Kept (11 page)

I cringed. It was absolutely, positively disgusting.

My chest constricted, so I took a short walk for some air. The cold breeze from the Atlantic brought me some comfort, but it wasn’t enough to keep me from thinking about what I had to do. It was time to focus on the truck. Take stock of it or something. I circled the vehicle and checked the tires. The treads were a bit worn, but they’d hold for the trip. I didn’t know what other things to look for, since my dad and Alex were the ones who took care of this kind of stuff. But there was nothing broken or hanging off to give me any concerns.

Something about the back of the truck caught my eye, though. A thick padlock sealed the door shut. At first I was scared about the contents behind it, but somehow I let it go. I told myself,
If it’s dirty, I don’t need to see what’s inside
. And I damn well didn’t want to
handle
what could be inside either. Let it stew in the funk, for all I cared. I didn’t smell narcotics. Matter of fact, I didn’t smell anything at all. What the hell was I carrying? The curious wolf in me urged me to reach out to touch the door, but I stopped myself. Eww. No thanks.

A quick glance at my wristwatch convinced me I’d wasted too much time. I had less than twenty-four hours to make a twelve-hour trip. In a vehicle I wasn’t legally qualified to drive, and without GPS.

The perfect Sunday drive.

When I got back into the truck cabin and shut the door, I faced my next problem.

I didn’t know how to drive a truck.

Well, at least I could start the damn thing. I turned the key in the ignition, and the truck roared to life. Good, one more thing to check off the list.

While the cabin warmed up, I took out my wipes and did what I could with the steering wheel and whatever else I could reach. No one had bothered to clean out the candy wrappers or the empty fast-food bags on the seats. I always carried a plastic bag in my purse for waste, so I just threw everything away.

Soon enough, the cabin was nice and toasty, so it was time for me to grab something, or push something, and make this thing move. It was just like a car, right? I’d driven a stick shift before. But, come to think of it, that was over seven years ago. Still, wasn’t driving like riding a bike? A few minutes and I’ll be good.

It took me a half hour to leave the lot.

The dump truck was cumbersome, and steering it was like driving … a humongous truck. I’d driven my father’s truck before, but that was another story. I had no idea how to make wide turns or avoid the mountain bike I ran over. (I left a note and some money—next to the pieces anyway.)

I had a few blocks to the Expressway and prayed the cops wouldn’t pull me over. I sure as hell would have pulled me over if I saw the driver of a huge dump truck was some chick gripping the wheel like she was attached to the damn thing. By the time I spotted the exit, I breathed a sigh of relief. Once I was on the highway, things would go a lot more smoothly.

Or so I thought. The window to view the sides didn’t help at all. How the heck did truck drivers see out those things? I craned my neck to see beyond the lane to make sure I didn’t run someone off the road. The first hints of traffic loomed on the highway, and I needed to make progress before I got caught in it.

I didn’t even have to cuss out any drivers to get on the
highway. Everyone kindly got out of the way. I could’ve gotten into one of the left lanes, but why bother tempting fate?

The drive to the toll road went well. Of course, every time someone honked near me I wanted to bare my teeth at them. Not only was I a first-time dump truck driver, but I was an anxious one.

I made it to the toll booth in the second lane just like the guard told me to do. I whipped out a few dollar bills, but when I reached the booth, the werewolf, a man who appeared to be in his late forties, just smacked his lips and gestured for me to roll through.

“Good luck,” was all he said.

“Uh-huh.” I had a feeling I’d need it.

The Atlantic City Expressway eventually got me to my turnoff to the Garden State Parkway. This route was familiar to me, since I’d taken it numerous times to get home from my various little shopping trips. From here, I’d ride past smaller towns and patches of forest. My speed was a steady fifty-five, since I had trouble shifting up to the next gear. Why hurry anyway? I had all day to make the trip, and a faster speed wouldn’t keep me from driving through the day into the night. According to the directions, I had about 550 miles. If my math was right, driving at the speed limit would get me to my destination by the end of the day. Easy peasy.

