when she came inside. Now that they were in the same room together, she swore she could feel the memory of his touch radiating from her skin like a furnace. She wanted to grab the sports magazine off the coffee table and fan herself with it, but that would put her in close proximity to the man whose kiss had made her abandon plain good sense but a mere half hour ago.

Hart Ralston eyed the coffee with distate. "Any chance I could get a cup of tea?"

Frank shook his head. "Don't have any."

"I might have some tea bags next door," Twyla offered, eager to be anywhere else but in Frank's presence.

"You also have a hole in your roof, Banneker. Never mind."

"How is it next door?" Frank asked, barely looking at her, which was just as well, since she could barely look at him either.

"The good news is that they put the fire out quickly. The bad news is that the fire chief said I can't live in the house at all until someone repairs the roof and the smoke damage."

Under any other circumstance, this would not have been a huge problem, since she could have camped out in one of Frank's kids' rooms until her home was habitable again. Now? That seemed like the worst possible idea, and Frank, notably, did not make the offer.

A knock at the door rescued her from the elephant in the room, if only briefly. The sheriff took the liberty of opening Frank's door and letting Alma Maguire into the parlor.

"Rumor has it exciting things are afoot on Cottonwood Street."

"Sorry to drag you into this, Alma, but since two of your marshals were targeted, it seemed like the appropriate thing to do."

"Agreed. Fun way to kick off married life." She gave him a friendly slap on the arm, and Twyla remembered that long before he mentored Penrose Duckers and long before Maguire was the chief marshal of the West Station, Hart Ralston and Alma Maguire had been partners in the field for years.

"Are you two all right?" she asked Twyla and Frank.

A hysterical giggle bubbled up Twyla's throat before she could stop it, and though she couldn't bring herself to look at Frank, she heard his edgy snort from across the room.

"Yeah, that was a bad question," said Maguire. "Obviously, you're not all right."

If only she knew.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, thought Twyla. Everything about this night is a giant pile of wrong.

Maybe she could ask Maguire for vacation time. Effective immediately. Hadn't she recently read something in the newspaper about cruise ships that went to the polar ice caps? Going somewhere cold sounded like an excellent plan.

The memory of Frank's erection pressing against her hot want flared and burned in her memory.

Somewhere extremely cold, she thought.

Through all of this silent drama, Duckers was arguing in whispers with Zeddie Birdsall near the dining table.

"Go home, Z."

"No."

"This doesn't involve you."

"You're my boyfriend. If it involves you, it involves me."

"I'm doing my job. Does a problem at Proserpina's involve me?"

"If the place burns down with me in it, then yeah, it does. What if there's a bomb under your bed?"

"Then you'd better stay at your dad's place tonight."

The sheriff held up a hand to get their attention. "You think there might be a bomb under Duckers's bed?"

Zeddie reluctantly tore his furious glare away from his boyfriend to answer his brother-in-law. "He's been working with Twyla and Frank, so yeah, it's a concern."

"Shit." The sheriff opened the door to speak to one of the deputies milling around the smoking hole in Frank's lawn. "We need to evacuate the apartment building on Denniston Street immediately. Duckers, give him the address. And actually, we'd better clear my father-in-law's house, too, to be on the safe side."

"Yes, sir," said both the deputy and Duckers.

"You call him sir?" Alma asked the latter.

He shrugged. "Old habits and all that."

"Guess I'll have to stay with Pen," Zeddie said smugly while his boyfriend talked to the deputies outside.

"No," Hart told him. "I've got an investigation going on here, and you're not part of it. You can go to my place. Mercy's up. My wedding night, ladies and gentlemen." He muttered the last bit to himself before he turned to Twyla and Frank. "Anyone else working closely with you?"

Maguire answered for them. "These three are working a special case. Anyone else involved is currently inside the Mist and under my jurisdiction. I'll check on them."

Hart nodded and turned to Twyla. "So, you dropped your glasses, and when you picked them off the floor, you noticed the bomb underneath your bed. What I don't understand is how you knew Ellis also had a bomb planted under his bed."

"It was a gut instinct. My body reacted before my brain could catch up." Yes, holy Three Mothers, her body had reacted and then some. Surely, everyone present could discern from the flush of her skin that she and Frank had gotten hot and heavy in this very room. She was tempted to hide behind the couch until everyone went home, except this was Frank's house, and if she hid behind his couch until everyone left, that would leave her alone with Frank again, and if she was alone with him again, who in the Salt Sea knew what would happen next?

"Your gut was right," Ralston told her. "You saved a man's life tonight."

That, at least, was good. She had forgotten that part.

"Theories? Thoughts?" asked Maguire.

