Qebhet carefully set down the kettle and turned, leaving the tea unpoured. Vincent was hovering by the kitchen island, fiddling with the frayed cuff of his hoodie, jaw tight and tense. "To the Hole? Is he in trouble?" If he was telling her, it could only mean something was wrong. Vincent liked her, but she didn't think he entirely trusted any god.
Vincent's lips pressed together tighter, warring impulses playing across his translucent features. I dunno. Not yet. Maybe. Then, more reluctantly, He's not doing great. That had the distinct sound of an understatement.
As far as Qebhet was aware, that swamp-choked house was the only home that Kaden had ever known. With his brothers dead, it might be the only tangible remainder of his old life. Maybe he needed to see it, to make some kind of peace with it. But Ares and Apollo both knew that house as well, and if either was to catch word of his being there... Kaden scarcely needed to be reminded what a great risk that was.
Maybe the risk was worth it to him, if he could find closure there. Or maybe he simply couldn't bring himself to care. (He'd messaged her a few times last week. His last reply was still lodged in her memory – perhaps a dark attempt at humour, but it had seemed to Qebhet so bleak that it had stung her heart. Either way I'm fucked I guess.)
"You think I should go," Qebhet said.
Vincent still looked uncomfortable, but he nodded. I'll show you where.
Qebhet parked on the other side of Linden and walked the remaining few blocks. The ground grew soft, mud clinging to her shoes and speckling the hem of her loose cotton dress, but there was no time to fuss. Vincent moved ahead of her, insubstantial as a shadow, guiding her to a gap in a sagging chain link fence and across an overgrown lot to the rusted-out wreck of a bus.
She stopped a few paces short and called out softly. "Kaden? It's Qebhet."