“Dru?” Graves moved, like he was going to unfold himself from the side of the bed. “You okay?”
Don’t ask. “I . . .” My eyes prickled. “I don’t know.”
He stripped his hair back from his face with stiff fingers. But he wasn’t looking at me. “He was there. Right before the . . . the vampires hit.”
“You lost your coat.” I let my hair fall down, because the prickling turned to hot water and welled up. I couldn’t blink it back.
Jesus. The crying needed to stop, and now.
Graves coughed slightly. “It’s okay. It’s a thousand degrees out there; I don’t need it. Dru, we have to talk.”
Oh, Jesus. Every time we have to talk, I end up more confused than before. I can’t take this. “Not now.” I bounced up, swiping at my eyes. “Come on, Ash. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was another Subaru, but blue, and newer than the one we’d stolen. Power windows, power locks, plenty of cargo space, and it smelled faintly of vanilla from the air freshener hanging from the rearview. Dawn was gray in the east, the whole world was greenjuice fresh, and it was going to be another scorcher. You could just tell by the way your clothes stuck to you as soon as you stepped outside.
I didn’t know if Christophe had slept. I’d curled up in the bed furthest from the door and fell into a darkness so deep I couldn’t even remember any dreams. When I’d closed my eyes Christophe had been standing looking out the window; when I opened them he was in a chair at the table, writing on the legal pad. A chunky silver watch gleamed on his wrist, and the window was just graying up with the sunrise. He glanced up, and saw that I was awake.
We were out the door fifteen minutes later.
I folded my hands around the paper latte cup. Christophe turned the air conditioning up a bit. The tires made a low sweet sound on the road, and if I shut my eyes, I could almost pretend I was driving with Dad.
But the silence with Dad had never been this angry, or this dangerous.
Ash curled up on his half of the backseat, impossibly small. Graves hunched in his seat, holding an americano and staring out the window like the answer to world peace was in the passing scenery. I lasted about twenty minutes before flipping the radio on to fill up the silence, twisting the dial until I found an oldies station. Graves lasted about a half hour after that before he cracked the window and lit a cigarette. Christophe restrained himself, but I saw his jaw set.
It was a ways to California. Something told me this was gonna be a long trip.
“God,” I moaned, with feeling. “Not pizza. Please. I can’t take more fast food.”
“What’s wrong with pizza?” Graves wanted to know. “Lots of cheese, bubbling grease, pepperoni—”
“Ugh.” I laced my fingers over my stomach. “No pizza, Christophe. No burgers either. I want to eat somewhere nice.” My conscience pinched. “If we can afford it. Or hell, let’s get a place with a kitchenette and I’ll cook.”
Yeah, I was desperate.
Christophe squinted through the fall of afternoon sunlight. It was hotter than hell, and the air conditioning wasn’t helping as much as it could. Trapped in the car for ten hours with a few bathroom breaks, lunch had been McDonald’s, and I was about ready to go nuts. It would have been hilarious if I was watching it on TV.
“Don’t worry about that. We’ll go somewhere nice,” Christophe said wearily. “As soon as we find shelter for the night. We’ve made good time.”
“Thank God.” I realized I was sounding whiny, but right at that point I didn’t care. I wanted out of the car, and I wanted a real meal. I’d settle for something unfried, or something that bore a resemblance to actual food rather than hockey-puck patties on anemic buns paired with soggy-ass extruded potato starch.
“In fact . . .” Christophe checked the exit numbers and eased us off the highway. “We can arrange pizza for the wulfen and I can find you some decent Mexican food. At least, if my memory serves me.”
It sounded like heaven. “We can all do Mexican.” I wasn’t about to leave Ash somewhere he could get into mischief.
“Whatever you want.” He didn’t sound too thrilled with the notion, and he brought us to a stop at the light at the end of the ramp.
Graves coughed. “Pizza’s fine. I’ll run herd on Ash.”
Say what? I didn’t twist around in the seat to look at him, but it was close. “We should stick together. The vampires.”
“They won’t be after us. Besides, suckboy and I don’t get along. We might as well split up for a bit.” There was the click of a lighter.
How much was he going to smoke? I shifted in my seat again, all cooped up and itchy. “How much have you smoked today?”
“What are you, my mother?”
Well, if you’re going to be snide . . . “Do wulfen get lung cancer?” I addressed the question to the windshield. Tucked a curl behind my ear.
“Never.” Christophe stared at the stoplight, waiting for the left-turn arrow to change to green. “Most don’t like the smell of burning, though.”
“I wondered about that.” Now I could casually turn my head, glance in the backseat. But Graves was staring out the window, his chin set stubbornly. “Come on, Graves. Mexican. I bet Christophe can even get us margaritas if he smiles at the waitress.”
For some reason, that was the totally wrong thing to say.