But then, that was what happened to people when they finally got a clear picture of themselves after aeons of sublimation.
Not a happy place. And it was hard to witness. Hard to leave behind - but Autumn was right. There came a time in everyone's life when they realized that in spite of how hard they'd been running from themselves, everywhere they went, there they were: Addictions and compulsions were nothing but marching bands of distraction, masking truths that were unpleasant, but ultimately undeniable.
The female did need some time to herself. Time to think. Time to discover. Time to forgive. . . and move on.
And as for Tohrment? There was a part of Xhex that really wanted to take whatever had been said to her mother out of his hide. Except she had been around him, and he was suffering in ways that a bruised jaw couldn't compete with. Tough to know how much of it was the shit with Autumn and how much was Wellsie - her instinct told her they'd all find out soon enough, however: The Brother had only started by dismantling that house and giving away Wellsie's clothes.
His end game was pretty damn clear.
Then they'd see just how much he cared about Autumn.
On that note, Xhex dematerialized and headed to the east. She had spent the entire day on Xcor's home turf, never getting closer than a quarter mile away: The male's grid had been clear to her as soon as she'd gotten within range, and she'd been careful to get beads on those of his soldiers as well before she'd headed north to the mansion and reported to the king.
And now she was back under the veil of the night, moving slowly through the forest, throwing out her symphath senses.
Closing in on the area where the grids had been concentrated during the daylight hours, she dematerialized at clips of a hundred yards, taking her sweet time, using the pine boughs as cover. Man, shit like this made her really appreciate evergreens, their fluffy branches not just concealing her, but providing a snowless ground cover that hid her footprints as she went from trunk to trunk.
The empty farmhouse she eventually came across was exactly what she would have expected. Made of coarse old stone, it was sturdy and had few windows - the perfect bunker. And of course, the irony was that with its snow-covered roof, and its cheery chimneys, the place looked like something off a Christmas card.
Ho-ho-ho, Season's Beatings.
As she cased the environs, the van that was parked off to the side seemed to belong somewhere else, an unwelcome shot of the modern in what appeared to be a resolutely antiquated picture. And the same was true for the electrical lines that came in and were anchored at the rear corner.
Xhex ghosted to that back flank. It was impossible to know whether or not the power was live: No lights had been left on, the house dark as the inside of a skull.
The last thing she wanted to do was trigger an alarm.
Except a quick look at the glass of a window had her frowning. No shutters - unless they were on the inside? More important, no steel bars. Then again, the underground would be the priority, wouldn't it.
Going around, she looked in every window, then dematerialized up to the roof to check the dormers on the third floor.
Totally empty, she thought with another frown. And not well fortified.
Back down on ground level, she took out both her guns, grabbed a deep breath, and. . .
Re-forming inside the house, she was in full attack mode, her back to the corner of the empty, dusty living room, autoloaders up in front of her.
The first thing she noted was that the air was as cold inside as out. Did they not have heat?
Second thing was. . . there was no sound of an alarm.
Third: No one appeared from out of nowhere, ready to defend the territory.
Didn't mean this was a lickety-split sitch, however. What was more likely was that they didn't give a crap about anything on this floor or above.
With care, she dematerialized over to the doorway of the next room. And the next. The logical location of basement stairs would be the kitchen - and what do you know, she found what she assumed were them right where she expected them to be.
And gee-fucking-whiz, the door keeping her out was sporting a brand-new solid lock made of copper.
It took her a good five minutes to pick the bitch, and by then her nerves were twitchy. Every sixty seconds she stopped and listened hard, even though her symphath side was out in full force the whole time, her cilices left behind at the cabin.
When she finally worked the lock, she opened the door but a crack - and had to let out a dry laugh: The hinges squealed loud enough to wake the dead.
It was a reliable, old-fashioned trick - and she was willing to bet every door and window in the place was likewise unoiled; stairs probably creaked like an old woman if you put any weight on them, too. Yup, just like folks had done before electricity had been invented - a good ear and a lack of WD-40 was an alarm that never needed a battery or a power source.
Putting her penlight between her teeth so she could keep a gun in each hand, she searched what she could see of the rough wooden staircase. Down at the bottom there was a dirt floor, and she flashed herself to it, pivoting quickly into a defensive stance.
Lot of bunks: three sets of uppers and lowers with a single off to one side.