Page 74 of Burn Like An Angel

Xander nods, vanishing to keep searching. I approach the mobile home then crouch down to lower Ripley onto the moss-speckled, plastic steps. Her pained grunting cuts deep into my chest.

“Easy,” I murmur.

She hisses, releasing my t-shirt. “Son of a bitch.”

“You’re welcome.”

With Ripley safely deposited, her leg stretched out in front of her, I check Raine is at a safe distance then look around for something to use. The door is made of two frosted-glass panes. If I can smash the top one, perhaps I can flip the inside lock.

“You reckon these things have alarms?”

Ripley grimaces. “Doubt it. This one looks ancient.”

Buried in weeds and grass tufts, I spot my target. A stone garden gnome covered in crusty fungus. I pick it up with my good hand. The ugly bastard will do the job nicely if I get the swing right.

Backing up to a safe distance, I swing the gnome hard, letting it sail into the glass pane. The resultant crack pierces the silence like a gunshot. A huge split marks the pane in complex spiderweb patterns.

“Shit, Nox,” Raine shouts from below. “Could you make more noise?”

“Feel free to come do it yourself, dick.”

Still using the lump of slick stone, I repeatedly smash the cracks I’ve created to chip away the glass. With the pane destroyed, I’m free to reach in to feel for a lock. My fingers catch on smooth metal.

“Gotcha,” I whisper. “Please work.”

Click.

Thankfully, the lock is cheap and crappy. It flicks open, allowing me to flip the handle. The door swings open, granting us access to the mobile home. My momentary relief dissipates as I move forward uneasily.

“Let me check to make sure it’s clear.”

Ripley attempts to shift, her teeth gritted. “Need backup?”

“You’re in no state to help.”

“I can walk,” she protests.

“No. You can’t. Just sit still.”

“But—”

“I mean it,” I cut her off. “Sit fucking still.”

Relieved when she deflates, not daring to protest more, I step inside. Stale air and dust register first. Then the stench of old, musty furniture. Anyone coming here for a holiday better have low expectations.

I check each room—a cramped living area, peeling kitchenette, single bathroom and two bedrooms with matching double beds. The old linoleum squeaks with each step I take, mirroring my rapid heartbeat.

“Nox? You good?”

Following Raine’s voice, I step back outside. “It’s clear. Probably best you can’t see the ’70s shag carpet and bright-orange kitchen. This thing is old as fuck.”

“Awesome,” Ripley quips.

“Raine? You good to follow?” I study him.

He waves my concern off. “I’ve got this. Go first.”

Helping Ripley stand, I throw her arm around my shoulders. Raine follows us in, using his stick to feel his way up the narrow steps. I set Ripley down on the kitchen counter, outstretching her leg on top.

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