Frank spoke up from where he leaned against the wall, as far away from Twyla as he could get considering the small size of the parlor. It happened to be the same spot where Twyla had first kissed him, though, so his location didn't assuage the tension between them at all. "I don't think there's anything under Duckers's bed or anywhere else in his apartment, or at the Birdsalls' house either. The bombs would have gone off at the same time."

"That makes sense," Twyla agreed, relieved to focus on her job rather than her personal life, which had gone up in flames, both literally and metaphorically. "Whoever did this wouldn't assassinate us at intervals. The only reason Frank's bomb went off early was because it detonated when I threw it out the door."

Frank heaved an angry huff from across the room. She wondered how mad he was at her and for how many reasons, and if he was also furious with himself for his part in the happenings after the bomb exploded.

"Why would someone try to silence you two and not Duckers? Maybe this isn't related to the job," said Maguire.

The sheriff rubbed the morning stubble on his jaw. "The question is, What do you two know that no one else knows?"

Twyla's gaze snapped to Frank's in a moment of understanding, and they both looked away from each other as quickly.

"I think the answer to that question is classified," answered Twyla.

Maguire turned to her old partner. "Can I get a minute alone with Banneker and Ellis?"

"Seriously, Alma?"

"What?"

"I've got a bomb case on my hands, on my fucking wedding night, and you're cutting me out?"

"It's classified, and you are no longer a Tanrian Marshal, Sheriff."

"Fine. Great, actually. I'm going to let you sort this out. In the meantime, there are two deputies stationed outside. Banneker and Ellis, don't go anywhere in town without an escort until the marshals get to the bottom of this. When do you head back to Tanria?"

"Tomorrow morning," said Twyla.

"Also known as today," grumbled Frank.

"Probably for the best. Whoever wanted you dead thought it was easier to get to you in Eternity rather than Tanria."

"Thanks, Hart. I'll take it from here," Maguire told him.

"If anyone needs something, feel free to call on a person who is not me, because I'm leaving on my fucking honeymoon in"—he checked his pocket watch—"three fucking hours." He took his newly acquired brother-in-law by the arm and hauled him out the door with him.

"Hey!" Zeddie protested, but if he had more to say, Twyla didn't hear it, since Hart shut the door behind him.

A second later, Duckers scared the crap out of her when he came up behind her and asked, "What's cooking?"

"Salt Sea! Where did you come from?"

"I snuck in the back door. Didn't feel like having it out with the boyfriend tonight."

"So you're hiding from him?" asked Maguire, unimpressed. Twyla, on the other hand, was sympathetic to his plight.

"Don't knock it, Chief. So, what's the scoop?"

"These two apparently know something we don't."

"It happened on Wisdomsday," Twyla explained. "We accidentally discovered some kind of cave system under the Dragon's Teeth."

"Twyla literally fell into it, almost broke her neck."

"For real?" said Duckers. "And you're only mentioning this now?"

"You were in a wedding. What were we supposed to do, stop the ceremony to report?"

"Maybe."

Alma poured herself a generous cup of coffee. "Unlike your young partner here, I care about your well-being. Banneker, are you hurt?"

"Only bruised. We found tubes of gunpowder down there, too—just like the ones I saw under our beds tonight—but Frank wanted to take me to the infirmary, so we left. We sent a report—"

"A note. Nothing formal," added Frank.

"But we weren't sure if you'd see it before the wedding."

"I had a pause set on delivery. I won't get the report until Sorrowsday. This is weird. Obviously, you stumbled onto something. You said you found this cave Wisdomsday afternoon, went to the infirmary, and sent me a note. What did you do after that?"

"I thought Twyla ought to rest up, and since we had today off, I didn't think you'd mind if we went home."

"I don't mind at all. Did either of you talk to anyone about this between then and now?"

"I haven't," said Twyla.

"Neither have I," Frank concurred.

"What about Vanderlinden?"

Quill. Somewhere in all of this, Twyla had completely forgotten about him. Guilt pinged around her insides like a pinball.

"Dr. Vanderlinden wasn't with us," she told Maguire.

"I sent a message to him letting him know we wouldn't be returning to camp, but that's it. No details," said Frank.

"So how would anyone know what you found? You two don't even seem to know what you found."

"We know they found fireworks, thanks to the pyrotechnics coming out of Twyla's house tonight," said Duckers.

"True," Maguire mused. "Why would someone need fireworks in Tanria?"

Frank topped off his mug. "If you want to blow something up in a place where New Gods technology doesn't work, you're going to need explosives that were around during the Old Gods era. Anyone know when fireworks were invented?"

"I'm guessing a long, long time ago," Maguire replied dryly. "That doesn't answer our original question: How could anyone know you two found that cave?"

"Maybe someone got their hands on the note Frank sent you?" suggested Duckers.

"Nimkilim post is the most secure delivery system in the world. That report is probably hanging out in an immortal plane even as we speak."

"Okay, but have you met Hermia?"

