The Wild Road

by Marjorie M. Liu

  He stood beside her, placing his hand under her elbow as she swayed on her feet. A truck faced them, parked more than fifty feet away: a Toyota Tundra, huge with muscle. As soon as they looked at it, high beams switched on.

  Fear spiked down their mental link. Lannes muttered, “How fast can you get in the car?”

  “Faster than you,” she said, under her breath.

  Lannes’ cell phone rang. Both he and Lethe flinched. He did not want to answer, but the ring tone belonged to his brother. And those headlights continued to burn, blinding him.

  “Get in the car,” he said. “Slowly.”

  Lethe did, sliding in on the driver’s side and crawling into the passenger seat. Lannes got in after her, his gaze never leaving the truck. He gave his cell phone to Lethe and started the engine.

  A new roar filled the air outside the Impala. The truck was revving its engine—and suddenly it accelerated toward them.

  Lannes swore, slamming the car into reverse. He hit the accelerator, and the Impala lurched backward, tires squealing. His door was still open, but when he spun the Impala around, it slammed shut, right on the tip of his wing. He snarled. Beside him, Lethe was speaking frantically into the phone, fighting to get her seat belt on.

  The truck scraped the rear bumper, but Lannes switched gears and slammed again on the accelerator. Lethe, one arm hooked through her seat belt, flew forward against the dash. Lannes flung his arm in front of her at the last moment and stopped her momentum.

  The Impala roared across the parking lot, the truck close behind. He and Lethe should have had a substantial lead, but the other vehicle was surprisingly fast, and Lannes cut across a grassy zone, rocketing onto the four-lane highway that doubled as a city street for the town. Headlights flashed, brakes squealed, but no one got hit, and Lannes wrestled the Impala into the appropriate lane, gunning the engine.

  The truck was still behind him, high beams reflected in the rearview mirror. He glanced sideways. “You okay?”

  “Fine,” Lethe snapped, one foot braced on the dash. “Your brother said help is close.”

  “Sure,” Lannes muttered, seeing a red light ahead. “Hang on.”

  Lethe suddenly strained backward into her seat as Lannes punched down on the accelerator, hammering on his horn. Cars were turning at the intersection, but Lannes swerved around them by a hairbreadth. The truck had to slow—but not enough to put a sizeable distance between them.

  Up ahead, there was more traffic on the road. Lannes swung onto the shoulder, still leaning on his horn, his left tires churning up grass as he accelerated past a long line of cars making steady progress in the lane beside him. Cars honked, swerving to get out of his way. Lethe ducked down, so low in her seat he could hardly see her. The truck gained. There was no way to see the driver, but Lannes assumed he or she was armed. If nothing else, the truck itself was a weapon. And at these speeds, one good blow on his bumper or side might spin him out of control. His own driving might do that.

  The road emptied out just enough for him to swing off the shoulder and into the left lane. Beside him, Lethe said, “This can’t go on forever. Someone’s going to get hurt.”

  Lannes gritted his teeth, searching for a place to turn off the highway. He saw nothing. The truck roared up, rode his bumper, then swerved into the next lane, trying to creep up against their side. Engines snarled. The speedometer ticked close to one hundred miles per hour, and up ahead appeared taillights. More traffic.

  “Lannes,” hissed Lethe, glancing over her shoulder. He pushed the car a little more, outpacing the truck…but then it slammed into the corner of his bumper, nearly sending them out of control. Only brute force kept the Impala on the road. Lannes reached out, searching for the mind of the truck driver, trying to get a sense of who was chasing them. All he got was a barrier. A wall.

  “He’s going to try again,” Lethe called out, her voice sharp with fear.

  Lannes accelerated and wrenched the wheel to the left, cutting the truck off. He saw, in his rearview mirror, another car bearing down on them. A large dark mass. A Humvee.

  The truck pulled behind him again, blocking out the sight. Ahead, more traffic. Lannes got ready to escape onto the shoulder again.

