I splashed several drops on my jacket, making sure it didn’t soak through. Candace did the same and held the bottle out to Ronnie.
He wrinkled his nose. “You’re joking, right?”
“Oh hush and put some on.”
“No. I like this jacket—a lot. That’ll ruin it,” he said, wincing.
“You’ll get used to the smell…” I lied. My mind flashed back to hiding from the Fae in Eureka the day I rescued Mitch. I never got used to the smell. “Besides, I’ll buy you a new jacket. If it works, this might just save your life.”
Ronnie rolled his eyes. “Fine.”
He applied a smaller, but equally potent amount. With a devious smile spread across her face, Candace handed the bottle to me when he finished. Her eyes locked onto a gray Peugeot coming up the street.
“Think you can dose a moving car?”
“I can do better than that.” I snatched the bottle with my invisible hand, and screwed the top off. Each car that passed got a tablespoon full until the bottle was empty. The god-awful floral scent hung in the air. I dropped the empty bottle in the backseat of a passing BMW, and we darted up the street toward the old church.
It was empty, but I managed to open the lock without much difficulty. We tossed our jackets inside to make one of the trails end there. I wrapped us in Clóca and Air, hoping I could keep our scent bottled up until we found a hiding place. It worked in Pennsylvania, and I hoped it would work again. Candace tugged at my sleeve and pointed to a large white Renault delivery van. The driver was walking away from it and the side door was open.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“As good as anything, I think.”
There were several boxes stacked behind the driver’s seat, but a lot of empty space in the rear. We huddled in the back and waited. To the west, Dersha and the Rogues congregated above the main road, and in the distance, sirens blared. In Pennsylvania, I’d created a double barrier, but I wasn’t able to project at the same time. I debated dropping one of the barriers so that I could listen in, but decided against it when the driver came trotting back to our hiding place. He dropped a box next to the others, slammed the door shut, and climbed into the driver’s seat. After fidgeting around for far too long, he called someone and looked at a clipboard. Oh, come on, chitchat later. Just drive, for crying out loud.
The Rogues broke into two groups. One group headed back across the Seine and disappeared beyond my range. The other began to fan out in a circle. To my relief, Dersha headed to the west and away from us. Each Fae moved slowly in opposite directions. They were moving so methodically my gut told me they were trying to pick up our scents. Cold sweat formed along the small of my back and between my shoulder blades.
One of them shifted direction and followed the road we took off the highway. My heart sped up. Our driver was still chatting on the phone, flipping through pages. He began yelling into the device.
Ronnie translated. “He’s pissed. Just found out about a bridge collapse—he was headed that way and now has to find another route…”
Every drop of moisture left my mouth and I felt queasy—he intended to drive right into the middle of the Rogues.
“…Says he’s got a delivery in someplace called Lillebonne. He’s explaining to someone that he’ll go there first and then cross the Seine upriver.”
I was prepared to knock the poor driver out and drive the van myself, but it was too late. The Fae came down the street behind us. Through the small windows in the backdoors, I watched it trot past in the shape of a stray dog. I held my breath—it didn’t seem to notice us. Our driver backed the van up and drove in the same direction. My lungs were burning as we passed the dog again. As we disappeared around a mass of green foliage, it was sniffing the red Citroën. The van slowly lurched around the narrow streets, groaning each time the driver slowed for a corner. I took a desperate breath, sweet air filling my lungs. Out of the distance, ten Fae converged on our abandoned car. It wouldn’t take them long to start chasing scent trails. I only hoped they followed the fake ones and didn’t pick up on us until we were well out of their range.
Breathing came easier with each passing minute, and every mile we put between the hunters and ourselves. From the small window in the back of the van, the French countryside looked flat—we were in Normandy, I think. Wherever we were, it all appeared to be farmland—not how I’d pictured France. The driver made several direction changes, weaving his way through back roads toward the next destination. From what I could tell, we were heading east. I could live with that.
