The House of the Wicked (The snake and the raven #1)

36. Nora

Nora

this is all quite revolting

“ W here’s the car?” The question has more bite than I intend, but something about watching Yves drive away with Thalia leaves me feeling resentful and angry.

The parking lot in front of the guesthouse is mostly empty when I turn to face August. He’s watching me, a self-satisfied smirk stretching across his perfect fucking face. Lifting his hand, he points to the far corner of the lot, where a worn-out, ancient sedan sits beneath the shade of a sad-looking tree.

“Right over there,” he says, plastering that smirk right back on his face.

“That?” I gape at the car. My knowledge of cars is limited, but even I can tell that the death trap he’s pointing at is a major downgrade from our previous ride.

“Come on.” With my overnight bag slung over his shoulder, he reaches down to pick up his own, before starting his confident stride toward the car. Frozen in place, I stare as he slowly makes his way across the empty lot. Halfway to the rust bucket of a car, he stops, glancing back at me, his eyes filled with annoyance. The slight lift of his brow is enough to send my feet racing forward. I arrive at the car a few seconds after him and stare in horror as he uses a key—an actual key, not a button on a key fob—to unlock and then open the trunk. My eyes move from the open trunk to the side of the car, where August stands, forcefully cramming our bags into the back seat. Amused, deep brown eyes meet mine. “Get in,” he says, nodding at me.

“Get in?” I ask, shrinking away from both August and the tetanus-shot-in-waiting. He drags his hand along the back of his neck, cringing a little. Instinctively, I take another step back.

“In the trunk, Nora. Get in the trunk,” he clarifies.

My entire body stiffens at his words. “What?”

“The trunk, get in it.”

He inclines his head toward the open trunk, finally looking down and taking in the vacant space. Someone tried to make it look cozy. Pillows line the walls of the trunk and there’s a plush blanket, no doubt stolen from the guesthouse, thrown over the floor. It looks like a Christmas bed, but shitty.

“I’m not getting in there,” I reply, looking up at him again.

“You are, and you’re getting in now. We’re wasting time.” He takes three steps toward me; I immediately back up.

“August,” I warn.

“Nora, listen to me.” He lifts his hands like he’s trying to calm a feral cat, before taking a deep breath. “The safe house is in Dahlia Heights. Know that I would never intentionally put you in danger, but we can't drive in with you riding shotgun in a luxury SUV. So we’re taking this wreck, and you’re riding in the trunk, okay?” He stops in front of me, so ftly cupping my chin, forcing my eyes toward his.

My eyes shift between the musty Christmas-bed-trunk and August. “It's not okay,” I whisper.

"I know, little raven." He dips his head slightly, just enough to reach my lips, just enough to place a short, searing kiss on my mouth, just enough to secure my cooperation. His mouth slows against mine before he pulls away and winks at me. "But you're getting in, regardless."

Reluctantly, I squeeze myself into the cramped trunk, doing my best to make myself as comfortable as possible. My dress hitches up my thighs. I wriggle uncomfortably, trying to adjust. All the while, August stands there, grinning. I flip him off, feeling a surge of anger heat my face as I settle into what I pray will be a cozy spot. Three fucking hours. I can do this. I don’t want to, but my desire to live outweighs my need for comfort.

August leans over the open trunk and peers down at me. The smile stretching across his face depraved. It’s an effort not to squirm under the intensity of it.

“Tell me the truth,” I whisper. “Are you kidnapping me?” My nerves suddenly rage at the thought of being so vulnerable, locked away in here.

“I wish, Nora.” And with that, he slams the trunk shut, leaving me alone in a dark, coffin-like pillow fort that smells faintly of damp and cigarette smoke.

E very second feels an hour long until eventually, the pace of the car shifts from the free-flowing glide of the highway to a more bumpy, stop and start pace. Where previously, the only sound around me was the hum of the open road. Now horns blare along with the stuttering engines of scooters and motorbikes. We have to be near The Heights by now.

August hits a deep pothole, and I wince as the jolt deepens the ache in my bladder. God help me, I regret not using the bathroom before we left Mossville. If I’d known I’d be enduring the fucking entirety of the drive in this godforsaken trunk, I would have.

The car jerks again, shifting so suddenly I roll back, my spine slamming against the frame of the trunk. We’re driving up a hill. A steep one if the labored pace and invisible force tugging me back is any sign.

After a few more minutes of chugging up the bumpy hill, the car turns down a more level road before coming to an idling stop. My breath catches in my throat as the sound of August slamming the driver's door fills the confined space. A second later, another sound fills the void of the trunk; the unmistakable rumble of a rolling metal garage door.

The car dips again as August climbs back in. We move forward incrementally before the engine cuts abruptly. He’s climbing out. My ears strain to pick up on any other sounds around me; I hear the back door swing open before it shuts again with a soft click.

Moments later, the garage door begins its thunderous descent, filling the air with that deep rumble. A key scratches in the trunk's lock before a burst of fluorescent lightning slices through the darkness, singeing my corneas and leaving me momentarily paralyzed with confusion and fear.

“H as anyone ever told you how utterly breathtaking you look when you’re terrified?” He smirks down at me before offering me a hand out of my mobile prison.

“Fuck you,” I mutter as I place my hand in his, accepting his help. Once my feet are firmly on the ground, my eyes move around the single-car garage. The bright overhead lighting has me squinting as I try to take in the small space. “Where are we?”

“Come on, I have a surprise for you,” he says, before turning, grabbing the two overnight bags from where he’s dumped them on the floor, and walking toward a battered wooden door.

