“Smoke dragon,” he said, tapping the side of his nose. “They don’t show themselves to just anyone.”
“Sit back and hush,” the driver called over her shoulder. “She doesn’t need your moonshine dreams, Horace.”
“Ah, now, Darlene,” Horace complained, but not with any sting. To Willow, he said, “She’s jealous cuz she ain’t never seen one. They only come out for people like you and me. The ones with blood in their bones—I’m talkingOldBlood, from days gone by—and magic in their veins.”
“Magic, is it?” Darlene said. “That’s what you’re calling home brew these days?” She snorted. “Also, sorry to be the one to break it to you, but everyone’s got blood in their bones. Everyone still living anyway. Ain’t that right, college girl?”
Willow pushed her spine into her seat. For starters, she wasn’t a college girl. Also, she wasn’t altogether sure about blood and bones, but she was pretty sure Darlene was thinking about bone marrow, not blood. Oh, and one more itty-bitty detail?She’d just seen a dragon made of smoke. With her own two eyes, she’d seen a smoke dragon flying low over the Smoky Mountains.
“Ah, sure, I guess I shouldn’t fault you,” Darlene went on when Willow failed to pick up the thread. “You didn’t finish high school, so I guess it’s not your fault you’re such an ignoramus.”
Horace leaned an elbow against the seat in front of him. His eyes shone with something more than alcohol. “Darlene don’t believe in magic. But you know better, don’t you?”
Willow didn’t answer.
“Horace, shut your trap,” Darlene said. “College girl here, she’s on her way to Hemridge to do a project.” She caught Willow’s eye and winked. “I got your number, don’t I? Don’t bother me none, I just don’t understand the fascination. College kids, grown-ups... every other month, someone shows up asking about Wrenna Bratton, the one with what Horace calls the Old Blood. Hell, last week I heard there was a bona fide lady professor poking around, trying to learn all she could about Wrenna. Me? I didn’t have the pleasure of making her acquaintance. But she was real interested, yessir.”
“Naw, our girl’s not here to poke around,” Horace said. “Not like that, anyhow. She’s not here looking for a story. Sheisthe story.”
Darlene either didn’t hear or didn’t care.
“A girl who sees dragons,” Horace mused. “I’ll be.”
Willow shot a quick look at Darlene, then addressed Horace, taking care to keep her voice down. “Did I say I saw a dragon?” she hissed.
“Well, you didn’t say you didn’t.” He waited, watching, then gave a slow smile when all she did was press her lips together angrily. “All right, friend. I’m going to take that as a yes.”
Willow’s pale, spooked face must have confirmed it for him, because Horace nodded, satisfied, and took a long pull from his moonshine.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE BUS WHEEZED to a halt just shy of a flickering Exxon sign. The sky was charcoal and slick, an indecisive dawn. Darlene rolled her neck and pointed toward the road just ahead.
“You want the Hemridge Motel. Take a right on Main. Don’t go wandering. Not much here unless you like dead gas stations.”
Willow nodded, clutching her backpack as she stepped onto the cracked asphalt. Horace was snoring, sprawled across both seats, so she left without a goodbye—or a prophecy.
Main Street looked as worn out as the sky. Weather-blistered storefronts sagged behind dusty glass. The neon pharmacy sign buzzed with half-lit letters. Even the houses looked tired, like they’d stopped pretending to care.
No smoke dragons. No mysterious fog. Just dirt and rust and an old town holding its breath.
Willow’s sandals scraped the pavement, her backpack dug into her spine, and every part of her ached. She passed a boarded-up laundromat, a shuttered feed store, a diner that looked like it hadn’t served pie since the sixties.
The weight of her backpack reminded her of how far she’d come, but also—pitifully—of just how little she’d accomplished. She scanned her surroundings, searching for anything resembling a motel or a bed-and-breakfast. She was so tired, she was woozy.
After an eternity, she spotted a faded sign jutting out from a squat, two-story building: “Hemridge Haven Motel.” The front door creaked as she pushed it open. A bell above jingled weakly.
“Hello?” Willow called.
From behind the reception desk, a woman with penciled-on eyebrows glanced up. “Single?” she asked, already reaching for a key.
Willow hesitated. “How much?”
“Forty for the night. Weekly rate’s better.”
Forty dollars. That was more than she’d hoped to pay, but she was running on fumes. She peeled two twenties from her wallet and took the key.
The room smelled like lemon cleanser, which wasn’t so bad. But the floral bedspread had seen things. Willow did not pull back the covers. She dropped her backpack, kicked off her shoes, and curled up on top of the comforter. Her cheek was on the pillow for all of five seconds before sleep dragged her under.