"Adorable but incompetent," agreed Maguire. "Given a lack of better theories to go from, let's assume Hermia was… being Hermia, and someone managed to intercept the message Frank sent me. Whoever it was must not want anyone to know about that cave, and they tried to get rid of you to keep you quiet."

"I guess we better lie low in Tanria for our own safety," said Duckers, eager to avoid Zeddie.

"You can't stay in Tanria forever, but I do think it's a good idea to lie low for now. Be on guard, though. We know the wrong sort of people can get in and out of Tanria without going through the official portals. I won't consider you safe until we get this case figured out. We'll have to communicate through Hermia, so be cautious about what kind of information you include in your reports. I'll check in with you in person as soon as I can."

"Understood," Twyla said.

"I don't have authority over Dr. Vanderlinden, but I highly recommend that he stay with you in Tanria for his own safety, at least for now."

Again, Twyla caught Frank's eye, and again, they both looked away quickly, as if eye contact could scorch them.

"We'll let him know," said Frank. "Want us to check out the tunnels?"

"Not yet. I'll make that call when I meet up with you later."

Duckers helped himself to the carafe on the coffee table. "What about you, Chief? Aren't you in danger now, too?"

"That's what I get paid the big bucks for. I'm going to bring in the FICBI since two of my marshals were threatened outside the Mist. Pretty sure bombs going off anywhere in the Federated Islands other than Tanria fall under their jurisdiction, and that way, we can get it off Hart's plate." She clapped her hands. "Pack up what you need for at least the next week. Let's get you to Tanria while we've got these deputies to escort you."

Duckers raised his hand like a kid in a schoolroom.

"What is it, Duckers?"

"My bag is in my apartment, the one Hart had evacuated."

"My bag's in my house," said Twyla as the realization sank in that the entire contents of her bedroom and beyond were either scorched or sopping wet.

Maguire rubbed her temples and looked to Frank.

"I'm packed and ready."

"There's that at least. Duckers, have one of those deputies escort you to your apartment to see if they've finished looking for bombs. If you can't get in, we'll figure out a way to get your clothes to you."

Duckers gave her a good-natured salute and left.

"Banneker, I'll have the other deputy go next door with you. See if you can salvage some clothes and supplies and whatnot to take with you."

"I'll go with Twyla," Frank volunteered. "Might be better to leave the deputy out front, looking out for both our houses."

"Good idea, Ellis."

Twyla froze, and since she wasn't moving, Frank wasn't going anywhere either.

"Move along," ordered Maguire, the edge in her voice lighting a fire under Twyla.

"On it," she told the chief, trying to sound and move like a real person instead of an animated puddle of mortification (which was what she felt like) as she walked out the door with Frank following behind her.

"Twy?" Frank called softly to her once they had crossed the property line between their houses.

She marched steadily ahead of him. "Mm-hmm?"

"Are we going to talk about it?"

"Oh. Uh." Apparently, she was capable of emitting only high-pitched vowel sounds out of her mouth.

"I know this is hard. It's hard for me, too."

Did he have to use the word hard? wondered Twyla as her intestines shriveled up and died inside her. She unlocked her soggy front door and went inside her soggier house.

Undaunted, Frank kept at it. "There's only so long we can put it off, and this might be our only ten minutes alone together for a while."

The dam of pent-up, unidentifiable emotions burst. She turned toward him long enough to yell "Yeah, and look what happened the last time we were alone together!" before she fled to her bedroom, with Frank uttering a defeated "Fuck" in her wake.

Did he have to use the word fuck?

By the time her bedroom rug was squishing wetly beneath her bare feet—because she hadn't bothered to put on shoes before she removed the bomb from under Frank's bed—she understood that there was no running away from the fact that she and Frank had kissed and done significantly more than kiss, nor was she going to be able to weasel out of a conversation about the kissing and the more-than-kissing. Exhausted and overwhelmed, she leaned her forehead against the closet mirror as Frank's reflection moved into her peripheral vision. A torrent of words gushed out of her, steaming up the mirror as she spoke.

"I'm so sorry, Frank. I can't believe I… I don't know what happened. There was the bomb, and you were standing there in your parlor, and you were alive, and I was so glad you were alive that I…"

She took a breath and forced herself to face him. There he stood on her sodden bedroom rug, looking as lost and miserable as she felt in the predawn light that had begun to seep in through the curtains. She couldn't bear to see him lost and miserable, not when she could put on her big-girl pants and simply talk things through with him. She crossed the room, took his hands in hers, and said what needed to be said.

"It was a mistake. I know it was a mistake. I own it, and I'm sorry, and believe me, it will never happen again."

"A mistake." His voice was flat. It wasn't a question so much as a simple repeating of her words.

She nodded emphatically. "A huge, horrible mistake."

"A mistake. Right." His gaze dropped to their joined hands. He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, too."

