Still, I shout her name as loudly as I can in an effort to be heard over the din. Watching as she pauses and turns, her yellow-blond hair swirling around her slim, suntanned shoulders—her heavily made-up eyes widening when she finds me waving from a few feet away.
She stands frozen before me, her tattooed arm with the snake slithering around her bicep clutching hard at her purse, as her long, skinny legs teeter atop a pair of impossibly high wedged heels.
With both hands raised in surrender, wanting her to know I mean no harm, I slowly approach. All too aware that the slightest misstep will only serve to scare her off.
“Marliz—it’s me. Please don’t run. We need to talk . . .”
Her gaze darts wildly. She lifts a hand to her hair. Then the next thing I know, she’s spinning on her heels and racing for the barrier. Her left hand raised before her, she aims her bright blue tourmaline ring toward the wall, causing a blinding flash of bright light and a glimmering veil of dust that seems to swallow her whole. One moment she’s there, and the next I’m left staring at the empty space where she stood. Wondering if I somehow imagined it, until I see the trampled mound of glittering powder she left in her wake.
After a quick look around to ensure no one’s looking, I drop to my knees and skim a tentative hand over the top. Coating my fingers with a strange, dark, sparkling substance with razor-sharp edges that looks nothing like the usual construction dust.
I quickly fill my palms with the stuff, pull my hat from my head, and drop it into my cap. While I may not know what it is, one thing’s for sure: This is not your average rebuild.
The Rabbit Hole is getting a mystical makeover.
>
The building’s enchanted—protected by some kind of spell—and the Richters are at the helm of it all.
Just as I suspected, they’re not dead—they haven’t gone anywhere.They may be lying low for now, but they’re in there—somewhere—I feel it in my bones.
They’re plotting.
Planning.
Biding their time.
Just as I’m biding mine.
SEVEN
DACE
“How long is this gonna take? I have to be at work in an hour.” I cast an agitated glance at Leftfoot, but he purposely ignores me and hurries me along toward my truck.
Settling beside me, he thrusts an impatient finger toward the window, and says, “Make a left at the corner.”
“Care to tell me where we’re headed?” I crank the key in the ignition, once, twice, until the engine roars to life.
“Do you always need to know your destination?” His eyes dart toward mine, the question as wry as his look.
“As the driver, I find it comes in handy, yeah.” I clench my jaw and ignore the stop sign at the corner, hardly bothering to slow as I barrel into the turn.
“Who taught you how to drive?” Leftfoot squints. His eyes so hooded it’s impossible to tell if he’s joking or serious.
“You did.” I shrug. Aware of the tension draining from my shoulders, my spine, when his delighted laugh bellows between us.
“But I’m serious about needing to get to work,” I say, thinking maybe this time he’ll listen. “I can’t be late. That sort of thing doesn’t go over well.”
“This is more important than work.” Leftfoot bobs his head as he takes in a string of broken-down adobes lining the street.
“Easy for you to say.” I shake my head, rub a hand over my chin.
“You want to work at that gas station forever?” His gaze veers toward me.
“Forever?” I turn to face him. “No thanks. For the duration of the summer? Well, yes, that’s what I was hoping. I need money to live on, Leftfoot. I live in the real world, you know.”
“You live in the Middleworld.” Leftfoot grins, slapping his knee as he laughs hard at his joke.