The Same Place (The Lamb and the Lion #2) - Gregory Ashe Page 0,67

swaddled in the same impenetrable darkness. The Ford’s headlights cut papery holes in the night, but otherwise it was like they’d drifted out of the real world and into some sort of nightmare place—kind of like that show with the kids that Jem made him watch. All Tean could do was follow the gravel track and park where the drive ended in a circle.

“What are the odds we’re going to get blasted in the face by a shotgun?” Tean said.

“Fifty-fifty,” Jem said, popping open his door and dropping out.

The smell of pig dung, mud, and animal bodies rolled into the truck. Tean grimaced, got out of the truck, and followed Jem toward the door. The automatic lights clicked off behind them, and Tean stumbled. Jem’s hand found his in the darkness, and for some reason it was so comforting that Tean squeezed it once in gratitude. Jem squeezed back.

Lights switched on, blinding Tean: first, porch lights; then high-powered security floods that illuminated the gravel circle. Tean blinked, trying to hurry his vision as it adjusted. Jem was swearing softly next to him. The sound of a door opening carried through the stillness, and then the same rough voice said, “Dr. Leon?”

“That’s right. And this is Jem. Hannah hired him to help find Joy.”

Tean still couldn’t see much, and Zalie was hidden behind the powerful lights. If she had a shotgun, he couldn’t tell. If she was sighting down the length of it, trying to decide if he and Jem had stuck their noses in too deep, he couldn’t tell. He realized he was clutching Jem’s hand, and Jem was clutching back.

“Come on in,” Zalie said. “Mind the second step; it’s loose.”

Then her footsteps moved back into the house.

“I’m going to hug you like a crazy motherfucker later,” Jem said, his hand still tight around Tean’s. “Remind me.”

“Let’s not and say we did.”

“Never mind. I’ll just make a note in my phone.” As they climbed onto the porch, Jem took out his phone and said to the virtual assistant, “Remind me to hug Tean like a crazy motherfucker.”

“No,” Tean said to the phone. “Cancel. Abort. Order rescinded.”

“Got it,” the virtual assistant said. “I will remind you to hug beans like a crazy mother fork cancel abort order rescinded.”

“Perfect,” Jem said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Yes,” Tean said. “I told you to abort. Belay that order. How do you make this thing obey you?”

“Quiet, Beans,” Jem said.

When they stepped inside, Tean only got a glimpse of the space because he was trying to find Zalie, trying to make sure she hadn’t decided to lure them into the house before eliminating them. He had an impression of exposed joists, peeling wallpaper, and floors badly in need of stripping and refinishing. His gaze settled on Zalie. She was black, tall, thin, with wiry muscles. Her salt-and-pepper hair was buzzed. She was leaning heavily on a cane, and one foot was wrapped in bandages.

No shotgun. Tean spotted it a moment later—it was propped by the front door next to an equally ancient-looking rifle, both weapons dark with gun oil, the stocks scratched from wear and polished from all the hands that had held them over the years.

She must have recognized something in Tean’s expression because she said, “I’m sorry about last time. Things have been strange around here. I heard a car, and I wasn’t expecting anyone, and, well, I reacted.”

Tean wanted to know how strange things had been if her go-to response was firing a shotgun.

“Sit down,” she said, indicating a worn sofa covered by a quilt. She lowered herself into a rocking chair next to a potbellied stove, where a small fire was burning. As Jem and Tean sat, Tean had a moment to study the room more carefully. Half the space was clearly a living room, while the other half was given over to a galley kitchen and a table and chairs. In the living-room portion, aside from the sofa and rocking chair and stove, the only furniture was a record player in a teak cabinet, a pair of overloaded bookshelves, and a basket with knitting needles and several balls of yarn. Tean took a longer look at the bookshelves—he could see a copy of The Anarchist’s Cookbook that had obviously been produced in a home office: printed on standard inkjet printer and paper, with a DIY spiral binding. Two doors opened off the front room. One clearly led to a bathroom, while the other,