My confidence faltered when I noticed a car following close behind me. The black SUV looked a bit beat-up, with a scratched front fender. My first thought was,
Thorn?
But he’d been in the dark red rental SUV when he’d left to take my father home. His SUV at home was black, but the outside was in immaculate condition.
Don’t get me started on the inside
.

At first I expected the SUV to pass me, like everyone else, but it simply matched my speed.

Suspicious, I slowed down a bit. Why not go Cindy-Speed-Limit to see if they passed me with a frown?

But they just slowed down even more.

Shit.

I reached for my phone but stopped. Who could I call? My brother? He might be busy helping his wife give birth. If I called Thorn for help, I was opening a can of worms.

Of course, I could approach this a different way. I picked up the phone and dialed Thorn’s cell.

“Hello.” It was a woman’s soft voice.

Crap. “Is Thorn there, please?”

A slight pause. Out of all the voices in South Toms River, I knew Erica Holden’s right away. If all stuck-up bitches had a particular type of voice, then Erica would be their poster child.

“What do you want? He’s busy.” Her normally chipper voice now had an edge to it. If I was in front of her I would’ve cowered at her dominance.

“I need to check on my father. Thorn delivered him to a healer.”

“I see.”

She didn’t speak for some time. I knew she wasn’t moving or checking with Thorn. It was just her way of being spiteful and making me wait.

Finally, I found my voice. “Can I speak with him, please? Unless you know if my father’s okay?” I tried to be nice. I really did. My grandmother would be proud I didn’t tell Erica what I really thought of her.

“Thorn.” Erica yelled the word and then dropped the phone on a hard surface. Most likely a table. The jarring noise reverberated against my eardrum and almost made me jerk the steering wheel to the left.

“Damn it all the hell,” I hissed.

Of course, that was when Thorn picked up the phone.

“Nat?”

“Hey, Thorn. Is my father okay?”

“We’re at the healers right now. She’s still taking care of him.” He sighed. “He’s in really bad shape.”

I flexed my fingers on the wheel. “What exactly did the healer say?”

“Don’t worry about that right now. How are you holding up?”

My thoughts went to Erica, who was most likely standing close to his side and listening in on the conversation. I bet she wondered if I’d beg for him to come help me. I almost laughed and thought bitterly,
I’m all alone, and now you’ve got him all to yourself. Enjoy your sloppy seconds
.

“I’m great.”

The vehicle behind me slowly ate away the distance between us. I checked the speedometer. I wasn’t slowing down.

“How long have you got to get there?” he asked.

A few feet separated me from the SUV now. I sped up. The SUV matched my speed.

“I-I just started out not too long ago,” I stammered. “I’ll be there tonight and should return home tomorrow.”

“You don’t sound as confident as you did last night.”

I heard Erica say, “Thorn, I’m hungry, let’s go get some breakfast.”

“Just a minute,” Thorn said. “It won’t take long.” I could sense his exasperation.

“Go ahead and take Erica to get something to eat,” I told him. “You don’t need to stay with my dad. I bet Mom’s there already.”

“Yeah, she’s here.” Then he was silent. Words hung between us, like always. Maybe the conversation could’ve gone like this:

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come help you?”

“Actually, I do want you here. I’m kinda scared and grossed out.”

“After I check on your dad, I’ll be there.”

But that wasn’t what happened.

“Stay out of trouble, Natalya.”

“I will,” I said softly.

Then he hung up.

Thorn wasn’t behind me. A flash of disappointment hit my gut. I guess I’d gotten used to him protecting me. But he’d done a great deal for my family by delivering Dad to the healer. It was a damn shame Erica played tagalong to watch him while he waited for news.

Which brought another question to mind. Who the hell was driving behind me?

A second later, whoever it was rammed into the dump truck.

Chapter 8

W
hen
the dump truck swerved, my head swung to the left hard enough for my neck to jerk painfully. The dull screech of metal against metal made me cringe. I glanced ahead and behind me. No cops, thank goodness. But there was also no one around to react to the SUV hitting me. When I sped up, they matched my speed again. And then I could go no faster—I’d need to shift again to do that. My trembling hands attempted to switch the gears. Every time I fumbled with them, the truck grumbled and groaned at my half-assed attempt to head into fifth gear. For once I wished I’d spent more time with my brother when Dad was teaching him the basics of mechanics and cars. Instead, I’d been more than happy to hang out inside the house and watch soap operas with my grandmother.

