by Jenn Bennett
His eyes opened.
Mr. and Mrs. Holiday walked into Lon’s house hauling a homemade cake scattered with multicolored birthday candles. It was a week late, but when the actual birthday sucked as much as Jupe’s did, it was only fair to get a do-over. Banana-and-chocolate layer cake with peanut butter frosting was definitely not my first choice, or second. But it was Jupe’s favorite, and they’d gone to so much work. When I tasted it, though, I was pleasantly surprised. “Mmm,” I said, smiling.
“Told you. It’s good, right?” Jupe shoveled an enormous bite into his mouth.
“Slow down,” Lon said. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
“It takes three pieces to make me throw up,” he argued, then waggled his eyebrows in my direction. “I put that to the test last year.”
“I remember,” Mr. Holiday said sourly.
“You’re a disgusting little animal,” Mrs. Holiday echoed.
He grinned and licked crumbs off his fork.
As Lon grumbled, Jupe plucked out a chunk of banana from his slice and fed it to Mr. Piggy under the dining room table while he recounted stories from past birthdays, enlightening me as to why both saltwater aquariums and slumber parties were forever banned at the Butler house. Good to know.
Though he’d already unwrapped several gifts, Jupe’s big birthday present came while we were clearing away the remains of the cake. I agreed to distract Jupe while Lon went outside and took care of the delivery.
“I’m sorry your real birthday stunk,” I said as we waited.
“You and me both. I always thought flying would be cool, but I was this close to pissing my pants,” he admitted with a weak smile.
“That’s a habit of yours, isn’t it?” I teased.
He snickered, then we both fell silent.
“Do you think Ms. Forsythe will ever teach again?” he asked after a time.
“I don’t know.”
She was currently healing in the hospital after reconstructive surgery on her knees. Unlike Lon’s neck wound, her shattered bone and cartilage couldn’t be mended by a healer, not even one as skilled as Mr. Mick. At Lon’s insistence, Dare was making arrangements for Ms. Forsythe to be checked into some place up the coast, the Golden Path Center, a “voluntary” mental health retreat for Earthbounds. I hoped she found a way to deal with her very involuntary role in all this, but I wasn’t sure if that was possible.
“Hey, Cady,” Jupe said in a low voice, “how long have you known about my dad?”
I hesitated. “The transmutating?”
He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “Yeah.”
“A couple of months, I guess. But only because of all that stuff he was helping me with when we first met.”
“I can’t believe he lied to me,” he said softly.
“He didn’t want you to know because he doesn’t want you to undergo the spell that allows him to do that.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re strong enough without it, and it’s caused him a lot of problems. If he had to do it all over again—if he had the choice—he wouldn’t undergo the spell. That kind of power can be a burden. You might not understand that now, but you will. Your knack isn’t going to be roses, either. With or without a spell to boost it.”
“Maybe,” he said after a few moments. “But I’d kinda like to have the horns.”
I slanted a glance his way. He was smiling. I elbowed him and he chuckled.
“All right,” Lon called from the foyer. “Get your ass out here, Motormouth.”
Jupe leapt off the sofa and raced outside.
The departing tow truck was circling the driveway when I got to the door. I trailed Lon and Jupe across the gravel to the garage—a really nice, three-car one, with a polished floor and custom cabinets lining the walls. They almost never used it because Lon parked his beat-up truck and SUV in the driveway. The sleek silver Audi we’d taken to the Hellfire caves last month sat covered on the far side—he only drove it a few times a year—and the rest of the garage was usually empty. Right now, however, a rusted-out jalopy occupied the wide space.
“What the hell is this?” Jupe said, half horrified, half intrigued.
It wasn’t the prettiest thing, and I could only imagine what Jupe was seeing: no tires, the busted-out rear window, and a spring poking through a large slit in the backseat.
“This,” Lon said proudly, “is a 1967 Pontiac GTO. A legendary muscle car. It used to be called ‘The Great One.’”
Jupe carefully treaded around the car, looking up at Lon like he was certifiable.
“The Ramones sang about it,” I offered.
Lon added, “Bruce Lee’s car in Return of the Dragon.”
The kid’s face lit up ever so slightly, then fell again. “It’s . . .” Jupe screwed up his face, trying to find the right words. “It’s dead.”
“Neglected,” Lon corrected.
Jupe squinted at his father, a dubious look on face.
“It needs to be restored,” Lon said. “But the V-8 engine is original, and it’s only got fifty thousand miles on it. Things will need to be stripped and replaced, but that’s minor.”
Jupe shuffled to the other side of the car. “It doesn’t have any wheels!”
“That’s the least of your problems.”
