Only hope? How very Star Wars. I grimaced. But I didn’t tell Violet Fox how misplaced her trust in me was, how misguided, how laughable, even. That I only brought death to people, not hope. That I was doing this rare, pro bono good deed out of my own fucking insatiable curiosity more than anything else.

“Come on,” I said, opening the door on the SUV.

“Let’s go.”

———

Finn steered out of Jo-Jo’s subdivision and headed north. Following Violet Fox’s directions, we left the suburbs behind and drove through the heart of Northtown, where the rich, richer, and richest lived. People didn’t have mansions in Northtown—they had estates. If not for the driveways, iron gates, and tasteful brick walls that could be seen from the streets, you might have thought the area was deserted.

Because nobody with real wealth, magic, or power was gauche enough to let their home be seen from the road.

We drove on, still heading north. The terrain became rockier, more rugged, as the rolling hills of the lowlands gave way to knobby ridges and pine-covered mountains.

Houses began to appear on the side of the road, although they were far less grand than the hidden McMansions that populated the Northtown estates. The road narrowed from four lanes to two and twisted back on itself in a series of switchbacks that would give most folks nausea.

Instead of sleek sedans and chrome-covered SUVs, we began to pass dump- and coal trucks on the road.

After about thirty minutes of driving, Violet pointed out the windshield. “That’s it, just up ahead at the crossroads.”

Finn slowed, turned into a gravel lot, and parked. I peered out the window at the structure before us. The two-story clapboard building might have been a home or perhaps a hunting cabin, once upon a time. Although it was obviously old, the building sported a fresh coat of white paint, with the shutters trimmed in a pale green.

Smaller, matching outbuildings squatted next to the main structure, connected to it by short, covered walkways.

Wooden steps led up to a front porch that was even wider than Jo-Jo’s. The porch ran the length of all three buildings. Rocking chairs lined either side of the front door, along with barrels topped with checkerboards. The tin sign mounted above the main entrance gleamed like a new nickel in the sun. Country Daze, it read in green paint that matched the shutters. The roofs of all three buildings were also tin, the kind that made a slow, steady rain sound like a classical sonata.

The parking lot—if you wanted to call it that and not just loose gravel, curved around the store like a crescent moon. A stop sign squatted off to the right, and the road came to a T, forcing you to go right or left. One of the road signs pointed the way back to the interstate and declared that this stretch of pavement was part of some scenic, tourist-trap highway. The other sign featured an arrow and the words Dawson No. 3. Less than a mile away. Interesting. I might have to go check out the coal mine, after I met the illustrious Warren T. Fox.