  Until quite suddenly, he heard the screech of metal, and the truck lurched hard, swerving. Lannes glimpsed the Humvee, and braked just as the truck spun past him onto the heavily forested median, skimming so close it ripped off the Impala’s side mirror. The Humvee, showing far more control, roared after the out-of-control truck. As it passed, Lannes looked through the window and saw a man staring down at him, face chiseled and hard. Golden eyes flashed.

  The truck crashed sideways against some trees. Lannes was long past, but he braked hard, yanking left on the wheel. Lethe let out a small yelp as the Impala’s tires squealed, and then suddenly they were spinning off onto the median, making a tight circle. They stopped on the median, facing the opposite direction of traffic. In front of them was the Humvee. The truck lay on its side against the trees. Other cars on the freeway were slowing. People were pulling over. There was no time.

  Lannes drove across the bumpy grass and watched as two men leapt out of the Humvee. One of them, the man who had matched his gaze, wore scrappy jeans and an unbuttoned denim shirt that revealed a great tangle of tattoos across his chest. He had a lean, tanned face. Wild black hair. Golden eyes.

  Golden, inhuman eyes.

  The other man was also not human, but in some indefinable way that made Lannes’ skin crawl. Danger, he thought, looking at him. Impossibly dangerous. The man wore all black, and his skin was a light brown color. Sharp green eyes glanced over at Lethe as she exited the Impala. Lannes, instantly protective, followed her. Two long steps around the hood of the car, and he was at her side.

  “Koni,” the green-eyed man snapped, never taking his gaze off Lethe. “Keep those gawkers back.”

  “Bossy,” muttered the other man, but he ran gracefully across the median, shouting warnings at the gathered gawkers. His arms were like wings, Lannes thought, looking at him. Graceful, lean and strong. Shape-shifter.

  Lannes ran to the truck, Lethe behind him. The green-eyed man was already there, face twisted with disgust. He climbed gracefully from the bumper onto the side of the vehicle, and Lannes joined him with one good leap—wings flaring slightly to keep him from landing hard on what could not possibly be solid footing.

  The green-eyed man tried the driver’s door, but it was locked. Lannes reached down, his fingers punching holes into the metal. Stealing energy from his surroundings, his chest hot, he yanked up with all his strength. Metal groaned. So did Lannes, but the door finally ripped off its hinges. He did not dare to look around to see if anyone had noticed. His only consolation was that it was still somewhat dark, though that was changing.

  A middle-aged woman lay inside the car, slumped sideways against her seat belt. She had curly hair, and wore a loose flannel shirt. Glasses hung askew off her ear. Lannes saw no weapons. She was conscious, barely. Fury warred with caution, but he jammed his hand into the truck and grabbed her arm. He tried to punch into her mind—and slammed up against the old hateful wall.

  The injured driver smiled, blood flecking her lips. “Well, I’ll be damned. A real monster.”

  Her voice was rough, stilted, as though she was unused to talking. Lannes tightened his grip, listening against the barrier in her mind. It reminded him of the one that surrounded Lethe’s thoughts when the intruder awakened—only this was cruder. Given enough time, he could exploit the chinks in this wall.

  “Simon, I presume,” said Lannes, remembering what Etta had said.

  “Not quite in the flesh,” the woman—or at least her controller—wheezed. “Where’s the girl?”

  “Down here,” called Lethe dryly from outside the truck, and held up her hands. Lannes grabbed them with just one of his, and pulled her up beside him. The green-eyed man, still perched on the other side of the open driver’s door, gave Lethe a long, thoughtful lo
ok.

  The injured driver peered up at Lethe. “Hard girl to kill. Those men in Chicago were supposed to be good. I paid cash for their trigger fingers.”

  “Then you wasted your money,” Lethe said. Lannes felt a thread of horror winding down their link and instinctively reached for her, mind to mind, bolstering her strength with his. She glanced at him, startled, but regained her composure in a heartbeat.

  “Why are you trying to kill me?” she asked.

  “It’s not personal,” said the woman, spitting blood. “You’re just a tool. But I won’t die that way. I won’t go, crying into my bedpan.”