My curiosity was piqued. I had a burning desire to project so I could figure out what Dersha and the Rogues were doing, but until we were safely away from danger, I didn’t dare drop either barrier.
The driver finally stopped thirty minutes later and we crawled out, unseen, hoping to find a new vehicle and get back on the road. There was a problem, however. In our rush to hide, Candace had grabbed our duffels, Ronnie had snagged my bag with the journals, and I had concentrated on hiding us. Nobody remembered to grab the passports or the money from underneath the front seat. I nearly cried. Travelling across France, Belgium, and through Holland seemed like a bad idea without passports or money. What seemed worse—I had the sensation of being watched again. Even though we were under Clóca, something was watching our every move.
TWENTY-TWO
THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS
Lillebonne didn’t strike me as a particularly pretty place, at least the part we were in. The driver carried two boxes into a storefront in the bottom of a two-story building—it was a plain, simple structure with shuddered windows on the second floor. There were dozens of similar buildings up and down the street, none of them distinguishable from their neighbors apart from the color of their paint. Low wooded hills peaked over the rooftops, and a few people meandered past us.
“So, what do we do now?” Ronnie asked.
“Okay, I have around two hundred euros. How much money do you have?” I asked.
“I have about fifty,” Ronnie said.
Candace frowned as she began counting. “I don’t have that much…twenty, twenty-five, twenty-eight. That’s it, twenty-eight.” Her hazel eyes looked red and swollen.
“Well, we can’t buy a car with that, and without any identification, we can’t rent a car either. Probably can’t even buy a train ticket,” I said.
Ronnie shook his head. “I’m so sorry. I should have grabbed the bag.”
“No, don’t apologize. It’s my fault and you know it. It was under my seat,” I said. “But I do appreciate you trying to take the blame. We need to get out of here as soon as possible—they won’t be far behind. We may have to think alternatively.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Candace whispered.
“What do you mean?” Ronnie said, genuinely confused.
“We can’t buy a car.”
The lids pulled back revealing the full diameter of his mint green irises. “Oh, are you seriously suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”
“I’m sorry, I’m not asking you to do it. I’ll do it.”
He shook his head violently. “Are you mad? We could go to jail—a French jail.”
“Ronnie is right. If we get caught…” Candace agreed. “Besides, I don’t think I could steal someone’s car.”
I felt ashamed for even suggesting it. “Me either, I was just tossing out ideas. I don’t know how we’re going to get out of here before the Rogues figure out where we are. I’d suggest waiting, but…I mean, I could project to Gavin and have him come find us, but I’m afraid we don’t have that much time.”
Ronnie pressed his lips flat for a second and stared at the sidewalk. “Couldn’t we sneak into a truck or a van? You can make us invisible, after all.”
“If we take a truck, we’ll be on a major highway and the Rogues are probably watching those. Besides, where we’re going is a little out of the way. Finding a truck that just happens to be going to Veluwezoom…not h
appening.”
Ronnie and Candace exchanged looks. She shrugged her shoulders and he nodded.
“Okay, the silent communication thing…it’s weird. When did the two of you start…never mind that. What’s up?”
“Well, let me say right off the bat that I hate it—and when we can, we’ll make it right—but we agree,” Candace said, huffing in defeat.
“Agree to what?” I asked.
“Are you actually going to make me say it? We’re going with plan A.”
“You’re agreeing to grand theft auto? Really?”
“If we stay here we’re dead, right?” she asked.
“Yes, probably.”
“We don’t have any identification, so a train is not a possibility and we can’t afford to buy a car, right?”
I nodded.
“Well, the way I see it, the lesser of two evils is a defense to a property crime,” she said.
“Say what?” Ronnie asked.
“My dad’s a lawyer, remember. We talk about the law all the time. It used to be a game. I’d ask him hypotheticals and he’d explain the law.”
“Oh, my god, no wonder you’re so messed up. You needed to get out more.”
Candace ignored him. “Anywho, the lesser of two evils means health and safety trumps property.”
“Are you rationalizing a felony?” he asked.
