“What are you gonna do when you singe your tongue?” I asked my dog. When he let it hang out of his mouth I said, “That might work. But don’t expect any pity when you can’t eat anything but gravy for the next month.”
Jack grinned and wagged his tail, like he knew I’d never let it go that far.
Cole set the last flare in place and we waited. Lights appeared in the distance, played hide-and-seek for a while, and then came barreling down on us so fast that we evacuated the road.
But the driver stopped in time. With only a minimum of tire-screeching, she rolled her lemon-drop yellow Hyundai Accent to a stop an arm’s length from the first flare. By the time we’d reached her door, all three of her passengers had bailed, two guys and another girl, all of them giggling and staggering like they’d been partying since dawn.
“Oh goody,” Cole murmured. “We are saved.”
I snorted as I watched the driver try to herd her horde back into the vehicle.
“Hello,” said Cole, pasting on his I’m-unforgettable smile. “I’m Thor Longfellow and this is Lucille Robinson. We’re from Holly—”
“G’day, mate!” the driver sang. “Would you help me gather up this mob before they trot off into the never-never?”
She asked so cheerfully despite the relative impossibility of the task, her black ponytail dancing along with the request, that he immediately said, “Oh, uh, sure!” The other girl, a double-chinned brunette wearing jeans so tight you could see the cottage cheese below her butt cheeks rippling through them, friendlied up to Cole right away. So he had no trouble escorting her back to the car.
“Kyphas!” I called. “Get the big guy!” Leaving Astral to study her reflection in the Wheezer’s hubcaps, Kyphas went after the dude whose scars were either a sign that he kept running his face into people’s fists or that he thoroughly enjoyed his rugby. I tagged the smaller one.
“You are one luscious lady,” he told me, his breath reeking of cheap beer as he dropped an arm around my shoulders.
“And you are going to puke like a school full of flu-bitten kids. But hopefully not until your friend’s gotten you home. What’s your name?”
“Lance.”
“Lance-a-lot-o’-fun!” called out his buddy.
“That’s Rory,” Lance said. “He cannot hold his liquor. But he is a ripper, Rory is. Rory’s a ripper!” Lance announced loudly.
“Clearly. And the girls?” I pointed to the driver, who, Lance informed me in what he probably thought was a bedroom voice, was Dachelle.
“We’re just friends,” he said, trying to wink and succeeding only in squinching his face together like a constipated old man. “Me and Gabbie are also only just friends,” he went on, nodding at Cole’s newest fan. “We’re all friends here!” he shouted. Then he gave me a one-armed hug. “Can we be friends?”
“Well, that depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether or not Dachelle can give me and my colleagues a ride to Wirdilling. Fast.” CHAPTERTHREE
Between the city of Canberra and the Space Complex that uses its name lies a depressed little burg called Wirdilling. We meant to reach it via Tourist Drive 5, which runs in a huge curvy loop past all kinds of camera-clicking stops. While taking photos would’ve been great for our cover—we didn’t. Because it was nearly four thirty in the afternoon, and if we wanted to make Wirdilling before midnight we all needed to preserve our energy on the excellent chance that we might have to shove our feet through the floorboards of the wreck Cole had rented and walk it there.
I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised to find myself and Vayl squeezed into a 1980 powder-blue Leyland Mini Clubman with a dog, a robot, two irritated crew members and a bubble-blowing comedian.
A shrunken station wagon that might’ve been made to seat five, but only if they were anorexic starlets, the Clubman was a four-speed brake-eater that tended to wheeze when we hit any grade steeper than two degrees. The rest of the time the engine rattled so loudly we had to shout to be heard. Which meant the car spent the majority of the drive through the tree-dotted hills that rolled down to Murrumbidgee River and up to the Tidbinbilla mountain range either gasping like a badly medicated asthmatic or roaring like a mean drunk.
Normally I’d have babied the poor girl. After all, a car isn’t responsible for its renter. But ever since I’d given blood to save the life of a werewolf named Trayton, fires tended to break out when I got pissed.
And if I didn’t find some outlet for the emotion making the skin around my eyes redden like stove burners, there was a good chance Cole’s gum would transform into lava. So I rode the gearshift like a crashing pilot, shoving it from third to fourth and back again way more than I needed to, and shaking the steering wheel when I thought the Wheezer needed an extra push to make it up the next slope.
“Jasmine?” Vayl murmured from the seat next to me, balancing his mug o’ packaged vamp-juice out in front of him to prevent spillage. “Are you going to be all right?”
“I’ll be fine.” I glanced at him, allowing myself a second to appreciate his fedora. No man of this age can pull off the look the way an original can. Under the shadow of its brim his chemically darkened skin resisted the few waning rays of sun the Clubman’s tinted windows allowed in. I guess I could give Cole some credit for at least trying to protect Vayl that far. But geez!
For the third time this trip I mentally replayed the scene in the funeral home’s plain, gray-walled garage.
We’d stepped out of the hearse in the first of four bays, all of which led to a closed black door the size of a home-theater screen. I’d nodded appreciatively at the Jeep Patriot parked next to us. Painted a dark orange, it also glowed with flecks of gold and red to my extra-sensitized eyes.
“Now, that is a machine,” I’d said, licking my lips to keep the drool from spilling over.
“Isn’t she a beaut?” said Ruvin, running his hand along the side panel like it was a woman’s hip.
“Sometimes I dream we’re walking on the beach together, just her and me. And she’s kinda wobbling
’cause she’s on her back tires. Then she looks at me. And squeezes my hand. And says, ‘Ruvin, only amateurs use the automatic wash.’ And I promise never to wipe her with an old rag.” We stared. Even me, and I’ve been known to dream about my Corvette from time to time. Ruvin pointed to a steel rod welded across the front of the grille. “Look here! Can you guess what this is?” I said, “If I didn’t know better, I’d guess you were planning on busting through some fairly high snowdrifts.”
“It’s a bull bar,” Ruvin told me. “Protects my ute in case I hit a roo.”
“Roo? As in the kanga kind?” asked Cole.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Ruvin, here, says we don’t have to worry while we’re driving the Jeep because—”
“Oh no.” Cole shook his head while Ruvin clutched at his heart, like maybe I’d just suggested we borrow his kids for a couple of days. “Ruvin’s not renting us his wheels. Our ride is parked in the third bay.”
“Oh. Okay.” Mentally kissing the Jeep goodbye, I grabbed my trunk and weapons bag from the hearse’s storage compartment and skirted the Jeep. Where I stood gaping until Bergman bumped into me.
“Is he serious?” Bergman whispered.
“Where are we supposed to put all the extra equipment?” Cassandra asked.
Since Wirdilling was a village of six hundred, we couldn’t just melt into the crowd. Especially when we were renting one of the local’s houses. So we’d decided to use a cover that always got us eager cooperation. It also required a few more bags.
“Strap them to the top,” said Cole. He opened the trunk (no wonder they call it a boot here, it’s about the size of my foot!) and pulled out some tie-downs. “See? We’re prepared.” I didn’t realize I’d dropped my stuff and raised my hands to strangle him until Vayl pulled me aside.