“It will cost a fortune to fix this thing up,” Jupe argued.
I smiled. “Lucky for you, you’re independently wealthy.”
“The savings account?”
“You wanted to save it for a car—”
“One that worked,” he said. “One that didn’t look like someone dropped it in the Pacific with a body in the trunk!”
Lon picked up a stack of books and photos from a shop table in the corner and tossed them on the rusted hood. “After it’s fixed up, it could look like this . . .”
Jupe studied the photos that Lon was spreading out for his inspection. I peeped over his shoulder. Beautiful GTOs gleamed, fully restored and sitting pretty at car collector shows. All of them had sleek, two-door bodies fronted by curvaceous hoods with chain-link grilles.
“Whoa,” Jupe said, touching a photo.
Lon pulled out a small, square card, a sample of auto paint in high-gloss, metallic red-violet. I was afraid to look at it for too long—like staring into the sun, it might do some eye damage. “The car could be any color you wanted,” Lon said. “This is Plum Mist. It’s one of the original colors.”
“No way.” Jupe picked up the paint sample and held it up to the light. “No one in La Sirena has a purple car.”
“You could. Or black, silver, or red,” Lon encouraged.
“Purple is my favorite color.” Jupe smiled, turning around to hand me the sample. “Who’s going to fix it up? When can they start?”
Lon scooted the restoration books in Jupe’s direction. “You are.”
Jupe’s jaw dropped. “What? I can’t rebuild a car.”
“Sure you can. You’re smart, good with details.”
“Good at taking apart things and putting them back together,” I added, remembering how he’d fixed the vacuum cleaner a couple of weeks ago when Mrs. Holiday sucked up one of Mr. Piggy’s tiny spines and gummed up the works.
“This is crazy! I can’t do this!” Jupe’s eyes were frantic, darting up and down the car. “I’m just a kid!”
Lon set two keys down on the hood, along with the bill of sale. “I thought you were fourteen.”
“Yeah, I don’t even know how to drive a car—how could I restore one?”
“You read these books, look up stuff online. Take a class after school. My friend Danny teaches auto shop at the high school, and he’s a member of the La Sirena GTO Association. He’ll help you with the hard stuff, locate parts for you, that kind of stuff. We’ll find someone who can reupholster the seats.”
Jupe eyed the keys on the hood. “Even if I could, it would take me, like, forever.”
“You’ve got a year until you can get your learner’s permit,” I said.
“And you can take over the garage,” Lon suggested. “Haul over a couch from Grandpa’s old house in the Village. Maybe even put a TV in here.”
Jupe pulled his face away from the passenger window and looked between us, then spoke to Lon in a small voice. “You really think I could do it?”
“Why not? And when you’re done, you’ll know all about cars. Mechanics make decent money. It’d be nice to have a skill like that.”
After a few moments of doubt, Jupe smiled, like he was starting to believe it himself. Then he scrunched up his face, thinking two steps ahead. “Can I put posters up on the walls in here?”
“No naked women.”
“What about a nude calendar? All mechanics have them.”
“That’s just in the movies,” Lon said. “No one makes those anymore.”
“Please! You shot—”
Lon made a loud chastising noise. “That was a long time ago.”
“You shot what exactly?” I asked. “And how long ago?”
Jupe grinned. “It was—”
“So do you want this thing or not?” Lon said quickly, cutting him off.
Jupe snatched the keys off the hood. “Hell yeah! This is the best birthday present ever!”
He took a couple of laps around the car, opening both doors and crawling around inside, only to complain about the “dead fish” stink. Lon lifted the hood, and after they peered inside, Jupe finally calmed enough to call his friend Jack and brag about his new prize.
Lon and I leaned against the GTO.
“Good job,” I whispered to Lon.
“It was your idea.” He slung an arm around my shoulder and kissed me lightly on the top of my head.
I smiled up at him and traced the small scar on his neck. Much smaller than the scar on his ribs, and I was glad this one was there. It meant he was alive. Warm and breathing and whole. I would never stop being thankful for that. And, truthfully, I couldn’t be happier about Lon’s owing Bob a favor. Maybe Bob’s newfound confidence would lead him to spend less time on a barstool in Tambuku and more time putting his knack to better use.
“If the kid can’t restore this thing, don’t blame me,” I said.
Lon pushed long strands of tawny hair away from his face. “Danny said he’d do it for parts if Jupe helps him out after school a couple of days a week. Even then, it’ll take months.”
I laughed. Probably more like years.
“Hey,” Lon called out to Jupe after he ended his phone call. “It’s almost six. You ready to do this?”
