Page 69 of The Girl Who Only Died Once

It’s painting a deeper picture of neglect than he probably wants, but she shrugs through it.

“Wanna find a place outside to grab a bite?” she asks, and he blinks owlishly at her. “I mean for me, so you can do the ward thing if needed.”

Still nothing.

“Or I can go by myself,” Chloe says, shoving her feet into her shoes and cursing her own awkwardness. After living a year with Gurlien, she had almost forgotten how utterly socially weird she can be if she’s not careful. “No pressure, I just thought for the sake of being under the radar, you’d prefer…”

He sighs, cutting her off. “You should be safe by yourself,” he says, but he steps away from the runes, following her out as she grabs her backpack and ventures into the hallway. “There is no way that car will start,” he says, as they stride down the hall, towards the rickety stairs. “But I saw three serviceable restaurants within a few blocks.”

So he went and walked around when he needed the space, because Chloe dove headfirst into something he’s sensitive about.

“Any Thai?” Chloe asks, but given that they’re in the middle of nowhere Minnesota, she’s not terribly crushed when he shakes his head. “Well, lead on.”

A man walking down the hall in the other direction gives her an odd look. Right. Speaking to someone that other people can’t see.

Killian’s lips quirk, ever so slightly, at that, and he pushes past her, the edge of his sleeve grazing her jacket.

The cold hits her like a slap, but she shrugs herself deeper into the warmth of her jacket, quick transforming the lining into something that keeps her body heat closer to her skin.

It helps a bit, but Killian glances back at her with a raised eyebrow.

“I got cold,” she responds before he can say anything. “Clothing is easy.”

“Sure,” he says, before gently guiding her towards the sidewalk, some sort of strange chivalry in his actions.

She glances up at him as they walk, shrugging deeper into her jacket. His face is calm as he surveys the sidewalk, his glowing gaze dropping onto each person they encounter before dismissing them, a sort of brutal self-confidence, even underneath the fear.

Even the shadow self underneath his face is still, like the walk calms him down.

“Do you feel contact on your human skin or your demon self?” Chloe whispers, just quiet and just casual enough that the passing man pays her no attention.

His eyes flicker over to her, and there’s almost a smile in the gaze. “Depends.”

“Not helpful,” she mutters, scuffing her feet against the cracked pavement past the chop shop.

“Most things I encounter through the human skin,” he answers, shrugging his shoulders, completely unimpacted by the cold. “Human nerve endings, human touch, human impact. A filter to observe the solid world.”

They pass a broken and blacked out window, with a faded “Going out of business” sign hanging crooked from the door.

“Anything magic touched,” he starts, tapping her on the shoulder, gentling her out of her thoughts. “Through my real self. When you were pulled back from death, something inside of you changed. I feel this—” his hand falls to cup at her elbow “—it’s as if you’re made of the living spirit of the world itself.”

It’s a nice bit of poetry, as they pass an empty homeless encampment. Tarps still drape over a chair, a sleeping bag still crumpled underneath it with a dusty backpack and a small plastic bag of paper, but nobody sleeps within.

It doesn’t take longer than a three-minute walk to get to the center of the small town, made up of only a few apartment buildings with shops on the bottom floor, the ramshackle hotel, and the chop shop. The sidewalks are chipped and dirty, like it’s been years since they’ve been power washed, and dead weeds lay wilted in the cracks, between chunks of dirty ice and slush.

Just enough people mill around, going between the shops, that Chloe can’t easily chatter at Killian, and the awkwardness stretches even more now that they’re in open air.

Before he shivers, a full-body shudder, and grips her shoulder, almost yanking her backwards.

She twists, staring up at him, stopping stock still in the middle of the sidewalk, and his eyes reflect the light back at her, some sort of warning.

Before the very street floods with the same power as before, warping along the trees and swirling around the cracked pavement.

Nobody else notices, puttering along their way, their jackets pulled up against the chill. The breeze flutters the dead leaves on the road, stirring the gravel.

Killian’s fingers tighten ever so slightly, until the magic drains away, seeping into the drains and filling the stores down the boulevard.

“Eight hours apart,” he says grimly, and he’s still holding her shoulder, like she’s the one grounding him. “To the second.”

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