the sink. I twisted both the hot and cold knobs, but lo and behold, not even a rusty trickle spurted out. I turned to the toilet and lifted the lid to find the bowl as dry as the back of my mouth. Damn.
“Anything useful upstairs?” Remo called out.
Even though the massage tables were padded and thus looked relatively comfortable, we needed water and there was none. “Unfortunately not.”
He looked up the stairwell.
“If you don’t trust me, go check.”
He returned his gaze to me. “I trust you.”
“Huh. A Farrow trusting a Wood. That must surely be a first.”
His jaw ticked as though he were working really hard to bite back a retort.
I pushed past him out the door, then walked toward the next establishment—Bee’s Place. Instead of barreling inside, I backed up into the road to take in the two-story brick inn with its big picture window. This place contained so much history that it somehow felt sacred. I had to remind myself that this wasn’t the real Bee’s Place. Just a pretty copy placed in a parallel universe. Still, my heart held steady as I crossed back toward it and pressed my fingertips into the glass door.
I froze on the threshold, the aroma of something sweet and flaky wafting into me. “Do you smell that?” I whispered, stepping inside.
Remo’s nostrils flared. When his pupils dilated, I surmised the fragrance wasn’t imaginary.
The glass door clapped shut behind us, and I jumped, but then I sniffed the air again and tracked the scent like a lupa. My nose led me to a square opening built into a wall beside a varnished bar. I peered inside, making out the gleam of metal countertops and the shine of upside-down pots—a kitchen!
Even though I could climb through the opening, I strode along the wall on the lookout for a door, stomach twisting in anticipation. The second I spotted it, I looked for a handle but found none. Remo, who’d trailed me down the dim hallway, pressed his palm into the wood, and the door swung on its hinges.
“I was about to do that,” I said.
He shot me his usual arrogant smirk, the one that touted: I am so much smarter than you.
Instead of sinking to his level, I notched up my chin and entered the dim space that smelled so sweet, licking the air would surely candy my tongue. My nose guided me toward a large metal and glass box glowing with a light that enveloped the edges of a bubbling golden pie. I latched onto a long handle and tugged. A burst of hot air shot into my face. I was about to reach inside for the pan when Remo’s voice stilled my hand.
“You’re going to burn yourself.”
“Burn myself? I’m made of fire.”
I stuck my hand inside and grabbed the pan. Even through the glove, the heat of the metal scorched me. I didn’t let go even though it felt like the material was melting and adhering to my skin. I all but tossed the pan onto the center island.
“You burned yourself, didn’t you?” Remo followed the downward trajectory of my hand.
“Nope.” My cheeks flamed, though. Hopefully, the obscurity would hide my blush.
He crossed the kitchen toward a sink and turned the knob. I was expecting it to be dry, but there was a groan followed by a familiar splash that made my heart catch and my throat tighten. I strode over to him so fast I thought I’d regained my Hunter speed. Remo didn’t scoop out any water; he simply watched it fall. I grabbed a bowl from a shelf and shoved it underneath, terrified this was a fluke and any second the pipes would run dry.
I pulled off my gloves and laid them on the counter. My fingertips had reddened but thankfully not blistered. Although they felt funny—a little plasticky—I didn’t complain, knowing Remo would get a kick out of my predicament.
I lifted the bowl out and carefully placed it aside. Then I cupped my hands and filled them with the water coming out of the spigot.
“Amara, maybe—”
The warning Remo had been about to utter died on his lips as I splashed the water on my face—a shot of pure bliss. I repeated the motion. The water dripping off my chin was laced with blood, yellow mud, and the remnants of my makeup.
“It’s real.” I grinned up at Remo. “Real water.”
Remo’s expression was as tight as the line of his shoulders, and the rest of his body, for that matter. When he