  Lannes heard sirens. The green-eyed man said, “We gotta go now.”

  “Little girl,” whispered the injured driver. “If you kill the old hag first, I’ll let you live. Find her. Strike her from your mind. We’ll call it even.”

  “You’ll do that anyway,” Lannes rasped, but the injured woman laughed, an ugly sound that lasted only a moment before the barrier fell and Simon’s presence fled. The driver in the truck lapsed into unconsciousness, though her heartbeat was strong.

  The Humvee engine roared. The man named Koni stuck his head out its window, waving frantically. Lannes wanted to stay longer, examine the unconscious woman’s mind for more traces of Simon, but there was no time. He jumped off the upended truck, reached up to grab Lethe around the waist and lift her down. The green-eyed man leapt gracefully from the truck and ran for the Humvee. Lannes did not watch him. He and Lethe raced up the median to the Impala.

  By the time the police arrived, they were all long gone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  There are over five million miles of paved road in the United States, a black tangle weaving from east to west and all the directions of the wind in between, and Lethe was quite certain she was doomed to travel every inch of them. She was like some female Odysseus, condemned to wander—blood behind her, uncertainty in front, monsters lurking at every turn.

  It was midmorning by the time they drove into West Baden. Dried cornfields lined the curving lane, filled with crows dancing on their wing tips. Golden light crested the tops of the trees. Lethe’s eyes were gritty with exhaustion, but she was awake enough to appreciate the quiet beauty of the land.

  She glanced at Lannes, who held himself rigid. His window was rolled all the way down to combat the smell of the dried blood soaked into the leather seats. Also, she thought, so that he could stay awake.

  “You need to sleep,” she said, examining the curve of his shoulders, seeking out any indication of his wings. She saw nothing except a faint depression in the seat behind him, as well as a good inch of space between the leather and Lannes’ back. She hesitated, then gently poked the air behind him. Her finger hit something solid. Lannes flinched.

  “Sorry,” she said, embarrassed. “Couldn’t help myself.”

  He grunted. “I suppose you should be curious.”

  “I suppose,” she said dryly. “I have a lot of questions. What you are, exactly, is at the top of them.”

  “Gargoyle,” he rumbled. “That’s what my kind are called. Or Thunderbird. Mothman. Jersey Devil. Any legends involving humanoid types with wings are probably referring to my people.”

  “Huh.” She leaned against the door, watching his human profile, which was craggy, weathered, and effortlessly masculine. Same as his touch, which still made her shiver. Jesus. She could not imagine what he looked like beneath the mask, and wondered if she would feel the same way if he ended up having horns sticking out of his head, scaly skin, or teeth like a piranha.

  “Has any of your kind ever been caught?” she asked him.

  Lannes gave her a sidelong look that was distinctly uncomfortable. “Occasionally. In the late eighteen hundreds, some cowboys in Arizona managed to kill one of us. Staked him to the side of a barn and took pictures, for money. He had family, though. Some human friends. They managed to get his body away, and the photographs.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Have your…people been around for a long time?”

  “A long time,” he replied. “We were warriors once, and there was a battle between the creatures of this world. It resulted in a great cataclysm, and afterward we scattered and never fought again.”

  “But you hide. All of you.”

  “Some. Others have jobs, and families. We pay taxes. Most of our work can be done from home. Bookbinding, writing, artisan-type skills.” Lannes waved his very human-looking hand at her. “We hide in plain sight. And for those of us who can’t wear a mask, human deformity can explain the rest. It’s the twenty-first century. As long as you can pass, most people won’t say a word. And if they do, it won’t be to call you monster. Just ugly as hell.”

  She hesitated. “Is it lonely?”

  “Sometimes,” he admitted, and smiled. “Not now.”

  Lethe bit her bottom lip, trying not to return his smile, but it was impossible. Something about the warmth in his eyes, the kindness, made him irresistible.

  Or maybe she was just desperately lonely. So lonely that anything—anyone—looked good.

  That’s a disservice to Lannes, she told herself. He’s better than that. So are you.

