Night In A Waste Land (Hell Theory Book 2) by Lauren Gilley

Author:Lauren Gilley [Gilley, Lauren]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HP Press
Published: 2020-09-15T18:30:00+00:00

~*~

Mayor Bixby went on to tell them that a witness had come forward after the miracle in the mine, one who claimed to have seen John cause the cave-in before he then saved the minors from it. In the years since, Bixby had tried to resist without overtly accusing the man – conduit – but that John had basked in the adoration, the people had shirked their responsibilities, and the weather had turned even nastier. John saved the town from another conduit, during the Second Rift, but Bixby feared it was too late, that the town was dying.

“If you go up to him dressed like that, brandishing weapons, he’ll kill you,” Bixby informed them.

“He’ll have seen the helo,” Tris pointed out. “He’ll know someone’s here.”

“But you might be diplomats, instead of soldiers,” the mayor suggested, and that was how they found themselves upstairs in the crumbling mansion, digging through warped and swollen chests and armoires, dodging roof leaks and trying to see if there was any way to disguise themselves.

“Oh my God.” Gavin held up a green blazer. “Did this guy play in the Masters?”

“The what?” Gallo asked.

“You’re disgustingly young,” Gavin said.

Tris smacked him in the face with a handful of threadbare white linen, and Gallo laughed.

Rose left the bedroom and went down the hall to the next, carrying the oil lantern Bixby had given her. This room was packed with more trunks, though the floor looked less damp, and the scent of mold wasn’t as strong.

She set the lamp down in a clear space, where its light could spread out toward the walls, and began opening trunks.

Bixby was a widower, he’d said, and Rose quickly realized she’d found the late wife’s things. She’d been slender, and only a little taller than Rose, judging by her hemlines. She found pants, and shirts, and skirts, and dresses, and sensible boots good for muddy streets; sweaters, sweatshirts, ponchos, and coats. All of it smelled of mothballs – but not unpleasantly so. Probably conduits had no concept of mothballs, nor what the scent of them would mean.

Rose chose a gray turtleneck that would go with her black pants and boots, and a black, collared, waxed wool coat with brass buttons. A little formal and military chic all together, but none of it screamed “soldier,” and the jacket had plenty of cover and pockets for weapons.

She stripped down to her tank top and stood holding the sweater a moment, longing for her black leather coat with the hood and flared hem, back at home base – and when had base started to feel like home?

A throat cleared at the door, and she whipped her head around to find Lance standing there, shoulders nearly too wide for the jambs.

She resisted a sudden, stupid urge to cover herself with the sweater. She was covered. The tank top was hardly indecent, and she had a sports bra beneath.

She couldn’t help the prickling of goosebumps down her arms, though, nor the sense that she was allowing him to see her vulnerable, again, like the night he’d waited outside her shower.

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