Protected from Torment (Blade and Arrow Shadow Team #5)

Chapter 1

MELISSA

It’s almost as if the weather is warning me to go back.

What started out as a light drizzle ten minutes ago has transformed into the rainstorm the weather app predicted would hit thirty miles east of here.

When I set out on my trip just after noon, I checked the weather, of course.

At thirty-eight, I’ve moved past the spontaneous road trips of my youth.

Gone are the days when Vince and I would pack up the car and pick a random direction to head in, not with a particular destination in mind, but just to explore.

Back then, we didn’t care where we ended up.

It was all about the experience—finding quaint restaurants in tiny towns and sweet bed and breakfasts tucked away in the woods.

It was visiting strange and unique museums dedicated to Bigfoot or bottle-making or ventriloquist puppets.

The last one was pretty creepy, now that I’m thinking about it.

I’ve never been bothered by horror movies—or at least, I didn’t used to be—but there was something about those wide-eyed dolls with the jointed jaws that seemed…

predatory. Though I knew better, I couldn’t help glancing over my shoulder every few minutes, just to make absolutely sure the dolls hadn’t come to life while my back was turned.

They didn’t, of course. But it still creeped me out. When I admitted it to Vince after we left, he gently scolded me, saying, “Melly, if you didn’t like it there, why didn’t you tell me? We didn’t have to stay.”

Vince was always so brave; I guess I wanted to show, in some small way, that I could be, too.

It’s kind of silly, really. Comparing what Vince did—flying Black Hawks on daring rescue missions all over the world—to venturing through a silly museum.

But that was back before everything went bad.

Before I realized bravery isn’t facing creepy puppets and watching horror movies with the lights off.

Before I learned that sometimes bravery is just surviving.

A sudden gust of wind catches my hatchback, threatening to tug it off course and jerking my wandering thoughts back to the present. In a matter of minutes, the impending storm has darkened the sky to an ominous gray, incongruous to the blue skies of half an hour ago.

Large splats of rain blur the windshield, so I switch the wipers to full speed. The frenetic pace of them makes my anxiety leap. As another gust tugs at the car, my knuckles whiten around the steering wheel.

I should be used to driving in summer storms by now.

After all, I grew up in the Adirondacks, not far from here, in North Creek.

I know how quickly the rain can whip up, knocking down trees and flooding rivers and streams. My dad even took me out to practice driving in a storm not quite as bad as this, explaining, “Better to learn now, in a controlled environment, than when you’re not expecting it. ”

An involuntary smile tugs at my lips at the memory. Not of driving in the school parking lot in the rain, but after, when my dad congratulated me on how well I did. “You kept your cool, Melly,” he told me. “I couldn’t have done better myself.”

So I should be taking this storm in stride.

The shifting trees shouldn’t feel as though they’re taking on a life of their own, their branches bending and reaching for me.

The collecting clouds shouldn’t feel claustrophobic.

My heart shouldn’t be jumping every time the wind buffets the car and makes the steering wheel jerk in my hands.

Shouldn’t is the operative word.

But in reality, it all bothers me. And it makes me desperately want to turn around and go home.

I can’t, though. I promised Vince’s parents I’d visit this weekend, and I won’t—can’t—go back on my word.

They look forward to seeing me on these twice-yearly visits, or at least they always insist they do.

“Your visits are the highlight of my year,” Vince’s mom likes to say.

“It’s like getting a little bit of Vince back again. ”

I get it. I really do. With their only son gone, they’re lonely.

Rattling around in their too-big-for-them house in Lake Placid, all they have to remember Vince are photos and his old bedroom that’s basically been turned into a shrine.

But when I come for a visit, we talk about Vince.

I tell them stories from the years we were together.

I comfort his mom when she gets teary, reminding her of how much Vince loved them.

He did. Very much. And if bringing up old memories helps his parents, I’m happy to do it.

Well.

Maybe not happy. Because even six years after Vince’s death, it hurts to talk about him. Not as much as it used to, because even the most jagged and painful wounds scab over eventually. But visiting his parents is like ripping off the scab and setting it bleeding again.

Still, it’s the least I can do.

So here I am. Sucking it up. Making the drive from my rental house in Northville—a little town on the shores of Sacandaga Lake—to Vince’s parents’ house for the weekend. Mentally girding myself for the hours of reminiscing and talking about if-onlys and what-ifs.

