Page 48 of The Girl Who Should Be Dead

Ambra shrugs, one shouldered.

“Maison says you’re grieving.” He drops that statement in the middle of the table, like it’s the same weight as the frothy conversation about food, and watches her, sharp. “How do demons grieve?”

“He can fuck right off,” Ambra says automatically.

“Fair enough.” The waitress swings by with a steaming mug for Gurlien, who clutches it immediately. “What other locations are you thinking for setting up a safe spot?”

That, at least, is something that doesn’t hurt to think about, so she leans forward as well, propping her elbows on the table.

“How okay are you with caves?”

“I’d prefer running water and a stove,” he says dryly.

“That would narrow it down considerably,” she says, before idly flicking the straw that came with the water. “Currently has running water or can get running water? I can get running water pretty easily in places with pipes.”

There’s a flash of interest before his eyes narrow. “How?”

“I can show you,” she replies, a little bit of a taunt, and there’s the same hunger of knowledge she saw on that very first night. “Pipes just make it easier. If it has a sink, I could make it happen.” She sips from the water, and it’s incredibly cold, almost startling her. “Do you want remote or city?”

“Does that matter in terms of getting supplies?”

“Only if you want to walk to a store instead of teleporting,” Ambra says. “Or the ability to leave without me.”

The moment the words leave her mouth she scowls, not meaning to say them.

“City,” he confirms, and she takes another sip of water to distract herself from the lump in her throat. “I like to walk to coffee if I need to.”

She could do that, get that for him at least, and lets her mind wander over where might be the best place, the most comfortable, and one she never took the body to before the merge.

There’s a house in the mountains of Mexico, cracked in the foundation, but just a mile walk from a town. There’s a cabin in the lavender fields in France—no, too close to Nalissa—that is the most beautiful out of all the locations. A high-rise studio apartment in a large city—Minneapolis?—with a beautiful view of a mighty river and unending grasslands probably covered with snow. A shack in the Rocky Mountains, only weatherproofed because the noise of rain was so annoying even without being in a live human body.

She could also probably swing running water in the old railway tunnel deep in Eastern Asia, but she doubts that he’d be terribly comfortable in it.

She raises an eyebrow at him, and the entire time she’s been thinking, he’s been watching her, like even her thought patterns were something he could observe.

The waitress drops off food without a word, and Gurlien silently switches the plates, giving her the large mound of eggs covered in bright red salsa.

“Mexico, Rocky Mountains, Minneapolis, or Tongliao?” she asks, picking up the fork. “All of those have or can get running water.”

His brows flash up. “I can’t speak Mandarin.”

“They also speak Mongolian,” she offers, but he’s shaking his head.

“We’d both stick out there,” he says, which is a good point. “There and Mexico, unless it’s a big city. You’re avoiding Europe?”

“Nalissa,” she reminds him, before she pokes at the omelet. “It’s a very small town in Mexico, I don’t even know its name.”

“Yeah, no,” he replies, and he’s eating his food like it takes no effort.

“I have other places, but not with the restrictions you gave me,” she says, out of some odd want to make sure he doesn’t think poorly of her. “The Rocky Mountains is a small town, too, along a highway.”

“Minneapolis,” he replies confidently, then points at the omelet with his fork. “Try it. You need the calories.”

She wrinkles her nose at him, before taking a small nibble of the bright red salsa.

And immediately, heat blooms against her tongue, brilliant and amazing, watering her eyes. She coughs, once, before taking a larger bite, including the omelet this time.

It’s sharp, the eggs not dulling the edge at all, and it is by far better than the salad the day before.

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