One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 8, page 10

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Fírí blocked Vata’s shuffling path. “No.” She shook her head. “No. Zhíno’s probably out there. There’s no way I’m opening the door for him and I can’t let you open the door, either.”

The small woman didn’t stop moving, but kept on coming straight at Fírí, an evil glint in her eyes.

“Out of my way, dear. If your Zhíno is indeed the person outside, I can handle him as well as any other animal.”

The hag swiped her claw-like hand at Fírí, causing the blonde to back a step.

Zhíno was indeed an animal, and if Vata would treat him like she treated her dog, maybe Fírí should let her open the door, after all. A slit throat would do that Zhéporé-spawn good.

Fírí smiled. “Would you really?” She began walking backwards down the dirt-floored hall in front of the slow woman.

“Yes, of course, dear.” Vata’s eyes sparkled in the dim light.

It suddenly seemed immediately obvious to Fírí that this old woman not only would kill Zhíno if given the opportunity, but could. She exuded strength from some hidden depth within. Maybe that was why Bhanar was such a sheep around her. Maybe that was why the cops weren’t here already, taking Fírí away in handcuffs.

Fírí’s heel bumped into something and she nearly fell over backwards. Only a hand on the stucco wall saved her.

She looked down. It was her duffel bag of shoes and cash. That money was becoming more of a burden than a treasure. If Fírí and Zhíno had succeeded in setting up a farm in the high desert--or if Fírí had ditched him back at the portal like she originally planned--then that money would last her the rest of her life. Now, though, it was incriminating evidence she had to hide from the police, lugging from one place to the next.

It was all Zhíno’s fault. If he hadn’t freaked out and shot at Bhanar--and apparently at an Enforcer, too--Fírí would be safe for life, but she had been a fool to rely on him. Zhíno was insane. He’d shoot at anybody who he thought might possibly get in his way, whatever way that might be. There was no chance in any of the myriad of Pétíso’s hells that he’d ever let Vata stop him.

Fírí looked up to see tiny, frail Vata dwarfed by the door, her hand on the lever.

“Wait! Stop!”

Muffled gunshots rang out from inside the house, seven or eight in rapid succession, followed by yelling and storming feet.

Vata swung open the oversized door and called out, “Dear, come inside.”

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