“Well…yes, I am. What of it? It’s not really stealing if our lives are on the line.”
“Candace, I swear, you’re the only eighteen-year-old in the world who could come up with that,” I said.
“Let’s find a car before I change my mind.”
We walked for twenty minutes until we wandered past a hideous old sedan with chipped paint and torn upholstery parked next to an old garage. There was a thick layer of dust on everything. The three of us just stood there looking at it.
“It looks abandoned,” Candace said.
“It looks inoperable,” Ronnie countered.
“Nobody will miss it,” she said.
“There’s probably a reason for that.”
“Well, there’s air in the tires,” I added.
Ronnie shook his head. “Are we really going to risk prison over a fifty year old…well…whatever it is. It looks like a cross between a rodeo clown car and a VW Beetle.”
“Go on, try the door,” Candace said.
He dropped his chin to his chest and exhaled. “Drop the barrier, Mags.”
I looked around us and saw no one. Ronnie pulled the door open and then jumped back. “I’m sorry!” he chirped.
Candace yelped and I dropped both shields. An old man sat up in the passenger seat and stared us down. Ronnie said something in French, and the man responded in kind. Ronnie said, “No, no,” and waived his hands in front of his chest. The man studied us.
“Americans?”
“Oui,” Ronnie responded.
In a raspy voice and a thick accent, the man said, “I speak English…and I’d prefer it if you stop molesting my language.”
Candace chuckled. Ronnie winced.
“Are you thieves?” the little man asked, stepping out of the ancient car.
Candace started to answer, but I cut her off. My gut told me to be honest and throw ourselves at his mercy. “I’m sorry, sir. We’re being followed by some really bad people. We lost our money and our passports. I apologize, and if it wasn’t a matter of life and death, honestly, we’d never.”
The man seemed to relax a little. He rubbed the dark-brown leathery skin on his forehead with a light blue handkerchief, and then tucked it neatly into the pocket of his worn sports coat. Frozen in place, Candace watched his every move, not even reaching up when the breeze blew strands of auburn hair across her face, tangling them in her long eyelashes.
The little black man shifted his weight. Leaning on his left leg, he crossed one scuffed brown shoe over the other and gently stabbed his toe into the grimy parking lot. When Ronnie started to talk, the old man put one thin, gnarled finger over his dry lips. The long yellowed nail caught my attention. I was fixated on him, studying his thinning hair, silver and black in equal parts, and his thick, wiry eyebrows. Will he turn us in? I could have easily tapped into his energy and put him to sleep, but I didn’t have the heart. He hadn’t done anything to us, and if I hurt him, how would I be any better than the Sidhe?
As I ran those thoughts through my head, he studied me intently. His eyes were dark, and foggy with cataracts, but they were glued to mine. His shirt was dingy, wrinkled, and a little threadbare, and he looked to be about seventy-five or eighty. Guilt got the best of me. Candace was right, after all. Even a rusting wreck of a car was important to someone—it appeared to be all he had. Stealing anything was a mistake.
“Sir, I’m so sorry. We honestly thought the car was abandoned. Please don’t call the police. We’ll be on our way.”
“To steal someone else’s car?”
“No, we’ll figure something else out. Beg maybe, I don’t know—we’re in trouble.”
“What did you steal from the people who are after you?”
“Nothing, I swear.”
He paused and looked at each one of us, much like Sara and Billy did when they were trying to read our thoughts. That was silly, though. I could sense his entire essence, and he was absolutely and entirely human. There weren’t any Fae within two miles of us—for the moment, at least.
“What are your names?” he asked, his raspy voice slightly friendlier than before.
I considered lying, but my gut told me to be honest. “I’m Maggie, and this is Candace, and Ronnie.”
“Life or death, you say?”
All three of us nodded.
“I’m Jean Rousseau. Perhaps you would like my help? It might get you further than stealing.”