Jupe ambled through garage, threading the GTO keys onto his Wolf Man key ring. “Oh, yeah! I almost forgot.”
I frowned at Lon. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I made a quick phone call earlier.”
“What kind of phone call?”
Jupe gleefully dangled his newly ringed keys in front of my face. “Let’s just say that you’re going to owe me big-time.”
“Pfft. I owe you zilch,” I said. “I helped pay for this junk heap already.” Okay, only a couple hundred dollars, which barely covered the tow up the cliff, but still.
Lon whistled merrily.
I glared at him. “Explain.”
“We’re taking a little trip down to the Village. Got a meeting at the Singing Bean.”
“With whom?”
Lon grinned. “Your death dowser pal Hajo has agreed to meet us. Jupe’s going to get your vassal potion back.”
“What?”
“That’s right.” Jupe arched his back and stretched like a cat, then smugly pretended to crack his knuckles. “Step aside and watch the master go to work, people.”
Lon brushed his fingers across mine. “Dr. Spendlove said we should teach Jupe how to use his knack for good, not evil,” he reminded me. “This qualifies as good in my book.”
“So this is all for Jupe’s education, huh?” As if he didn’t get enough education last week. How in the world Lon planned to ensure that the kid didn’t go bragging to his friends about demon horns was beyond me. I was pretty sure Lon was doing this to keep Jupe happy and quiet.
“Please,” Lon pleaded, lifting my chin. “Hajo’s a bum. Am I wrong?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Woot! I get to meet a real-live junkie!” Jupe exclaimed.
Lon flashed me a triumphant smile. As he walked by, he smacked my ass, coaxing a reflexive jump out of me. “Come on, Cadybell. We’re gonna be late.”
Jupe sneaked me a mischievous look, then reared back with his palm, ready to follow Lon’s example. I grabbed his hand midswing. “You do, and I’ll break it.”
He snickered, wiggling free of my grasp, then threw down an alternate gauntlet. “Race you to the SUV.”
Challenge accepted. I scraped an invisible line across the garage floor with the side of my shoe.
Things weren’t perfect. Even if we got the vassal back from Hajo, I had the binding debts hanging over my head. My house wards had been disabled by Chora, and though they could be fixed eventually, I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel one hundred percent safe inside them again. And though Dare was relieved to have all the Hellfire kids back, he still had me over a barrel with my identity. Official Hellfire Club magician . . . I really didn’t like the sound of that.
And on top of all that, a detail from Halloween night nagged me: Merrin’s death. He was a despicable person, and he got what he deserved. But I couldn’t stop obsessing over it, and this unnerved me. At first I thought that I was having guilt issues, but after a few days of replaying his death inside my head, I finally identified the real problem: I didn’t kill Merrin with my own hands. I used Chora to kill him. My parents did the same thing years ago—summoned a demon to do their killing for them. Logically I knew that the circumstances weren’t the same, but I couldn’t stop making the connection, and it troubled me more than I liked.
But there was only so much worrying you could do before you just had to accept what life throws at you and move on, because some things were going to be out of your control, and others can’t be fixed or changed. And for everything I’d lost over the last couple of months, I still had a lot. More than I expected, actually.
Lon turned and watched us with amusement as Jupe lowered himself into a runner’s crouch at my side. “First one there gets to ride shotgun. On your mark, get set . . .”
Go.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my agent extraordinaire, Laura Bradford, for her frankness, good humor, and unshakable belief in my storytelling; Jennifer Heddle, for pointing out a better path (may the force be with you!); Brian, for his creative problem solving, endless patience and ideas, and unflagging support (love you); Tony Mauro, for bringing the cannery to life on the cover; to everyone behind the scenes at Pocket (including Julia Fincher, Esther Paradelo, Sarah Wright, Anne Cherry, and Erica Feldon); the bloggers, reviewers, and tweeters who gave Arcadia a shot and spread the word (special shout-outs to Synde Korman, Jess Turner, Julie Walsh, Natasha Carty, and Pamela Webb-Elliott). Many thanks to Ann Aguirre, Carolyn Crane, Marta Acosta, Moira Rogers, Suzanne McLeod, Kelly Meding, Karen Chance, Juliana Stone, Anya Bast, and Karina Cooper; Ben and Tripp, for the emergency MacBook; Carrie and Dave, for their feedback (step away from that cat!); Jen and Bill, for their friendship and support; and to my wonderful family for pretending to understand paranormal fantasy (Demons? Magic? What is this crap?) and for rolling out the red carpet whenever I visit (love you, Gee).
But mostly, I’d like to extend genuine gratitude to all my readers. I adore each and every one of you.
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