Page 34 of Us in Ruins

He twisted every knob, pulled every lever. The sunroof slid open, the headlights flashed, wipers skidded across the windshield, cleaning solution shot through the now-open sunroof. Margot wiped the droplets off her face with the back of her hand.

She was going to die.

“Let me drive.”

“I can do it,” he said, his mouth pinched, forehead etched with deep grooves. Astonishingly, he navigated the car out of the parking spot without hitting anything. The only casualty was the death grip Margot had on the oh-shit handlebar. He wagged an eyebrow as if to say, See?

Until he tried to drive forward, and his lead foot nearly ran them straight into oncoming traffic.

Margot yanked the emergency brake. The tires screeched. Her skull slammed against the headrest, and Van turned to her, eyes wide as a passing car laid on their horn.

She unfastened her seat belt and Van’s. “Get out. Now.”

This time, Van obliged. They crossed paths in the headlights beam, and Margot shook the tension out of her shoulders as she situated herself in the driver’s seat. She scooted her seat up as far as it would go and adjusted her mirrors.

“Are you sure you want to—”

Margot clicked a button on the center console, and an LED illuminated, shifting the car into Sport Mode. “If I can survive Atlanta traffic, anything’s possible.”

“You’re a regular Alice Ramsey,” Van grumbled.

She drifted onto the main road, exhaust clouding in their wake.

12

Pompeii disappeared in the rearview mirror. As she drove, Margot tried to focus on the road’s dotted lines and not the way Van’s knees banged against the dashboard, entirely too big for a car this small.

Yesterday, he’d been a boy she only knew in her daydreams. She could hardly reconcile the grumpy version in the passenger seat with the soft-hearted author of the journal he cradled in his lap.

He gingerly thumbed through the pages—the water had warped it, the paper all clumped together and dried that way, brittle and deformed. “Almost there. Left, I think.”

“You think?” Margot asked as she twisted the volume knob down on the radio.

How far were they going to go? All the city lights had faded into a glow on the horizon. Ahead were miles of coastline in a desolate patch between Herculaneum and Pompeii, a volcanic wasteland that hadn’t recovered. Van’s directions sent them onto a gravel path riddled with potholes that rattled the car more with every mile they ventured off the main road.

Margot finally shifted into park, half-hidden beneath the canopy of a tree with gnarled roots. “Here? You’re telling me Venus hid the shard in the middle of a field? And whatever that big blobby thing is?”

“It used to be an olive grove.” Van stepped out of the car, and his shoes scuffed the hardened earth, kicking up dirt—or maybe ash. “And that blobby thing is the House of Olea. Home to some of this region’s wealthiest merchants, allegedly blessed by Venus herself. Their oil was used in rituals in her temple, so they say she granted them favor, and provided them with bountiful harvests and ensured all of their daughters would be happily married. If you believe that kind of thing.”

“Which you don’t,” Margot said.

“Not particularly.” He started toward the building without any further instruction. “Keep up, kid. Wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re slowing me down.”

Margot wrinkled her nose but rushed to keep his breakneck pace. “Why don’t you?”

“Don’t I what?”

“Believe in magic or happily ever afters?” Margot kept her eyes trained forward, afraid of what her face would convey without her permission.

“A guy like me doesn’t believe in magic. It’s impractical.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Van peered down his nose at her. “I’m not here for fun.”

They halted in front of a string of caution tape. Well, technically attenzione tape. She might not be fluent in Italian, but the context clues were pretty obvious here. Whatever this place was, it had been off-limits for a long time.

“The House of Olea.” Van bent beneath the barrier. “It was still an active dig site last time I was here.”

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