by Zoe Parker
“I’m not a creature of kindness, or one of your gentle Feyrie. I’m cruel, cold and unrelenting. I don’t know the politics of romance, nor do I care to. I’m a monster, Iza. Not a man. I can pledge my life, my loyalty and my respect… and these fucked-up emotions you make me feel. Is that enough?”
The words I spoke echo in my mind, I can taste the emotions driving them. She accepted me then. What will it take to get her to accept me now?
I considered telling her how much I have remembered but I think it will cloud, and possibly eclipse, the desire for who I am now. A false hope is not a good seed to plant. I’ve already spent too much energy on this angst; we both have. The next thing—the more important one, is putting energy into convincing her to stop martyring herself. The visualization she has about her future has no good outcomes. She’s leaving me out the equation.
What the fuck makes her think I’ll let her just die?
Her laughter, minutes ago pulled at my guts, it made me feel lighter and... aroused. A strange combination to be sure but not an entirely unfamiliar one. It doesn’t help that she’s got splatters of banshee blood all over her and doesn’t give a shit. That side of her, the true one, will always pull on the creature I am. Always.
Pushing past the emotional baggage that I drag around in her presence, I move onto where we’re headed. On the map there were five specific spots marked with purple toy dragons. There were five clustered relatively close together and she marked every one of them on the path to the center. The others she purposely sent to verified areas she suspects are easy targets.
That suits me fine.
I’m no longer hindered by a physical prison, only by Light’s power. If he hasn’t touched them with his protection, then I can rip through their defenses like paper. Not to mention Iza; she’s strong, she’s angry, and she’s ready. When it comes down to it, she’s fully capable of being more vicious than I am because she fights with her soul. I only fight to protect her. Despite her conflicted feelings for the Feyrie, her heart burns with the need to deal justice to the Schoth because of what they’ve done to her and those she cares about.
I won’t dissuade her from it, I’ll encourage it. She deserves her bloody pound of flesh.
“What are you thinking about that has you smiling?” The smile I didn’t realize I had fades, and I turn to look at her.
“Killing things.”
“Well, it’s good to know you’re looking forward to it. With just you and I, it’ll be messy—I’m kinda looking forward to it.” The corner of her lips turn up into the smile that always gets to me. “I tell them I won’t watch their backs, yet I still mostly do. There’s a much needed sort of freedom in not having to do that.” She sighs, and I know that what’s coming next makes her uncomfortable to say but she’ll say it anyway. “It took me a minute, but I realized that this is the first time we’ve been alone since—well, you came back.”
She clears her throat and continues, “When you looked at me on that rooftop, I saw a stranger. It freaked me the fuck out, and to be honest, I still mostly see a stranger. At least, compared to the man I thought knew, but,” she blows out a breath and her hair wiggles around her cheeks. “How much of him is left in there?” Her asking is surprising, but not at the same time. Iza is a forthright person and doesn’t do well with subterfuge or deception. Going either direction.
“Enough to keep me here—to always keep me here.” The car swerves when she looks at me, and she allows it to bump and rip through the grass and gravel in the median, as she stares at me. This car won’t survive this trip.
“That doesn’t really answer the question.” Not to her satisfaction.
“This is the version of me that will remain.” I had hoped to not broach this particular part of things. Thinking about it is entirely different than speaking about it. Plus, it brings this ridiculous angst back that makes me want to punch her and kiss her at the same time.
“I see,” she says, turning the car back onto the road and turning up the radio to drown out the sound of a flat tire beating against the body of the car. I try to slip into her mind but find myself blocked, more thoroughly than before. I stop pressing and sit back as comfortably as I can in the seat. Pushing her gets the same result as her pushing me. Nothing.
My thoughts drift to the plans I glimpsed in her mind before she kicked me out of it. As angry as she is and as much as she wants to kill as many Light Fey as she can, the Guide still makes her nervous. Not because of his own power but because of the power of Light that he has in his amulet. The power my brother gave him that’s weighing the odds in his favor. Iza knows she can hold her own against him without it. She doesn’t have the arrogance to think she’ll win for sure, but she has more to fight for.
The Guide only wants more power, while Iza wants to destroy the parasitic Schoth that have murdered and preyed upon her and the Feyrie for decades. Justice. That kind of motivation has won wars. It’ll push her forward when she’s too tired to walk, to fight. That edge is something her counterpart will never have and might be the deciding factor in the inevitable battle between the two of them. I can’t touch him… yet. If given the chance, I’ll be the deciding factor, even if it pisses her off—and it will.
In the back of my mind is a persistent memory about a collar, their special weapon to use against her. Before we left, I asked Jameson about it. When he explained what it was and that he was the one to help create it, I almost bashed his face in. It will have no effect on me, not that I’ll play their trade game again or let them get close enough to try. I’m not a Feyrie but Iza is, in essence, the Feyrie. It’ll be detrimental to her.
That collar will sever her connection to the Sidhe and the Dark Magiks.
Before I can say anything about it, there’s a loud boom, and the car comes to a grinding, shuddering halt.
