Simon laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Like I’m gonna tell all my secrets to someone who calls me asomething.”
“Jesus,” I say. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m screwing this up. I really could help you guys. I have a vehicle, I know my way around—I know aboutAmerica.I helped you out of that mess at Carhenge, but I could have helped you avoid it.”
“You chased us into it!”
“That was an accident!”
“So we let you tag along on our holiday, and then you what, post a documentary about us on your YouTube channel?”
“I wouldn’t.”
He sighs again. “Go to sleep, Shepard. We’re not going to hurt you.”
I lie down again, trying to think of another tack. They’re all going to be gone in the morning, and I’m going to have a headache.
“We’re good guys,” Simon says.
32
BAZ
Bunce spelled that kid six ways to Sunday. (Which was a little excessive; “Six ways to Sunday” almost always is. I’d be surprised if he remembers his own name when he wakes up.) Then she cleared his mobile.
I couldn’t help her with the spells. I’m still not…rightfrom the gunshots. My skin has closed and mostly healed—I look like I was shot twenty years ago, not twenty hours—but my chest aches. And I feel listless. Like my undead body had to make some steep sacrifice to hold on to its “un.”
We only slept for a few hours. Simon didn’t sleep at all.
Bunce uses another spell to steal a car. Simon wants a convertible, but Penny insists on something low-profile this time—which, in America, means a giant white monstrosity called a Silverado. (Silverado, Tahoe, Tundra.Everyone gets it, America, you’re very American.)
The Silverado makes the Normal’s truck look like it hasn’t hit puberty yet. This one’s so high off the ground, it’s got itsown steps. There’s a full-sized back seat and more places to set a drink down than in my sitting room back home.
(We literally have three “pickup trucks” in all of England, but here they’re everywhere. What is it that Americans have to pick up that the rest of the world doesn’t?)
I drive, just in case things get dicey, and Bunce tries to navigate using a map she’s found in the glove compartment. Her mobile’s still in the Mustang. Mine is still offline.
Our main goal is to get away. That Normal was too clever. He might be tracking us. He might even have a magickal way of tracking us. Snow has switched into full-on battle mode; I haven’t seen him like this since the Mage died.
I envy what he has with Bunce. They act like this is their tenth tour of duty together. It makes me realize that Simon had a whole life I didn’t know about back in school. The Mage used him to fight whatever needed fighting—even when Simon was just a kid. (Simon was always just a kid.) And even though his power’s gone, Simon is still perfectly comfortable playing the boy soldier.
I suppose he isn’t a boy anymore.…
I suppose neither of us are.
We intentionally lose ourselves in the mountains. Bunce says there are towns everywhere, so we won’t have to worry about our magic dropping out—what we have left of it. We’ve both been casting ourselves dry. You might wonder how magicians could ever lose a battle against other magickal creatures; our advantage seems so steep.Thisis how. Exhaustion.
The sun is bright in the Rockies. I’m happy to have a roof over my head, after escaping Nebraska as cargo. But I’m tired, and I swear I can feel that we’re climbing closer to the sun.
SIMON
I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere prettier than this.
The mountains are every colour—grey and blue and almost purple, with slashes of dark green trees, and orange and red rocks.
We pull off the road near a stream, and Baz goes to rinse some blood out of his shirt and hair. (He must have torn the heart out of that skunk.) We left the motel before any of us could shower.
“We should summon our luggage,” Baz says. He’s facing away from us. His shirt is off, and his back is pale and bright, his hair wet and black, dripping down his neck.
“What if that leads them right to us?” Penny wants to know.
