Page 15 of Crucible
The different scents in the house converge all at once—cardamom, mint, leather, juniper, and something a little smoky yet lighter and more sensual than tobacco.
Amber.
The cabin smells like a bachelor pad for cavemen.
Oh, God.
“My name is Aurelia,” I explain, even though it’s clear no one is home. Shutting the door, I gratefully leave the cold behind as I move deeper into the cabin. “I was in a plane crash and got lost. I…” I stop when I nearly reveal that I’m alone and instead say, “I need help.”
If it weren’t completely insane, I’d swear I was speaking to the house—begging it to be good to me.
When the cabin shudders as if in answer, I exhale my relief and rush toward the fireplace…thing. The bear rug is even softer than it looked through the window. I drop to my knees and sink into the lush fur. The fire is barely more than embers, but it’s better than the sparks I’d been able to conjure.
I stand and shed Cassie’s scarf and my dead bodyguard Harrison’s heavy coat.
My boots and socks are next, though it takes me some time to free my swollen feet from them. When I do, my revulsion is a gnarled thing in my stomach.
They’re grotesque.
I have painful blisters on the bottom, sides, and heels of my feet, thanks to my designer boots that were made for style, not comfort. The one on my right heel is the worst. The top layer of skin has already peeled away, and it’s bleeding, while the nail on one of my big toes is black and blue.
I hesitate a moment—debating the prudence of stripping naked in a stranger’s home—before shedding my peasant dress. It’s ridiculously impractical for this climate, but it’s not as if my stylist knew I’d be heading for Canada when she dressed me or that my plane would crash onto a snowy mountain.
Standing with my arms wrapped around my half-naked body, I spot a blanket thrown over the back of the leather sofa, so I take it and wrap it around me.
Looking around the cavernous space, I soak up as many details as I can. The small loft. The antler chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The crude workmanship tells me it’s homemade. There aren’t any picture frames to give me a clue about the occupants, but there are enough odds and ends to tell me someone had made this place home.
I look for a woman’s touch, and my stomach twists with discomfort when I see none.
Maybe a kindly old widower lives here with his sons.
Yeah, I like that better than whatever scary version my mind can conjure. Why else would three grown men hole up in a cabin all the way out in the middle of nowhere? Nothing good, that’s for sure.
Three tin cups rest among scattered bullets and oil-stained cloths on the low table, and a gasp escapes me when I see steam curling over the rim.
They were just here.
The men who lived in this cabin must have left mere moments before I appeared, and judging by the abandoned food, they’d left in a hurry.
Why?
The memory of snow—a huge fucking mass of it—rushing downhill toward Tyler and me flashes in my mind before I block it out.
Had the men who lived here felt the avalanche? Seen it?
Tyler and I hadn’t been far away when it happened, but I don’t know if it’s possible.
Reaching for the closest cup, I lift it from the table and tentatively sip the fresh coffee. Warmth instantly floods my veins and thaws my bones, but I make a face when my taste buds register the sugar.
Too sweet.
Setting it down, I reach for the next.
The cinnamon aroma soothes my sore nose before I take a sip, only to realize it’s weaker than I like and a little colder than the first.
Grabbing the last cup, I drink from it and hum happily at my first taste of the hot—nearly scalding—brew.
It’s not too sweet, tepid, or light.