“I think we need to get a new car,” she says and gets out. With minimal effort she pushes the car off the road and after watching smoke curl out from under the hood of the car, I get out and grab our bags out the back seat and we start walking towards town. It only takes her twenty minutes and a short trip into a ditch to make her stop trying to take her bag off my shoulder.
5
The last time I bought a car, it was on the internet. I found what I wanted, clicked it, bought it and had it delivered. I’ve never been to a dealership before. This might be a speck of fun in an otherwise shifty situation. It amazes me that so many humans are still carrying on like life is normal and there’s not murderous Schoth killing people all over the world. A boon in my favor in this circumstance.
Walking through the parking lot packed full of cars is nice, up until the heavy set man—smelling strongly of body odor and cigarettes—heads towards us like a gryphon that’s spotted a tasty sheep. His brown hair is slicked sideways over the mostly bare scalp shining in the sun. His beady brown eyes are already sizing us up and finding us lacking. I’m thankful for my glamour; I’m a fuzz grouchy and my hair is agitated. Oh, and the blood, but it’s amazing how often people ignore such a thing.
“Don’t get any of the used cars here, they’re all junk,” Phobe cautions, out loud in hearing distance of the salesman.
“What about the new ones?”
“They’re safe but overpriced.”
Watching the human approach—a more cautious look on his face now—I subtly scope out the trucks. That’s a vehicle I haven’t had yet and with it being only Phobe and I, we don’t need a lot of room. But we will need four wheel drive. Some of the camps are off the main roads up in the mountains. It’s one of the reasons I’m going to punch Jameson in his face for giving me that small car. The canary wouldn’t have made it either, but it would have made it further.
“Good afternoon folks, what brings you out today?” he greets jovially. While his eyes take in the quality of our clothes and—his eyes flick behind us—lack of car.
“We’ll come get someone if we need any help,” I say turning away to head towards the trucks.
“I’ll keep you company, it’s not often a woman comes in to get a big, new truck. You might need information on them.” Sexist much? I look over at Phobe, who’s frowning at the salesman. I know he can see Phobe, so why did he ignore him entirely?
‘He wants you to rely on his guidance to choose the most expensive truck they have so he can take the bonus from his sales and see a bunch of naked women on poles that he pays to have sex with him.’ Phobe informs me as the frown on his face clears. This salesman has some awesome life goals—at least the pay for sex part. The women on poles might be fun to see.
“I think any questions I have, I can look up on my phone or my companion can answer for me.” I’m not a super polite person on a good day, I think people go out of their way too much, and waste time an energy on useless verbal dances.
His beady eyes narrow but he keeps that plastic smile on his face. “Will you be financing today? That’s something I can get started for you once I have some general information.”
“I’m not financing anything.” I pay for everything in full, makes life easier—this sloppy fucker doesn’t need to know that.
“How do you expect to get a car without financing?” His tone has changed from fake-friendly to downright condescending.
“Are you the only salesperson?”
“We’re a tri-county dealership, we have twelve salespeople on staff at any given time,” he brags.
Good, I don’t have to deal with this prick. “Can you go get me one of them?” His face goes through a myriad of emotions before landing on disbelief.
“But I'm the salesman of the month.”
Ignoring his comment, I add, “A woman would be great too, thanks.” I genuinely want someone else to help, because in this situation I do need it. Their car bartering system isn’t as easy as other trades. I can’t just hand them money and walk off, you have to title it and tag it and get insurance for it. So many steps for something so simple.
With a dirty look directed at me and then Phobe—who he’s noticing all the sudden—he turns and heads back towards the office in the middle of the parking lot.
“I want something in red or blue. Four wheel drive, all the bells and whistles,” I say rubbing my hands together in excitement. Without waiting on Phobe I head towards the rows of shiny trucks, my eyes already on a bright red one that’s basically calling my name. Getting to it I try the door but it’s locked. I hop up and down trying to peek in the window but am still too short.
“Are you sure one this high is a good idea?” Phobe asks dryly.
“Yes, it means I have plenty of ground clearance to run people over.”
“Should we perhaps purchase a step stool?” he teases.
“Har, har you’re so funny.” One last hop and I give up and turn to look at him pleadingly. “Give me a boost, please?” Turning me, he lifts me up easily and I look inside the truck. Fabric seats, big screen display, DVD players in the back. Nice. I pat his hand to signal for him to let me down and he drops me.
The sticker on the window says it has everything I need and lots of things I didn’t know I needed. Heated and cooled seats. Fancy stereo system. It’s perfect.
“I want this one.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to look at any others?”
“Uh-huh, where’s that other salesperson at, I want to get back on the road.”
“Ma’am…” huffing and puffing a disheveled younger lady with long, blonde hair makes her way over to us. “I was sent out here to help you.” Her eyes are wide, and full of genuineness.
“Good, I want this truck.”
“Do you already have private financing or do you need to apply?”
“I’m paying cash.” Her mouth forms an O and it takes her a minute to gather herself. Clearing her throat she runs her hands down the front of her navy blue blouse; she’s all business now.
“This is a sixty-thousand dollar truck, ma’am.”
