Chapter 23 Nova
Nova
Something is going on.
I don’t know what, but something. Locke has been disappearing every afternoon for the last week, and he keeps taking people with him.
Yesterday it was Trey and Vaelor. Today it was Beckett and Rane.
He comes back smelling like sawdust and looking way too pleased with himself and when I ask where he’s been he just says “out.”
Out.
Like I’m going to accept that.
Small things keep changing in the house too. I woke up three days ago and the wallpaper in the hallway was gone — just scraped off, bare wall underneath. Nobody mentioned it. The rug in the living room got cleaned somehow. There’s a new shelf in the kitchen that wasn’t there yesterday.
“Are you guys renovating?” I asked at breakfast.
Six blank faces.
“Renovating what?” Rane said. He’s a terrible liar. The worst.
“The house. The wallpaper. The shelf. The—”
“No idea what you’re talking about,” Kyron said without looking up from his coffee.
They’re all in on it. Whatever it is. And they’re terrible at hiding it, which almost makes it worse because they clearly think they’re being subtle.
I give up asking and head to the community hall because Vaelor’s been making lunch there every day and I’ve become the person who shows up early and steals bread while he’s not looking. He’s always looking. He just pretends not to be.
The hall is quieter than usual. A few people at the tables. Mara behind the counter doing something with a ledger. The smell of whatever Vaelor started before he got kidnapped by Locke.
The girl with brown hair is sitting at one of the side tables. She’s been here every time I’ve come in. Same table. Same quiet presence. We’ve graduated from nods to small smiles to the occasional “morning” but that’s about it.
Today she waves me over.
“How are your feet?”
I blink. “What?”
“Your feet. You came in two weeks ago barefoot and bleeding. I’ve got supplies.” She gestures to a small kit on the table. “Let me check them. Make sure they’re healing right.”
I stare at her for a second. Then I sit down and pull off my boots because honestly, nobody’s looked at them since Rane wrapped them the second night and I kept telling everyone they were fine.
They’re mostly fine. Some of the deeper cuts are still pink and tight. She takes my foot — which is weird, a stranger holding my foot — and turns it gently, checking the soles.
“I’m Lena,” she says while she works. Like she’s been waiting for the right time to introduce herself and decided foot care was it.
“Nova.”
“I know.” She smiles. Small. “Everyone knows.”
“Great.”
“It’s not a bad thing. Just means people are paying attention.” She dabs something that stings on one of the cuts. I wince. “Almost healed. Another week and you won’t feel them.”
“Thanks. You didn’t have to—”
“I know. I wanted to.” She wraps a fresh bandage around the worst spot. Quick. Practiced. “I’ve been here four years. Got good at patching people up because someone had to.”
I’m about to ask her more when the front door opens and three women walk in together. I recognize them — they’ve been watching me since I arrived. The way you look at something that might be good for you or might bring trouble and you can’t tell which yet.
Can’t say I blame them.
They see me at the table with my boot off and Lena holding my foot and one of them almost turns around.
But she doesn’t.
The tallest one walks over. She’s got a kid on her hip and an expression that’s trying to be friendly and landing somewhere around tolerant.
“You’re Nova,” she says.
“Yep.”
“I’m Darcy. This is Mel and Sade.” She shifts the kid to her other hip. “We’ve been meaning to introduce ourselves.”
“Meaning to”… right. But I smile because I know what this is. I’ve been the outsider my whole life. I know what it looks like when people are trying to be welcoming while also wanting to know if you’re going to get them killed.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
“We just want to make sure—” Darcy starts, then stops. Regroups. “Our kids play in the street. Every day. Right out there.” She nods toward the door. “We’ve built something here. It’s not much but it’s ours.”
“I know.”
“And we need to know that having you here isn’t going to—”
“Bring trouble?”
She meets my eyes. Doesn’t flinch. “Yes.”
I pull my boot back on. Stand up. She’s taller than me but I’ve been shorter than everyone my whole life and it’s never stopped me.
“I can’t promise trouble won’t come,” I say. “I can’t control what the Order does. But I can promise you that if anyone comes here — for me, for any of us, for any reason — me and my guys will fight for this town.”
The words come out simpler than I expected. Just fact, because that’s exactly what they are. I don’t need the guys here to know they’ll fight for me, for this town.
“I spent fifteen years with nobody fighting for me. I know what that feels like. I won’t let it happen to anyone here.”
Darcy stares at me. Mel shifts her weight and Sade looks at the floor.
“Okay,” Darcy says. Quiet. Like she wasn’t expecting that.
“Okay,” I say back.
She nods. Adjusts the kid again as he grins at me and it takes everything I have not to grin back. The three of them move toward the counter to get food and I sit back down. My hands are shaking slightly and I don’t know why.
Lena is looking at me.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing.” She goes back to organizing her kit. “You’re just not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
She thinks about it. “Someone more careful.”
I almost laugh. “Careful hasn’t gotten me very far.”
She smiles and it’s real this time. Not the small careful ones from before.
Vaelor comes through the kitchen door with flour on his shirt and stops when he sees me.
“You’re early.”
“You’re covered in flour.”
He looks down. Brushes at it and that only makes it worse.
I steal a piece of bread off the counter while he’s distracted.
“I saw that,” he says.
“Saw what?”
He gives me a look as I take a bite of the bread I definitely didn’t steal.
Outside, through the window, I can see the fox sitting on the community hall porch. Same spot as always. Watching.
And on the roof, the crow.
Still there. Still watching.
I’m starting to think they’re never going to leave.
I’m starting to think I don’t want them to.