If only Vince were here, you’d probably have a family by now.

What if you and Vince had kids? Would they have his dark brown eyes, or your blue? Would they be tall like him, or short, like you?

I don’t tell them that the subject of babies makes my heart feel like it’s dying.

I never tell them that this trip feels more and more like a weight bearing down on me, compressing my chest until it’s hard to breathe.

A large maple leaf slaps against the windshield, smack-dab in the center of my vision. The wiper snags it, dragging it back and forth, and making wet lines across the glass.

After several swipes, it’s clear the leaf is stuck. Which means my visibility is even worse than it already was.

“Argh,” I mutter to myself. “Stupid leaf.” Because, of course, it’s one of those giant, mutant leaves that’s practically the size of my head.

Envisioning having to make the rest of the drive with a head-sized leaf stuck in my wipers, I debate pulling over to remove it.

But just as quickly, I toss that idea aside.

With the rain coming down in torrents, like it is now, I’d be soaked in seconds.

And then I’d not only be anxious about this trip, but wet and cold, as well.

A glance at the thermometer reading on the dash shows it’s dropped fifteen degrees since the last time I checked it. Before, it was a balmy eighty degrees, and now it’s sixty-five. Though my car is comfortable, I shiver. Goosebumps prickle my arms.

With the rain slicking the road, I reduce my speed until I’m going forty instead of the posted fifty-five. Although locals—and I still call myself that, even if I haven’t lived in the Adirondacks in years—would normally travel much faster than that.

When I was growing up, we used to joke that you could tell the tourists by how fast they were driving.

There were the cautious ones, creeping around the mountain curves and slowing on the descending hills.

And then there were the daredevil ones, who took the sharpest curves on two wheels and treated the country roads like they were part of the Grand Prix.

But the locals, we knew just how fast we could go and still be safe. We knew the curves like the back of our hand. And when winter hit, we knew how to handle black ice and snow-covered roads.

To my right, a sign announces that Tupper Lake is fifteen miles ahead. Which means I still have another seventy miles or so until I reach Lake Placid. Hopefully, I’ll be past this storm well before that.

I’m sure I’ll be past the storm soon.

Unless it’s traveling right along with me.

“Stupid rain,” I grumble. “Stupid trip.”

Yes, I’m aware I sound like a petulant teenager. But there’s no one else in the car to hear me. Not even Oscar, my dog slash best friend, who usually goes everywhere with me.

Unfortunately, Vince’s mom is allergic to dogs, so I had to leave him at the dog hotel in Northville, which I know is only adding to my anxiety.

Oscar isn’t just my pet; he’s a therapy dog trained to help with PTSD.

If he were here, he’d sense my growing unease and put his golden head on my leg.

I could stroke his soft fur. But as it is, I’m on my own with this.

Impossibly, the rain starts coming down harder. Even at double-time, my wipers can’t keep the windshield clear. My tires keep slipping on the puddles collecting on the road.

An ache moves through my jaw, belatedly reminding me I’m clenching my teeth. Tension pulls at my shoulders, and my fingers are stiff from clutching the wheel.

This isn’t just a regular summer storm. It’s a deluge. With every second that passes, the rain comes down harder. The wind is whipping into a frenzy, knocking small branches onto the road.

“Maybe I should turn around,” I say to myself. Out loud, because a fun habit I’ve picked up during the years I’ve been living alone is talking to myself. Not in public, thank goodness—I’m not that far gone, yet. But around my house? I’m a regular chatterbox.

The idea of turning around is tempting, to say the least. I could go back to Long Lake, just a few miles southeast of here, hopefully making my way out of the storm in the process.

Then it would be another hour and a half to Northville, where I could pick up Oscar from the boarders and take him home to spend an uneventful weekend with me.

I could snuggle up on the couch and watch TV—not horror movies anymore, I lost my taste for gruesome scenes after Vince died—but some old episodes of The Office or Parks and Rec.

I could take Oscar on a long walk by the lake, stopping at the dog-friendly cafe on the way home to pick up some snacks for me and homemade biscuits for him.

It would be a quiet weekend, but that’s okay. Quiet is good. Quiet is safe.

Or I could just go to Lake Placid and get this trip over with.