"They have their families to attend to," she said, "and I have mine." She meant her husband, Howard, and their four terriers.
As much as we appreciated the ride, Audrey was a talker.
We drove toward Omaha through pitch-black darkness, past more empty fields and the occasional factory, its lights and steam pulsing across the flat plains like a sleeping monster of metal and concrete.
As we neared the city, the horizon began to grow orange from the glow of streetlights. Fortunately, Audrey had grown up near Eliott and agreed to drive us al the way to the farmhouse.
Doubly fortunate, actualy, because the sun would be rising soon, and we needed a place to bed down.
We crossed the Missouri River and drove north through Omaha's compact downtown, passing a pedestrian-heavy plaza with a lot of old brick buildings and a hily string of skyscrapers before popping back into a residential neighborhood. Older houses and fast-food joints eventualy gave way to flat fields and farmland, and we ended up on a long, bone white stretch of gravel road.
The road was long and straight, and it divided fields now stripped of their crops as winter approached. Dust rose in our wake, and in the darkness I couldn't see much behind us. That made me nervous. Tate could be hiding there, waiting for us.
Ready to strike again, ready to throw us off the road - and on his second try, we might not be so lucky. And we'd have dragged an innocent human into it.
We passed farms that al folowed the same form - a main house and a few outbuildings behind a wal of trees, which I assumed was protection against the wind. The houses glowed under the shine of bright floodlights, and I wondered how their inhabitants slept with the glare...or how they slept at al.
Something about the idea of sleeping under the flood of a spotlight in the middle of an otherwise dark plain made me nervous. I'd feel too vulnerable, like I was on display.
After fifteen minutes of driving, we reached the address Catcher had given us, large steel numbers hammered into a post that stood sentinel at the end of a long gravel driveway. A farmhouse much like the others sat at the end of it, a few hundred yards back from the road, glowing under its security light. Its wooden clapboards were dark red, and it was accessorized with white awnings and wooden gingerbread in the corners of the smal front porch. It had a pitched roof, with one gable over a large picture window. I had a Little House on the Prairie - esque image of a girl in a gingham dress sitting behind that glass, spending long winter days staring out at endless winter snow.
Audrey puled to a stop, and we grabbed our swords and bags, offered prolific thank-yous, and watched the cloud of dust whisk her back toward Omaha.
"She'l be fine," Ethan said.
I nodded, and we walked down the driveway, the world silent except for our footsteps and an owl that hooted from the windbreak. I had a sudden mental image of great, black wings swooping down to pluck me up off the driveway and deposit me in the hayloft of an ancient barn. I shivered and walked a little faster.
"Not much of a farm girl?"
"I don't mind being in the country. And I love woods - lots of places to hide."
"It appeals to the predator in you?"
"Precisely. But out here, I don't know. It's a weird mix of being isolated and completely on display. It's not my bag. Give me a high-rise in the city, please."
"Even with parking permits?"
I smiled. "And the 90 bumper-to-bumper during rush hour." I looked around. Beyond the halo of the floodlight, the world was dark, and I wondered what might be hunkering around out there.
Watching.
Waiting.
The owl hooted again, sending goose bumps up my arms.
"This place gives me the creeps. Let's get inside."
"I don't think owls feed on vampires, Sentinel."
"I'm not in the mood to take chances," I said. "And we're not long for sunrise." I gave Ethan a gentle push toward the house.
"Let's go in, sunshine."
Chapter Three
AN ORDERLY HOME
The worn wooden porch steps creaked as we took them, and the doorbel sounded with a long, old-fashioned chime.
A moment later, a woman opened the door in a pale silk robe she'd puled tight around her chest. It looked old-fashioned, something a woman might have worn in the 1950s. Her hair was a tousled bob of briliant red waves, and her eyes were shockingly green - emeralds against her alabaster skin. In a word, she was gorgeous.
Stil muddy and bruised from the rolover, I felt mousy and awkward.
She gave me, then Ethan, an appraising look. "Can I help you?" she asked, but then filed in the blank. "You're the vampires."
"I'm Ethan Sulivan," he said, "and this is Merit."
"I'm Paige," she said. "Please, come in." The required invitation offered, Paige turned and padded down the halway in bare feet, the door open behind her.
I glanced at Ethan, intent on letting him go first, but his gaze was on the woman disappearing down the halway.
"Ethan Sulivan," I said, jealousy fluttering in my chest.
"I'm not looking at her, Sentinel," he admonished with a wink, "although I'm not blind." He pointed at the halway.
My cheeks warming, I looked back again. The wals were filed with vertical stacks of books, one beside another, packed so tightly together there was scarcely room between them. And these weren't just discount-table paperbacks. These were the old-school, leather-bound type - the kind you might see in the house of an Order archivist...or on the basement table of a rebelious sorceress. As much as I loved books, that made me nervous to step into a space ful of magical tomes.
I folowed Ethan to the sitting room at the end of the hal. It was smal but comfortable, with vintage fabrics and cottagey decor. A smal fireplace put the smel of woodsmoke in the air, which mingled with the scents of ancient paper and fragrant tea.
Paige curled up on a couch and picked up a teacup from a smal end table. "Sorry I'm a bit of a mess. She hasn't shown up yet, and I wanted a few minutes of peace and quiet. Have a seat," she said, pointing at a facing couch with a delicate teacup and saucer dotted with smal pink flowers. "Would you like some tea?"
"No, thank you," Ethan said. We took seats on the couch, bags and swords at our feet.
"You have a lot of books," he said.
"I'm an archivist," she said. "It's what I do."
"Read?" I asked.
"Learn and catalogue," she said. "I compile the history of what came before, and I record the history as it happens. And, frankly, I have a lot of time to read out here."