“Yeah, I can read the sticker on the window,” I tease. “So, can we move this along a bit? I have somewhere to be soon.” Nodding emphatically she turns on her heel and heads back towards the office. Pulling out my phone I text Harvard. Harvard has earned a special place in my life as my manager—so to speak. He helps me with money and he’s damn good at it. I also pay him well for the privilege. He still manages the hotel—all of them in fact—and now me.
Me: Found a truck I want, will be putting it on the black card.
After a few seconds my phone dings.
Harvard: Okay, send me the info when you get it so I can transfer insurance to it.
Me: Thank you, Harv, you’re the best.
When we enter the cooled office, that still smells like someone’s lunch of spices, chicken and broccoli, everyone is staring at us. Is it really that strange to ask for a different salesperson? He can’t be the only shitty one here.
“Right this way, please,” she says, pointing towards a desk that sits apart from the others. Yeah, he’s not the only shitty salesman; anyone who put her in the corner like a bad egg, is now part of the shitty club.
“He sent you out because he doesn’t think I’m buying anything, didn’t he?” I ask as we sit in the two beige, plastic chairs in front of her desk. Giving me a tired look she nods as she sinks into her chair with a sigh.
“That’s okay, I don’t mind helping either way. It should never be about the bonus, it should be about the customer.” She gives me a friendly smile and starts typing. “I want to let you know we also have that particular model in several other colors, if that interests you.” I shake my head. She turns her monitor around and shows me all of the specifics about the truck that aren’t on the sticker. “Do you have any questions?”
“Nope, I’d be quite happy if you could speed this along a bit. There are places I need to be.” Her smile remains but her eyebrows go up in question.
“The sticker price is sixty-one-thousand.”
“What’s the cash price?” Her eyebrows notch up even further.
She leans on the desk closer to me and whispers, “Honestly, I’m supposed to drop it a couple of grand and act like I’m giving you an awesome deal, but the truth is, fifty-thousand and it’s yours.”
Opening my bag, that’s conveniently sitting at my feet, I pull out my wallet and put the black credit card on her desk.
“That will cover everything… oh, I don’t want any bullshit dealership specific stuff.” She nods and continues typing into her computer.
A man walks over to us and I can tell by the cut of his suit that he’s more than likely the owner. He stops beside the desk and first frowns at the woman—whose name I don’t know, she doesn’t have a nameplate on her desk—and then smiles at me.
“Everything going well here?” he asks, sounding doubtful.
“Yeah, if you had more salesmen like her, you’d make more money.” His mouth drops open in surprise but he recovers quickly.
“Is that so?” I nod and he looks back at the woman with a new light. “Cash purchase?” Why is everyone always so surprised about that, I can’t be the only person to ever do it? “As a sign of our appreciation I’d like to throw in a few extras. They can be dealt with while Marie is processing everything. Thank you for buying at Dinnels.” With that said, he turns and heads towards the only walled office in the place.
I wonder what extras he’s giving us?
“A tow package, some type of cover for the back of the truck and new tires,” Phobe supplies quietly. This is when mind readers are handy.
‘How is that no one is commenting on you? Even glamoured you usually rile a few folks up,’ I ask him silently.
‘My glamour is different now, I’m less… here.’
‘After we’re done here I want to stop and grab a few things at the survival place that the Internet says is near here. We’ll be spending some time camping out in the woods so I’d rather have some necessities and comforts.’
‘You do realize that he’s in there calling the law to see if yo
u’re legit?’ The fun of the moment is gone and I stand up and walk to the office. The door is locked but with a sharp twist the knob comes off in my hands. When it creaks open he drops the phone in his hand on the desk and scampers to pick it up.
“I come here to this shit hole place to buy a car and you call the cops on me?” I demand, not feeling appreciative of the hassle this can cause me.
“You’re using a credit card that only one percent of the world possesses, you can’t tell me that doesn’t raise a few red flags,” he defends himself flimsily.
I get it, kinda, but it’s taking the small spark of excitement out of an already shitty day. If he were anyone else, and I didn’t need a car, I’d squash him with his desk. It’s cheaply made so he might even survive it.
“The Yelp review I leave you won’t be a nice one.” I just want to get the truck and leave. Not deal with law enforcement and that whole mess. Beating him up won’t fix that problem, it’ll only make me feel better.
So I’ll fight fire with fire. Pulling out my phone I call the one person that I know can fix this, quickly and without me destroying half the place.
“Yes, Miss Black?” Harvard’s voice is as posh as ever. Secretly, I call him sometimes to hear him talk.
“I’m trying to buy this truck, but because I’m using the credit card he’s calling the cops on me to verify that I’m not some drug lord from the South,” I complain into the phone.
“What’s the name of the dealership?”
“Dinnels.”
“Hold one moment, please,” he says and the music comes on the phone.
In less than a minute the desk phone on the owner’s—Marc Dinnel does have a nameplate—rings. He answers it with a wary look at me.
“Dinnels?” His eyes widen and he nods as whoever is on the other side speaks. “Of course, I’ll get it taken care of immediately.” When he hangs up he turns back to me and says, “That was your attorney,” he clears his throat and loosens his tie. “You’re the daughter of Sergean Black?” I nod, not really knowing how he knows the name but if it helps further this along I’m fine with that.