Of Blood and Bone (Chronicles of The One #2)(115)

It could’ve been a scene out of any small town. The teenage babysitter, the running kids and teens—all likely headed down to the park and gardens for one of the summer youth programs. People working in their own gardens, fussing with those bold summer colors and scents. Others sitting on porches with glasses of iced tea or lemonade.

You could think that, if you didn’t consider the posted sentries, the group out even now on another scouting mission, the armory with so many weapons locked up tight.

Or the fact that most of the kids Petra’s age spent two hours a day in combat training.

But this was the world they lived in, Arlys thought. And she had good reason to know it could be a whole lot worse.

She indulged herself, walked across the street to intercept Petra. She wanted to see the baby.

Dillon ran over to her, reached up those chubby arms, grinned a brilliant grin. “Up! Arls!”

“You bet.” She hefted the toddler, snuggled, sniffed. Who’d have thought the ambitious reporter would find such a soft spot for babies?

“And look at your little sister!”

“Willow poops her pants and cries. I don’t.”

She had reason to know he still did both, but nodded sagely. “Because you’re such a big boy. How are you, Petra?”

“Great, thanks. We’re just heading down to the park. We were there earlier, but Dillon wanted to go see Mr. Anderson, so we took a walk.”

“It’s a hot day for it.”

“We don’t mind.”

“We had popstickles.”

“Popsicles,” Petra corrected, “and that was supposed to be a secret.”

“Secret sickles? Yum.” Which explained Dillon’s bright red tongue.

“I’d never had one before,” Petra said. “They’re really good. Mr. Anderson made them in these little molds and you eat them off sticks.”

A first Popsicle at sixteenish (they didn’t know for sure). That was also the world they lived in.

“I might go see Bill myself. I guess Mina wouldn’t let you take Elijah to the park?”

“She won’t go, and she’s so nervous about him being away from her. She’s a really good mom though.”

“Mm-hmm.” Arlys had a different opinion when a three-year-old boy wasn’t allowed to play with others or go five feet from his mother’s side.

But Mina, only a handful of years older than Petra, had been thoroughly indoctrinated by the cult.

“She never yells. It’s just … she’s still afraid. I guess she’s always going to be afraid. And she …” Petra trailed off, pressed her lips together.

“Go ahead.”

“She still thinks the master—and she still calls Javier that—is going to come back for her and Elijah. She prays for it every night. She’s afraid to leave here, but that’s because of Elijah. She knows he’s safe here. She really loves him.”

“Are you still comfortable living with her?”

“Oh sure. I know I don’t have to, but Mina’s nice, and I like being around Elijah a lot. And, well, she needs me, and I …”

“It’s good to be needed.”

“Yeah. I’m not allowed to use magick as long as I live with her, but I still don’t want to anyway. It just makes me nervous, so it all works out.”

“As long as you’re happy there. I just wish she’d get out of the apartment more, let Elijah run around outside.”

“She goes for walks at night.” Flushing, Petra stopped herself. “Now I feel like I’m telling secrets on her.”

“There’s nothing wrong with taking a walk. Only at night?”

“When Elijah’s asleep and she thinks I am. Sometimes she takes him, but mostly she just goes out by herself. Not for long, like an hour, even less.”

Dillon squirmed, wriggled, so Arlys set him down.

“Wanna go to the park. See Mama.”

“Okay, we’re going. I should get him back. It was nice to see you.”

Arlys waved them off, turned and studied the building where Petra lived with Mina and Elijah in an apartment over Bill Anderson’s Bygones.

Just what did a woman still caught in the jaws of a cult do when she walked alone at night?

It was time to find out.

She walked up to Bygones.

What had once been a secondhand store with pseudo antiques and castoffs was now, thanks to Bill, an organized shop (though no money changed hands) stocked with the useful and the whimsical.

Kitchen tools and gadgets in one section, toys carefully cleaned and repaired in another. Tools, lamps, furniture, even some locally made art pieces, candles, oil lamps, brooms, mops, and other assortments filled shelves and old display cases.

Much of what scavenger parties brought back passed through Bill’s hands for cleaning, repairing, inventorying.

Often a volunteer or two—generally kids—worked as assistants.

She found him, his glasses sliding down his nose, rewiring an amazingly ugly lamp.

She walked over to study it. “Why bother?”

“One man’s trash.” He shoved his glasses up, smiled at her. “Don’t you look pretty today.”

“What I look is sweaty, since I spent ten minutes outside in the steam bath we call air. I bet I’d cool off if I had a popstickle.”