I crossed the threshold and engaged the deadbolt behind me. It was at least a symbolic barrier between us and whatever might follow us north from Seattle.
The cabin smelled of lingering wood smoke underscored by pine oil. A fieldstone fireplace commanded the main room's far wall with cold ash scattered across blackened brick. The handcrafted furniture was built for durability rather than aesthetics, designed to survive long, frigid winters.
Dorian tested window latches and examined sightlines. I watched him work as the tension I'd been carrying since Seattle began to dissolve.
When he completed his circuit, he returned to where I stood near the door.
"Assessment?"
"Defensible." He almost smiled. "Your brother builds bunkers, not cabins."
I exhaled, more deeply than I had in hours.
I flipped a switch, and a generator kicked in with a mechanical cough. Fluorescent light fixtures buzzed to life overhead. A harsh institutional glare filled the cabin, making everything look like a crime scene.
After switching the light off, I approached the hearth. "Better with fire."
Kneeling on cold brick, I arranged tinder and smaller pieces in the configuration Dad taught me when I was eight. Newspaper twisted into loose spirals and kindling stacked like a tiny log cabin with gaps for air flow.
The match flared, and a flame caught that quickly grew into satisfied crackling. Heat soon pushed outward in waves, bringing welcome warmth in early October.
Dorian peeled off his hoodie and moved closer to the flames. He positioned himself where heat could reach every part of him.
He rolled his shoulders forward. "Storage?"
I pointed toward what looked like a closet door. "Marcus overprepared for everything."
The narrow pantry revealed my brother's apocalypse planning in organized detail. He'd lined the shelves with canned goods—soup, beans, and vegetables with expiration dates three years out. He stocked dried pasta in sealed containers along with enough coffee, tea, and bottled water to survive a siege.
He'd stacked board games on the bottom shelf: Monopoly, Scrabble, and Settlers of Catan still in shrink wrap.
"Impressive hoarding." Dorian examined a can of split pea soup. "Is your brother expecting nuclear winter?"
"I think the experience with Michael battling Project Asphodel, as well as that obsessive arsonist stalking him, changed him a little." I pulled down tea and crackers. "Miles calls it productive anxiety."
The rain upgraded from tentative drops to serious precipitation, drumming against the windows with increasing conviction.
The cabin's layout was simple. The main room held the fireplace and kitchen counter. A double bed and dresser furnished the bedroom. The bathroom had a composting toilet and a shower that would run hot as long as the propane held out.
Everything was functional, nothing decorative except for a single photograph on the bedroom dresser—Marcus and James on a mountain trail, both grinning with exhausted satisfaction.
I heated soup on the propane burner while Dorian examined the cabin's security features. Motion sensors guarded the frontdoor, and a radio scanner on a shelf near the kitchen was set to emergency frequencies.
Dorian seated himself at the tiny kitchen table. "Do you always pace when cooking?"
"Do you always quote Beyoncé when you're bleeding internally?"
"How did you know I quote Beyoncé?"
"I heard you whispering the words on my couch. It was 'Survivor'—Destiny's Child."
Dorian shrugged. "Truth is truth."
A beat of silence passed.
I raised an eyebrow. "Wait. Do you know the whole song?"
"Don't test me unless you're ready for Destiny's Child a cappella."