  Maybe. Or maybe it was better not to think too much about these things. She had a lifetime of memories to make. No doubt some of them—quite a few, at this rate—were going to be unpleasant.

  Take the good while you can. Even if it turns out to be a mistake.

  She was going to have a lot of those in her life, mistakes. Chances were good she had lost her mind over one.

  “You travel much?” she asked Lannes, trying to make conversation—a distraction from her thoughts.

  He shrugged. “Not anymore. But Frederick needed me for something.”

  She thought of the old man, so elegant and proper, and felt an odd affection that took her off guard. “How did you meet?”

  “Our fathers knew each other. How they met…” Lannes hesitated. “It happened during the first World War. My father was in Germany helping to relocate some of our kind who had become trapped near the fighting. He came upon a child who seemed to have been abandoned. My father took care of him. Found a family in Scotland who was willing to take the boy. Alex Brimley. Frederick’s father.”

  “Was Alex aware of your father’s…differences?”

  “He was when I knew him,” Lannes replied. “No one ever explained how that happened. My brothers and I always took it for granted that we never had to hide from Alex or Frederick. Their wives were another matter.”

  He stifled a yawn, and Lethe said, “You really do need to rest.”

  “We’re almost there,” he replied grimly. “I’ll rest then.”

  “If you get a chance.”

  He shot her a look that was so very human, she wanted to reach out and touch his face to see if his mouth moved the same way beneath the illusion.

  Lannes said, “I’m more worried about you.”

  I’ll be fine, she almost said, but that would have been slightly ridiculous. She was not fine. But she was still standing. Still ready to fight. That was something.

  She glanced over her shoulder at the Humvee. It was trailing them. Neither vehicle had stopped in the two hours since leaving the accident outside Martinsville. And thankfully, no cops had seen fit to haul either aside for questioning. She figured someone would, eventually. These were distinctive cars, and there had been a lot of witnesses.

  It’s not personal. You’re just a tool.

  Lethe closed her eyes, remembering those words, tasting them. Anger stirred. She felt Lannes glance at her—felt it even though she was not looking at him—and his concern flooded through her unbidden, warm and enveloping. Safe. Protected. Being around him felt the same as standing on a cliff edge but knowing she could fly.

  He can fly, she guessed, trying to imagine such a thing. Not easy to do. There was still so much about him that he had hidden.

  Except his heart. His conflicted, lonely heart. Mirror twin to her own.

>   At the intersection just before town, they passed a small used car dealer. It was little more than a white square with some vehicles parked out front. Lannes turned left onto a road that curved past a lush tree line now burning with autumn. On the other side, to the right of the road, the land unexpectedly opened, revealing an immense green meadow covered with yet more trees. And just beyond that, surrounded by evergreens…

  “Wow,” said Lethe, staring. “I was totally not expecting that.”

  “That” being an immense dome. It was rather astonishing in size, with a red top that almost glowed in the morning light and four white turrets arranged in a half-moon design around the structure. Yellow walls and brick formed the base, which was mostly obscured by trees. It could have been a castle rising from the hills: an improbable sight, which should have been gaudy or bizarre, but instead was oddly enchanting.

  “There’s the entrance,” she said, pointing to an arched gate on the right. Lannes pulled past, driving down a long cobblestone road. Workers were already out gardening, and some of them waved as Lannes drove past. The Humvee hugged the Impala’s bumper.

  Up close, the hotel was even more astonishing. Giant white columns framed an immense curving promenade lined in rocking chairs and the hanging boughs of old evergreens. The butter yellow of the bricks and walls glowed in the half shadows and sunlight of morning. On the left of the cobblestone drive was a wild garden filled with fountains and pavilions and paths that meandered into the trees, while in front of them, in the circle of the drive, was another stone fountain surrounded by flowers. Copper posts capped with the carved heads of horses lined a narrow walkway.

  They parked on the far side of the hotel. The Humvee pulled in beside them. It was Etta’s car, Lethe was certain of it. She sat still, suffering a moment’s trepidation at having to face new strangers.