Following behind him, it’s an effort to wait silently as my anxiety takes over. He unlocks the door. I have no idea what’s waiting for us on the other side. The door creaks open, revealing a narrow landing that seems to stretch infinitely into the terrifying darkness of a stairwell. It hits me then that the garage is most likely on the first level of the building, with the staircase leading us down to the house below.

August hasn’t bothered to turn any lights on before traipsing down the steep staircase. He doesn’t turn back to check on me, stopping only once he reaches another door. Delicately, he withdraws a bulky set of keys from his back pocket and quickly unlocks it. Pushing the door open, he steps aside, nodding toward the dark house, allowing me to go first.

I notice the smell first. It’s dusty, like the home’s stood empty for some time, but underneath that, beneath the layer of neglect, is her. Dima .

It smells like home, a nostalgic and heartbreaking combination of comforting hugs, bath time stories, picnics in the garden.

Creeping forward, a swirling blend of longing and intrigue overwhelms my senses. A hollowness her love has always filled drowns me once more. The small livin g room in front of me is filled with little details that remind me of her. Straining, I try to piece together the room hidden in the cloak of shadowy darkness cast by the still-drawn curtains.

A well-cared for leather sofa set takes up most of the space; I can’t tear my eyes away from it as I imagine her sitting there. The living room seamlessly flows into a dining room, where a grand table and eight chairs wait. The furniture is inexpensive, but still… There’s a certain elegance to it, like something straight out of a grandmother's house; delicately detailed and timeless. I suppose that’s who Dima is. To August, but also to me. My eyes travel over the pictures covering almost every inch of the walls until I reach the end of the dining room, crowned by another dark hallway. This is her house. I don’t need him to confirm it. I feel her everywhere.

Turning, I face August, only he’s no longer behind me. “August?” I call out, spinning around trying to find him in the dark shadows of the room.

“Here,” he answers, walking through the hallway separating the living room from the dining room. Tears flood my eyes when I see the smile lighting up his face. My eyes jump between him and the frail woman sitting in the wheelchair. The wheelchair he’s pushing steadily toward me.

“Dima,” I whisper hoarsely. My voice cracks over her name as broken sobs work their way up my throat. “Oh God, Dima.” Racing forward, I drop to my knees at her feet as those sobs now shake my entire body.

“Nonny, the hysterics are a little much,” she says, her voice cracking. Tears run freely down her beautiful face.

“I missed you so much,” I cry, still kneeling at her feet. She strokes my hair softly. “I thought,” I trail off.

“It’ll take more than a pig with a gun to separate us, my girl,” she says, and I smile.

“I love you.” There were so many times over the course of the last few weeks that I’d wished I’d told her more often. I wished I had told her every single day. “I love you so much,” I say again, desperate to drive my point home. I can’t live without her. I’ve always suspected it, but now I know for sure. “Don’t ever leave me again,” I whisper.

“Technically, you left me,” she says, and I laugh.

“They had to drag me away, you crone.”

August flicks on the lights, bathing the room in a warm, golden glow; even the dark parquet floors gleam under the soft lights. He’s standing off in the corner of the room, watching us with a strange expression on his face.

“So, Nora, you’re staying in my old room,” he announces as he walks toward me, flicking on more lights as he goes. “There’s only one bathroom in the house.”

Dima rolls her eyes at me. “He thinks I can’t tell that you two have been—”

“Enough,” I cut her off. “I’m overjoyed to be with you right now, but that is a subject we will not be discussing.”

“I think we should. Personally, I think you can do better, Nonny.” She tosses a disgusted look in August’s direction. “You don't know the women he’s been with. No class, this one.” She jerks her finger in his direction and I look up just in time to catch him rolling his eyes.

“Don’t make me regret bringing her here, Mimi,” he says. “Come on, let me show Nora to her room.”

“T he room where you’ll be sleeping too?” She raises her brows at him, and I try to focus on their bickering. It’s fucking adorable as all hell, but my eyes are too hungry. They devour every inch of Dima, looking for any sign of lingering injuries. The wheelchair… I want to ask about it, but I don’t, not yet.

August pushes her down a narrow hallway. I follow behind them, noting each picture on the walls as I make my way down. Meticulously, my eyes document all the tiny trinkets and intricate details that define Dima's life, a life that she’s lived away from me. The urge to touch, to inspect, and to connect with every object overwhelms me. I could spend a lifetime here, marinating in the essence of her, and it would never be long enough.

August pushes the door to the bedroom open and Dima wheels herself the rest of the way in. Standing on the threshold, two things hit me at once. One, it smells like him in here, and two, the bed…

“Racing car sheets?” I tease, as I stare at the bed covered in bright blue racing cars. I turn to gape at the Formula 1 posters lining the walls before my smirk grows even wider. “August Hunter, are you a car guy?” I poke him in the ribs.

“Stop that. What’s a car guy?” he asks, while Dima watches our exchange with a smile on her face.

“You know, one of those guys who treats his car better than he treats his woman?” I wiggle my brows at him.

He turns around to face me, instantly crowding the space in the doorway that suddenly feels entirely too narrow. “I don’t know, Nora,” he says, stepping into my space, his chest pressing lightly against mine. “Do I treat my woman— singular —better than I treat my car?”

An e xaggerated gagging sound comes from the old lady in the wheelchair, and I double over, laughing.

“This is all quite revolting,” Dima announces as she tries to force the width of the wheelchair past August and me. “I’m overdue for a nap and an anti-nausea pill.”

She wheels herself down the hallway and into what I assume is the kitchen before I turn my attention back to August. “To answer your question,” I say. “I wouldn't know. I’m not yours. That was what you said, wasn’t it?”

He’s silent as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear and stares at me. “I’m doing everything in my power to change that, little raven.” And with those words floating between us, he sets my bag down at the foot of the bed and walks out of the room.