Boundary Crossed (Boundary Magic #1)(35)
He gathered Darcy’s body out of the backseat, still wrapped in both the plastic and the blanket, and then I followed him along a path across the scrubby mountain desert. We left that path within minutes, but even in the rough terrain Quinn strode along gracefully, at a pace that most speed walkers would admire. I had to struggle to keep up with him, partly because my body was still stiff, but mostly because I had to pick my way along with the flashlight, stepping around scrubby plants, fist-sized rocks, and prairie dog holes. I was used to hiking, even right here in the park, but Quinn’s speed was making me feel like a clumsy tourist—and he had to carry the awkward bundle of skeleton with him.
We kept hiking for almost forty-five minutes, until we reached a broad expanse of land next to the mountain. The place didn’t look like it’d seen a human in decades, if ever. Suddenly I had to work hard not to get spooked. This was mountain country, but the emptiness and isolation reminded me too much of Iraq for comfort. I moved my light up toward the backs of Quinn’s legs, to remind myself that I wasn’t alone.
Finally, we saw a sign of human civilization—an enormous, decrepit sign that read KEEP OUT. NO TRESPASERS. The writing was in fading red paint on weather-beaten wood, and as my light played over it, I realized the sign was nailed to some kind of door that seemed to lead right into the mountain. It was secured with a huge, rusted padlock that looked older than I was.
“Speak, friend, and enter,” I murmured under my breath.
“Oh, that movie you’ve seen?” Quinn tossed over his shoulder.
“I read the books,” I told him. “When I was a kid.”
Other than the still-reddish paint, time and Colorado dirt had turned everything in sight more or less the same rusty brown color, and it took me a moment to realize that the heavy door was the entrance to one of Colorado’s many abandoned mines. This must have predated the park. Quinn went right up to the entrance, ignoring the padlock. I trained my light on the door while he set the bundled body on the ground and reached for the sign. I’m not sure what I was expecting—maybe another display of vampire strength—but Quinn just dug his fingers into the sides of the giant sign and tugged on it. The heavy sign immediately came away in his hands, leaving a neat hole big enough to step through.
I laughed. “Clever.”
Quinn shrugged. “Keeps out the riffraff. There’s a mine shaft in there that goes down a hundred feet. That’s where we’re dumping her.” He paused and wheeled around, as if something had just occurred to him. “You claustrophobic?” he demanded.
“Uh . . .” I wouldn’t say I was afraid of enclosed spaces, exactly, but like many soldiers who’d served time inside a giant tin can with a metaphorical target painted on it, I didn’t exactly enjoy them. The cramped office in Magic Beans was about as small as I could easily handle. I didn’t want to tell Quinn that, though.
Quinn stepped closer to me, giving me an appraising look. “I can take it in by myself,” he said levelly.
I shook my head. “I’m fine,” I said through gritted teeth.
His gaze didn’t leave my face. “You’re not fine,” Quinn decided. “Hang on a second.”
In a blur of movement, he and the bundle disappeared through the hole before I could say another word. “Dammit, Quinn!” I stepped up to the hole and leaned in, pointing my flashlight in either direction. Just a long, low hallway on either side. “Shit,” I said, with feeling. No way was I going in there without knowing which way he’d gone.
I drew back and noticed that the clouds had parted, revealing enough starlight for me to see an outcropping of rock a few feet away from the mine entrance. I went and sat down. There was nothing to do now but wait, and—
Before I could even finish the thought, Quinn was back, popping out through the hole as nonchalantly as if we’d been playing hide-and-seek. Damn, I thought. How fast were these people?
“See? Just took a second,” Quinn dismissed. “Let’s go.”
On the hike back to the car, I said angrily, “I would have gone in with you, you know. I could have handled it.”
Quinn didn’t answer until we were twenty feet or so down the path. Then he mumbled, “I was in the Gulf War. The first one.”
“You fought in Desert Storm?” I said, surprised.
He shrugged. “I was eighteen, kind of naive and stupid. Served two years in the infantry so I could go kick some ass.” The wry smile that followed was the most human expression I’d seen on him yet. “Seems like a hundred years ago, now. I remember riding around in the Humvees, though.”
“Yeah.” My body was warm from the hike, but I shivered anyway.
“You do a lot of patrols?” Quinn asked.
“Yeah.”
Most people stopped asking questions at that point, but Quinn pushed on. “Any explosions?”
“Four,” I said shortly. The scars on my back twinged as I remembered. “The last sent me home.”
I saw him nod. “PTSD?”
“No.” It had been a near thing, but I’d technically escaped the diagnosis that plagued so many American soldiers returning home from war. I credited Sam for that. Sam and some damned convenient memory loss about my last two days in Iraq.
“I had it,” Quinn said abruptly. “PTSD, night terrors, claustrophobia, the whole thing. Embarrassing, back then.”