Page 199 of Savior
Dean glances back at me, an almost pained, worrisome expression in his eyes. “I’ve lived through some shit… But that night, Vanna… That fucking night… Has haunted me since.”
“I know.” And that’s what exorcisms are for…
“We never talk about it… What happened to us here… Is this really even okay? I mean, for you and the baby?”
“I love the mountains. I’m not going to let anyone take that from me. From us… Or from Ace. He deserves to experience this place. It’s been in your family for so long.”
“We don’t have to stay here, doll. There are plenty of mountain rentals. I could arrange another place for us in five minutes.”
“No. They’re not taking this place from us.”
He stares at me a moment longer, as if trying to gauge the level of my determination. When he rules in favor of me not budging on this, Dean nods, then gets out of the truck. I take a breath, gathering my nerves as Dean collects our suitcase and groceries for the weekend from the back. I grab Nico in his carrier, and we both walk up the front steps of the cabin. Dean unlocks the door, but doesn’t push it open.
“Maybe I should go in first.” He says, looking down at me. “Make sure things are… in order.”
“I’m not afraid. If that’s something you’re worried over… Are you?” He doesn’t answer me.
I decide here and now, that this is a rip off the band-aid situation. Quickly placing Nico’s carrier down, I grab the door knob, shoving the door open, and enter, before Dean, with his arms full, gets a chance to stop me.
The place is neat and tidy. No sign anywhere of the horrors we endured that night. The only noticeable difference, is the missing area rug that had been by the leather loveseat in front of the stone fireplace. The rug, that Jack wrapped the lackey’s dead body in.
I walk slowly towards the couch, scanning the floor for any signs of blood stains. There aren’t any. There aren’t any on the leather loveseat, either. My eyes lift to the mantle above the fireplace. The steel pentacle Dean welded for me, is no longer there, either.
I hear the door shut behind me. The sound of the suitcase and Nico’s carrier being placed on the hardwood floor. The rustling of the grocery bag being set on the small kitchen island. Then Dean’s hand gently grips my shoulder.
“Where is it?” I ask, reaching up to touch his hand.
“It was taken in as evidence that night. I wasn’t sure if you wanted it back in here… After what I did with it. I wasn’t sure if you would ever even want to set foot in this place again.”
I turn around to look up at him. “Will they give it back to us?”
“It’s wrapped up in the shed out back…” He chucks his thumb over his shoulder in gesture to the back of the cabin. “You still want it?” he sounds surprised for some reason.
“Yes. Of course, I do… You made that for me.”
“Alright... I’ll go and get it for you.”
It suddenly occurs to me, that maybe it might bother him to see it again.
“Unless… Do you prefer it not to be in here?” I glance around the little cabin once more. My eyes lock on the old antique steel pipe radiator below the front window… Images of Dean cuffed to it… Agony in his eyes… flashes in my mind.
I close my eyes against the memory for a moment, gathering my composure. Hoping Dean doesn’t notice.
Of course, he does.
“We came. We saw. We can get the hell out of here now.” He’s about to walk off to grab our things, when I grab his arm instead, halting him.
“No. I want to stay.” I insist. “They have no power here. No power over either of us. Not anymore.”
After putting the bag of groceries away that we picked up in town before heading up the mountain, I begin cooking a simple dinner. Herb roasted chicken and a garden salad. Nico is sitting on the ledge of the little kitchen table by the window, staring into the darkness outside, when Dean enters the cabin with what I expect is the pentacle, wrapped in a fabric cloth of some sort.
“Just wanted to make sure it was clean.” He says, pulling the cloth away to reveal the pentacle he made for me. “Would you like to do the honors? Or shall I?”
I offer him a reassuring smile. “Go ahead.”
Dean walks the few steps into the small living room, placing the pentacle in the center of the mantle, beneath the Civil War rifle. He leans it up against the stone chimney, between the bronze End of the Trail statue and two antique iron candle holders. I remember him telling me how they belonged to his great, great grandparents. That those candle holders came all the way from Scotland with them, when his family immigrated to America and settled in these very mountains.
He steps back, looking at it for a moment, before glancing back at me. “Good?”
