maybe we should,” she said.
“There’s a lot you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”
She nodded.
“And you don’t trust me enough to tell me?”
“It’s not that.”
“What is it then?”
“It’s things you’d best not know.”
“About you?”
“About where I come from.”
“Why can’t I know about it?”
“Because if there are things I’d rather forget, why on earth would I want someone else remembering them?”
“Sometimes weights are better carried by two.”
“You read that on a greeting card, didn’t you?”
Ewan smirked, busted. “It might have been a comic strip.”
“You’re adorable.”
“You’re incredible.”
“Run away with me.”
“What?”
Nora sat up, taking Ewan’s hands in hers, staring, unblinking, into his eyes. “Run away with me. We’ll take your band to L.A. and go all the way. Let’s just get out of here and never look back.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“Losing all this.”
“No, why do you want to leave?”
“Because you’re never going to be the man you want to be washing dishes in a bar. And I’m never going to be the girl you want me to be living here.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Very.”
“Oh my God. I don’t . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“Tell me you love me.”
“Nora, I love you.”
“Tell me you need me.”
“Nora, I need you.”
“Tell me you’re gonna be a rock star.”
“I’m gonna be a rock star.”
“Run away with me.”
“Okay. After our next show, if we tear the roof off the place, we’ll talk to the boys.”
Nora bounced up and down, clapping her hands. “We’re going to do this?”
“If the show goes well.”
“Then it better go well. I’ll do whatever I can.”
“You really want to do this?”
“More than anything.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THE PHILOSOPHER’S BREAKFAST
The sky was angry, roiling with a deep fury betraying unshackled hostility for the earth below. Flashes of light belched within the clouds, streaking from the heavens, trailed by cavernous claps of thunder drenched in a thousand tiny slaps of rain. It was a hateful storm, spiteful, brimming with malice. The sky itself fell in softball-size chunks of ice, the city buckling, breaking beneath it, windows spiderwebbed with cracks before shattering, ice and glass commingling on the ground.
Colby Stevens saw the storm for what it was, the billowing thunderhead above churning with the shadows of Hell, the air stinking of brimstone. There was nothing natural about it. It was the witching hour and the looming threat had chased away the few remaining barflies, leaving abandoned downtown streets. The conditions were perfect for what was about to happen. Though having never before seen it in person, he was familiar with the signs. The Wild Hunt was afoot.
Colby stood in the recessed doorway of a building, barely out of hail’s reach, a backpack slung over his shoulder, holding a single bottle of whiskey—a gift from Old Scraps to rush him out the door before the rare act of closing the bar up for the night. No one wanted to be out in this, even the old cluricaun.
As the hail let up, Colby hiked across the ice-strewn street to one of the city’s tallest buildings and ascended its rain-slicked fire escape. The wet metal left a rusty orange itch in his palm. While spending time atop a rooftop in a storm was a terrible idea, the telltale dull roar of hooves in the distance convinced him that it was better than the alternative. So Colby took the fire escape one step at a time, trying not to think about what might happen if lightning struck its exposed, rusted metal skeleton.
Upon reaching the top, he saw that he was not alone. Sharing the rooftop, perched recklessly upon the outermost ledge, was Bertrand the angel. Suited from the neck down in his battered white suit of armor, he looked more like a lightning hazard than good company. Bertrand craned his neck over his shoulder, sniffing, his long, soaked hair flailing in the wind.
“Is that a bottle of whiskey I smell in your bag?” he called out over the rain.
Colby nodded. “You can smell that?”
“I’ve got the nose of a bloodhound and the thirst of his master.” Bertrand sniffed the air again. “I wouldn’t worry, you’ll be fine up here. Doesn’t smell like lightning.”
Colby walked across the rooftop, pulling the bottle out of his bag. He unscrewed the top, took a long, deep pull off the bottle and passed it to Bertrand. The angel took a brief swig, gargled with the alcohol and swallowed hard.
“Shit,” he said. “I figured a sorcerer would be able to conjure himself up a better brand of bourbon.”
Colby shook his head. “Not in this town. There isn’t enough