“Have you talked to him?” asks Poppy, keeping her voice to a whisper. “About Paris?”
“I’ve tried.” Shea cuts a glance toward the bedroom, where she can just see Lys’s and Asher’s heads bowed low. “He doesn’t exactly make it easy.”
Asher stalks out of the bedroom a moment later, slamming the door behind him. Shea and Poppy exchange a glance as the engine starts with a wearychuff.
“Reckless fucking—” He shifts into drive, punching the gas with far more force than necessary. “He’s going to get us killed.”
They drive another thirty minutes before Asher pulls off the main road, navigating them into an old factory town. The houses are in varying states of decay, all of them abandoned to the nearby forest. Farther out, steel mills rise from winter-pale meadows, iron shafts gone black with rust. Smokestacks sit empty against the mid-November sky. They creep along a street slung with downed wires, finally coming to a stop in the parking lot of an old gas station. Several bikes sit parked out front, gleaming bodies askew atop the asphalt.
“Stay in the car,” orders Asher.
Shea launches to her feet after him. “I should come with you.”
“Parker, for once—” He rounds on her, steepling his hands in front of his face in an effort to be calm. “Every single place we’ve gone, someone has tried to kill you.”
“Noteveryplace,” she argues. “The Nutmeg Nook was very nice.”
“I liked the little A-frame house,” says Poppy. “I’d go back there.”
Asher gives them both a long-suffering look. “We’re five hundred miles from the Flatwood. The chance that these are Keeling’s men is very high.”
“No one’s going to recognize me on sight,” she says. “Not if Lys isn’t there.”
“I’m not budging on this one, Shea, I’m sorry.’?”
She plants her feet, obstinate. “Who died and made you king?”
“I have seniority.”
“He’s pulling rank,” gasps Poppy. “Oh, Elliehateswhen he does that.”
“I’ll get my shoes,” says Shea.
“Parker,” says Asher, “read my lips.You’re not coming.”
•••
Five minutes later, Asher stalks out of the camper with Shea in tow. The sun is little more than a feeble mark in the sky, gridded by clouds. The air is cold and wet, and Shea finds herself rushing through puddles to keep up with Asher’s elongated stride.
The shop’s interior is bare, pegboard shelving picked clean and windows blacked out. A bell rings as they enter, drawing the eyes of the elderly clerk slouched behind the counter. A younger man in riding leathers stands off to the side, playing solitaire. Nearby, a peroxide-blonde woman lounges on an ice cream cooler, a cigarette toggled at her bloodred lips. The entire storefront is tobacco-stung, smoke swirling in thin gray eddies. No one says a word as Asher and Shea make their way to the counter.
Tugging the brim of his cap low, Asher fishes through his pocket and pulls out several crumpled bills. The clerk scoops the money into his hand and begins counting it out at an arthitic pace.
“What pump?”
“Three,” says Asher.
“Most customers around here don’t pay with cash,” says the man playing solitaire. He doesn’t look up from his cards. “Blood’ll get you a hell of a lot farther this deep in the forest. But I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.”
Asher says nothing as he pockets his change. His bandage peeks out from beneath the sleeve of his jacket, white and obvious. He tugs the cuff into place and drops his hand to the small of Shea’s back.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
“Are you Mercy?” The question comes from the woman seated on the cooler. She’s watching them through a ring of smoke, her eyes heavily lined in blue pencil.
Asher freezes, his hand flat against Shea’s spine. “Sorry?”
“Are you a Mercy Boy?”
