River of Shadows (Underworld Gods #1)(3)

I remind myself to stop making judgments and assumptions and roll the bag over to her.

“Good,” she says with approval. “I will drive you to the resort now.”

“Oh.” I pause, gathering my coat collar. “But the funeral isn’t until tomorrow.”

“Yes,” she says patiently. “But you are staying at the resort.”

It’s not a request, it’s an order. I shake my head. “I booked and paid for a hotel room in town already. I won’t get a refund if I cancel.”

She gives me a placating smile. “You will get a refund. I know all the hotels here. Don’t worry about it.” She pauses, light brows furrowing. “I must say I was disappointed when I didn’t see you book a room at the resort.” Then she turns and heads over to the doors to the outside, a marching-like walk.

“I know,” I admit after a moment, following after her. “I guess because it didn’t show up on the hotel booking site I use. Creature of habit.”

That’s not the total truth though. I’d always wanted to stay at my father’s wellness resort, even before it started getting some recognition amongst the travel influencers who stumbled upon it in their quest for something new. But the idea of finally staying there, only to have him gone, felt wrong to me in ways I can’t really explain. Like it was easier to just stay elsewhere, put a bit of distance in, as if that’s going to make any of this hurt less.

We walk through the automatic doors to the outside and the air is a slap to the face, freezing my lungs. It’s cold as hell, with snow covering every inch of land, including the sidewalks, and cars are making fresh tracks on the road. I’m cursing myself for not bringing a parka. I’m also wishing my luggage had skis attached to the wheels.

“So your mother isn’t coming,” Noora notes as we walk to the parking lot and I drag the luggage through the snow drifts.

I shake my head, trying to ward off the anger that sparks inside me. Noora told me she had called my mother before she called me. As soon as I got the news about my father, I texted my best friend Michelle first, then told my roommate Jenny. There was a lot of crying and drinking shots of bourbon in shock.

I didn’t actually call my mother until the next morning. I knew that Noora had told her, but Noora had never told my mother that she was calling me. Which meant my mother had no idea I knew my father was dead and she sat on that fucking information for twenty-four hours. Maybe even more, had I not called her.

And, fuck. Even if I wasn’t an empath I could have picked up on her vibes loud and clear over the phone. She thought it was good that he was dead.

So no, my mother isn’t coming to the funeral.

“I’m sure it would be too hard for her,” I say, but from my meek voice, I know that Noora won’t believe me. I don’t believe me either. It’s all bullshit.

But Noora just nods as we head toward a small red hatchback. Once inside the car, I’m met with a plethora of smells, a lot of them familiar like sage and palo santo, the rest earthy, bitter, and cloying. Because my legs are long they’re crammed up against the glovebox and I have to wrestle with the seat control until it slams back.

Noora looks over me with amusement, and for once I see it reach her dark eyes. “Just like your father,” she comments. “He was tall too. Is your mother the same?”

I shake my head and scoff. “She’s five two and a delicate little flower.” And boy, she never lets me forget it either.

Noora makes a low hmmmm noise and starts the car, fiddling with the heat. The controls were set low, which strikes me as odd, but maybe the cold isn’t a problem for her. She’s only wearing a sweater, after all.

“We have no use for delicate people up here,” she says stiffly. “They don’t survive very long. Sorry, I’ll have the heat on in a moment.” The car backs up and then rolls across the parking lot, the tires on snow making a pleasing crunching sound. “Your father told me you used to be a dancer.”

“Yes,” I say, the bitterness in the air now settling on my tongue. “Unfortunately, you have to be a delicate flower in dance and there was a point where I couldn’t do that anymore.” In other words, dance was everything to me, and especially to my mother. But the extremes I went to so I could remain lithe and airy and light eventually took their toll on my body and mind. “But then I discovered martial arts. Capoeira. It’s from Brazil. Combines dancing and fighting.”

Noora takes her eyes off the road to look at me. “He never mentioned that.”

I shrug. I’m not competitive. My heart can’t take anything competitive anymore, not after what I went through. It’s just a hobby. After high school I realized if I couldn’t be accepted in dance anymore, then I wanted to do something else to keep my body moving. I started building muscle, lifting weights, and it just came naturally to me. I used to do a little tae kwon do for a while, even arnis, but capoeira is what stuck.

Noora’s vibe shifts a little. Like this information concerns her. Perhaps she’s old-fashioned and doesn’t believe girls should fight. She’d get along with my mother with that view.

I flash her a placating smile. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to go beating up anyone at Papa’s funeral.” She gives me a stiff smile and I immediately feel awkward. I look around the car. “So what’s the smell?”