"We're both to blame. Or, no, neither of us is to blame. There were bombs, and we're friends, and we care about each other, and things got out of hand. That's all. It's not a disaster unless we choose to make a disaster of it. So let's decide to put this past us and move on. We can do that, can't we?"

He nodded, but a few more uncomfortable seconds passed before he spoke. "Well now, I guess that's settled, then."

Relief flooded through Twyla's veins. "We're good?"

"We're good." He squeezed her hands before letting them drop. "We'd better get moving before Maguire sends the FICBI after us. Where's your bag?"

For the first time, Twyla took a good look at her bedroom. Even in the dim light, she could see what a disaster it was. What had once been her bed was now a scorched pile of broken wood and bedsprings and charred bedding. The hole in her roof was four feet in diameter, and several roof tiles had dropped onto the floor. The walls were blotchy with smoke stains and water. Everything was wet, from floor to ceiling.

Her Gracie Goodfist backpack was where she had left it on her dresser, packed and ready to go. She unzipped it and checked the contents, and to her amazement, everything inside was dry as a bone. "I will never doubt you again," she told her child's ancient backpack.

"I'll wait in the parlor while you get changed."

It wasn't until he left and shut the bedroom door behind him that she remembered she was still wearing his bathrobe over her pajamas, which were now missing a few buttons. The robe was too large for her, but she was reluctant to take it off. It was soft and warm and it smelled like Frank. Before she could think better of it, she pulled the front over her nose and inhaled the familiar scent of him.

A scent that would now be associated with his warm hands on her skin and the ragged whisper of the words Stop me.

Doing her best to push the memory aside, she took off the robe and hung it in her closet, the only moderately dry place in the bedroom. Although she knew it was wrong, she privately hoped it would still smell this good when she got back from Tanria.

Not that she'd be able to stay in her own home by then.

She dressed in her work clothes and went to meet Frank in the parlor. He was standing at the family altar by the front door. To her surprise, he dipped his fingers into the dish of salt water and touched Doug's key. Twyla didn't know what exactly he meant by the gesture, but she was moved by it, this honoring of the husband who had been integral to her life, for better or for worse. Reluctant to puncture the moment but aware that they were running out of time, she said, "I'm ready if you are."

Without turning around, Frank asked, "What are you going to tell Vanderlinden?"

Once again, she had forgotten about Quill, but now that Frank had reminded her of his existence, she panicked. "Nothing! I mean, there's nothing to tell, right?"

"Right."

"Because we're good now, right?"

"Right."

Frank had yet to turn around, and talking to his broad back was beginning to unnerve her.

"You're not going to tell him, are you?" she asked him hesitantly.

"No. I'm not going to tell him." He finally turned to her, but she could read nothing in his face. He was a closed door. He was an entire house, locked up tight, and Twyla didn't know what to do about it. Surely one tiny mistake could be overcome. Surely their friendship couldn't and wouldn't end over one kiss.

Slightly more than a kiss.

"We'd better go," he said. This time, he led the way, walking so quickly she had to jog to keep up. Everything about his body language sent up a fiery flare of concern in her stomach. She put a hand on his arm to stop him, precisely on the line where their properties met.

"Frank."

His eyes skated near her face, but he wouldn't look at her full on. This is not good, she thought. How had they completely changed positions in the course of ten minutes? He was the one who had chased her into her home, pressing her to talk about the difficult thing between them, while she had wanted to scurry away like a terrified mouse. Now she was the one who wanted to keep talking, while he buried his head in the sand.

"I know things are weird between us right now, and they're probably going to be weird for a while, but we're better than this. We're going to be okay."

He licked his lips as if he were gearing up to speak, but he said nothing.

The familiar warmth of his arm seeped into her fingers, and she pressed her hand more firmly against him. "Tell me you believe that."

He put his hand over her hand, and then, without preamble or warning, he pulled her into a hug, pressing his face into her hair. When he released her, he forced his mouth into a brave closed-lip smile, and he gave her a reassuring nod that failed to reassure her in the slightest.

Maguire poked her head out of Frank's front door and called, "There you are. Come on. The deputy is giving you all a lift to the station. You'll pick up Duckers on the way. Are you both ready to go?"

"Yep," said Twyla. By now, they'd reached Frank's front steps.

He went inside, presumably to get his pack, but instead, he looked to Maguire and asked, "Can I get a quick word, Chief?"

"Sure."

"Alone." Frank didn't wait for an answer. He walked to the kitchen without so much as glancing Twyla's way.

Maguire raised her eyebrows at Twyla, whose Oh Shit Meter ratcheted several notches higher. "If you'll excuse me, Marshal Banneker," she said before following Frank to the kitchen to talk about the gods knew what.

And for the first time in twelve years, Twyla wasn't in any position to ask Frank what was going on.