The truck jostled as it was hit again.

“Damn it!”

My exasperated breath fogged up the front window. With one hand, I managed to grip the wheel and roll down the window to let in the chill. Which, when my attackers came around the truck, I realized wasn’t the best choice. A cold gust entered the cab, but the chill didn’t affect me as I watched the SUV gun it down the opposite lane to approach me.

It came at me fast, since no cars were coming the other
way. I pushed on the gas even more. “Faster, you piece of shit!”

I could pull over at the next exit, or I could slow down enough for them to either pass me—or shoot me.

The SUV’s darkened windows didn’t reveal the occupants. And now I watched with horror as their windows rolled down. My mouth slowly dropped, expecting a gun to appear. But nothing came out.

Another car approached from the opposite lane, so the SUV pulled ahead of me.

For a moment, I sighed with relief. Maybe it was nothing.

But then a faint scent hit my nose. One I’d never smelled before. It was like a washed-out meadow after rain. Muddy and rich. Nymphs? Fairies?

Then I heard scratching noises along the side of the truck. A peek out the side window revealed nothing amiss. But my ears and nose never lied when I was on alert. Something was on the truck. The SUV remained ahead of me, an even length away.

Oh, shit. Had they left me a little present on the truck? Should I make a stop at the closest car wash?

I swerved a bit to avoid a pothole and heard rustling along the top of the truck. Tiny scrapes like claws moving along the metal. I looked up and wished I’d brought a weapon with me. The scraping got louder as whatever it was crawled along the roof, then descended down the side.

My mind drifted away for a second—racing to figure out how to defend myself.

A tiny voice in my head screamed,
Hey, genius, roll up the window!

I scrambled into action, using the rusty handle to raise the window. Along the driver’s side, the noises increased until my ears told me they were right above the windshield
on the passenger side. And they were heading for the driver’s-side window.

Said window groaned with each pull upward. I cursed every turn with all the bad words I could think of in Russian. I even said a few I’d heard Uncle Boris use when he thought the kids weren’t listening.

The taps and scrapes grew louder as my pursuers approached faster—the scent of magic increased to the point where I knew it was a hairbreadth from attacking me.

And then, just when the window was halfway closed, the freaking handle broke off.

With one hand on the wheel, I used the other to crank what was left of the handle to roll the window the rest of the way up. I didn’t make it.

Something black and slimy stretched into the truck and swiped at my head. I tried to move to the right, but it snatched a nice handful of my hair. I growled and tugged to the right again, only for my head to be pulled back toward the window. When I released the wheel to protect myself, the truck rolled off the road before I could manage to grab it again. The car behind me honked again and again.

Another rough yank on my hair and my claws emerged to scratch at the hand. Black blood, warm and stinking of bitter copper, filled the cabin. Whatever fought to pull out my hair now tried to crawl farther into the cabin. No matter how much I hissed and clawed at my intruder, it stubbornly held on to my hair.

The arm extended farther inside and was followed by a tiny bald and black head. Skin as shiny as wet rocks felt slimy to the touch. With white, pupil-less eyes, it glared at me and hissed, “Pull oooo-ver!”

I reached down and clutched the broken door handle. When a vicious jab, I stabbed my attacker in the face. It screeched and then rolled off the truck. Through the
rearview mirror I watched the creature fall on the highway and then get run over—by an ice-cream van. Should I call it magical roadkill now?

A tired breath escaped my lungs. The SUV was out of sight. But I felt wary and on edge. I’d been attacked, but not by werewolves. Werewolves didn’t employ these kinds of creatures.

The side of my head ached. I’d been stabbed in the neck with Scabbard’s magical knife, and now I was driving with shaking hands. What little control I still had over the truck was precarious.

After driving in fear for twenty minutes, I decided to stop and get my shit together. Time to pull over. I spied the first exit advertising diesel fuel, in New Gretna. With some gas for the truck and a nice cup of coffee for me, perhaps I could piece things together.