Candace and Ronnie looked to me for an answer, and for a while I considered Jean’s offer, but there were a few problems. He was a feeble old man and I couldn’t imagine doing anything so selfish as putting him in danger. If we were riding with him, I couldn’t use Clóca—he’d have heart attack if we disappeared into thin air.
“That’s a kind offer, Sir, but we’ll have to pass. We really are in danger. If you help us, you’ll be in danger, too. I couldn’t live with myself if—“
He raised a feeble arm, cutting me off, and produced a broad smile filled with long yellowed teeth. “Your heart is in the right place, worrying about me, but you said life or death, correct?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Where are we going?”
“Mr. Rousseau, really, we couldn’t ask—“
“Ah, but you haven’t asked—I’m offering. I’m travelling north, and I wouldn’t mind the company. Will you deny an old man that courtesy five minutes after you try to steal his car?”
My gut told me to agree. “Well, if you’re sure.”
“You don’t plan to rob me, do you?”
I felt my face blush. “No sir, I swear it.”
Jean laughed. “Well, Maggie, you and your friends should get inside.”
“I like your car,” Ronnie said, trying to make small talk.
A gruff chuckle rumbled out of Jean’s winkled throat. “No, you don’t.”
The bizarre little car smelled like sour laundry inside, but against all odds it sputtered to life and Jean pulled out of the parking lot. “Where am I taking you?”
“We’re going to Veluwezoom Forest in the Netherlands—so as far north as you can take us.”
He was quiet for several seconds. “Odd destination for three Americans running for their lives.”
“It’s a long story,” I said, “but that’s where we’re meeting a friend of ours.”
He looked at me through the patina of the dirty rearview mirror and appeared puzzled by the vague answer. To his credit, he dropped the subject.
“Where in America are you from?”
“We’re from Arkansas, a little town called Eureka Springs.”
“Arkansas. Ah, Bill Clinton?”
>
Candace laughed. “Yes, Bill Clinton is from Arkansas. Where are you from?”
“I was born in the Congo—it was known as French Equatorial Africa back then, but my family immigrated to Toulouse when I was just a boy.”
“Do you live in Lillebonne now?”
“No. I live in Toulouse—when I stay any place for very long, that is. I am an old man these days, so I travel—see things I didn’t have the opportunity to see when I was younger.”
The car, a fifty-year-old Citroën 2CV, bounced and rocked over the uneven pavement, moaning in protest under our weight. Like Jean, it didn’t seem capable of moving very fast. He stuck to the back roads, explaining that his car’s top speed was seventy kilometers per hour—about forty miles per hour—and too slow for the major roads. Of course, that was perfect for us.
“Jean, can I ask you a question?”
“Absolutely.”
“Why are you helping us?”
“You are Americans, of course. You need more help than most, but you do not realize it.”
Candace and I laughed at the haughty response—Ronnie didn’t find any humor in it.
Jean laughed. “Oh, Ronnie, you have no sense of humor. I think it is tragic—one might confuse you for a German.”
* * *
The soft sound of rain pattering on the canvas roof filled the interior of the little car as we headed west through the small town of Gourney-en-Bray, beyond the tree-lined streets of Beauvais, and back into the expansive green farmland of northern France. The roads were wider than in Ireland, and except for the architecture of the houses and the roundabouts, I felt at times like I was riding through the American Midwest, albeit slightly more manicured. We drove through Amiens, the tiny village of Flesselles, and a dozen others. We crossed into Belgium just north of Hirson, into a wooded area of low rolling hills. Jean stuck to the back roads. There were no signs of the Rogues until we got to Gemert, in the Netherlands.
It was dark outside, just after sunset, when I sensed a pair of Rogues a mile to the east. Both had hunted us in France—I recognized them. I also knew that where there were two, there were more. Jean continued to pilot the little Citroën through the side streets of Gemert, completely oblivious of the danger. I considered Clóca, but how could I explain going invisible to Jean? If I cloaked the entire car, he wouldn’t know we were invisible until a car pulled out in front of us and it was too late.
Weald Fae 03 - The Aetherfae Page 22