Something smells incredible. My nose catches it before I can steel myself against the sensory assault. Coffee. Fresh, rich coffee drifting through the open window like a deliberate lure designed to break down my defenses.
My head turns instinctively, following the scent like a compass needle finding north, and there it is on the corner, a charming little café with a hand-painted sign that reads THE CACKLING HEN in cheerful yellow letters. A chalkboard out front advertises something about honey-lavender scones and ‘today’s magical brew’, and the scent hits me so hard my stomach growls, betraying just how long it’s been since I’ve eaten anything resembling real food.
My entire body reacts like I’ve been wandering the desert for days, and this is the first oasis promising salvation.
“That’s rude,” I mutter, mostly to myself but loud enough for them to hear. “I’ve been out there fighting for my life against supernatural weather, and they’re just casually baking artisanal pastries like the world isn’t ending.”
Ezra’s mouth twitches like he might be fighting a smile, the first crack in his carefully composed facade. “You were walking,” he points out with academic precision.
“I was suffering,” I correct with dignity.
“Dramatically,” Lucien adds, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
The truck continues forward, and the street opens into the town center. That’s where my breath catches again, sharp enough to hurt.
A river runs right through Ruby Springs.
It’s not a dull, muddy waterway that carries old cans and questionable decisions. Nor is it the kind of urban stream that makes you wonder what’s growing in it and whether you need a tetanus shot just from looking at it. This river is genuinely, impossibly red.
Not horror-movie red, not the kind that makes you think of Stephen King novels and things that should never happen to nice people. This is a warm, rich red like garnets or good wine, catching the light and throwing it back in ways that make physics seem like more of a suggestion than a law.
It twists through town like a silk ribbon someone laid down with care, and little stone bridges arc over it at regular intervals, connecting streets and sidewalks like something pulled directly from a fairy tale. The water glitters under the sun, sparkling like it’s proud of its own impossible beauty and wants everyone to know it.
“That is. . .” My voice trails off because words feel inadequate. My eyes fix on the river, unable to look away, as if staring long enough might make sense of it.
“The Springs,” Lucien murmurs, like he knows exactly what I’m seeing and what it’s doing to me.
“That’s why it’s called Ruby Springs,” I whisper, still staring, still trying to process the reality of it.
“Smart girl,” Maceo says with obvious approval.
My mother used to talk about it like it was the most beautiful thing in the world. She told me the Springs ran red because my great-great-great-grandmother made them that way. I’m sure I need to throw in a few more greats, but the exact number has always been fuzzy. Well, she enchanted them. She always said it like a bedtime story, like Ruby Springs was a place of whimsy where magic was as ordinary and unremarkable as weather.
Seeing it in front of me makes those stories feel sharper somehow. Less like childhood fantasy and more like a memory I was never allowed to have, a birthright I was denied.
People turn to look at the truck as we roll through town, slow enough now that I can see faces clearly. Some smile politely in that small-town way that feels genuine but guarded. Some stare a little too long, curiosity overriding politeness.
My posture stiffens automatically. The reflex lives in me the same way breathing does. The immediate awareness of being watched, weighed, judged by strangers who think they have the right to an opinion about my existence.
Today, though, the attention feels different. Not hostile, exactly. Not particularly welcoming either. Just curious. You know that specific brand of small-town curiosity where everybody knows everybody else’s business, and they can scent newness in the air like bloodhounds picking up a trail.
My eyes flick down to my current situation, and reality crashes back in. I am still sitting on Lucien’s lap in the passenger seat of a tow truck, probably looking like I just survived a natural disaster.
The mortification creeps up my neck like a slow burn.
“This is. . .” I gesture vaguely at myself, at the cab, at the entire undignified situation. “This is going to be the town’s primary source of gossip for the next fifty years, isn’t it?”
Maceo grins, apparently delighted by this prospect. “Depends on how long you stay.”
Ezra’s dark eyes narrow slightly, something calculating flickering behind them. “People see how you arrive,” he says with the kind of careful neutrality that suggests deeper implications. “They’re going to talk.”
“That is deeply comforting,” I mutter, already imagining the conversations happening behind lace curtains and over coffee.
Lucien’s hand shifts at my waist, steadying me when the truck takes a gentle turn. “Let them talk,” he says, voice velvet-smooth and entirely too close to my ear. “It keeps them busy.”
My throat does something traitorous at the casual intimacy of his tone.
I focus determinedly on the window instead, because looking at him is dangerous territory. Looking at any of them feels like playing with fire when I’m already overwhelmed and off-balance. This whole day has been a series of increasingly reckless decisions, and I refuse to add ‘catch feelings in a tow truck’ to the growing list of poor life choices.
