Page 43 of North

My fucking brain didn’t care about logic.

I turned onto the next street. Ahead, lay the center of a small square. A statue had been erected there. It was made of bronze, and showed three men wearing armor. The men were all tall and muscular, holding carbines, and staring toward the north.

It was a memorial to honor the squads that had fought and beaten the Gizzida.

It was supposed to represent all the soldiers, but one definitely looked like Marcus Steele, another like Roth Masters—he’d been the leader of Squad Nine—and the final man was Tane Rahia.

They’d fought; they’d lost people. Zeke and Marc’s uncle, also called Zeke, had been killed. There had been so much death.

But I knew my dad and the others had gone on with things. They’d found hope, they’d continued on, they’d lived their lives, and had worked hard to rebuild. They’d kept the monsters at bay until the next generation had been old enough to take over the fight.

They didn’t wallow in nightmares, or wake up choking on screams.

I scraped a hand over my face. When I looked up, I found myself walking up another residential street. When I realized where I was, I sucked in a breath.

My gaze fell on Jess’ place.

I should leave. I should walk home. I should take a hot shower and pour myself a whiskey.

But as though I was on autopilot, my feet carried me up the path to her front door.

Then I just stood there. I couldn’t bring myself to knock. Hell, I shouldn’t be here.

I didn’t leave, I didn’t knock, I just dripped on her front porch.

A second later, a light snapped on and the front door opened.

“North?” Jess stood in the doorway. She was wearing a dress—it was a cream color, with thin straps that showed off her toned shoulders, and a soft and flowing skirt that reached her bare feet. I hadn’t seen her in a dress before. Hadn’t realized her toenails were painted pink.

She took one look at me and concern creased her face. “God, you’re saturated.” She grabbed my arm. “Come in.”

She tugged me inside.

“I shouldn’t have come.” I hadn’t consciously meant to come to her.

“Quiet.” She pulled me into the middle of the living room. “Stay there.” She disappeared down the hall, but was back a moment later carrying two fluffy, white towels. She started wiping me down and drying off my hair.

“Shirt off,” she ordered.

I obeyed. I tugged it over my head, then dropped it to the floor. It landed with a wet slap. She dried off my chest and back.

“I really like your tattoo.”

“Thanks.”

She wrapped a towel around my shoulders, then ushered me to a stool at the kitchen island. Her place was a near mirror image of mine, although the colors were different. Her home was brighter, decorated in shades of white and blue.

She circled the island and walked over to the food unit. She programmed it, and then I heard it ding.

“Drink this. No arguments.” She pushed a mug across the counter.

I took it and felt the warmth on my palms. “Hot chocolate?”

She nodded. “With a whiskey addition.”

I took a long sip, and it instantly warmed my cold insides.

She leaned against the counter. “You look like hell, North.”

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