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Chapter Eight
Willow
My kidnapper binds my hands behind me with what feels like metallic zip ties—to prevent shifting—and plops me into the seat beside her.
And then we drive for what feels like forever.
At first, Diana is full of questions—and commentary and insults so profanity-laced and creative they would have made me laugh in any other situation.
But nothing’s funny right now, and our captors have clearly been given orders not to speak.
They don’t say a word in response to Diana’s tirade—not so much as a sigh or mutter of irritation—and eventually she falls quiet.
The silence after is thick with fear and tension, broken only by traffic noise from outside and eventually the sound of the wind rushing around the car as we hit the highway and head…west, I think.
My sense of direction is all screwed up, but I’m pretty sure I feel warmth from the sun coming into the car on the back of my head through the rear window. It’s still morning and the sun is rising in the eastern sky, so…west.
But west to where?
And how far?
As we drive and drive—and drive—my panic gives way to a steadily simmering anxiety and an eagerness for the other shoe to drop already.
Where the hell are we going?
Just as I’m about to ask how much longer we’ll be in the car—and if I should go ahead and wet myself or if a bathroom will be made available to those of us who can’t go hours without peeing—Jacob asks in a husky voice, “Can we stop for beef jerky and grape sodas, already? Only a bunch of real dicks would take people on a road trip without snacks.”
“No way,” Diana says. “Not grape soda. I told you, the smell makes me want to puke. It’s like melted cough drops mixed with old Halloween candy.”
“No, it’s like childhood in a can,” Jacob shoots back, the playful note in his voice belied by the sweet-and sour odor drifting from the other side of the limo.
It’s similar to a wolf’s fear scent, but with a top note of spun sugar.
It reminds me of my djinn friend Vivi’s cat, Whiskey, when I was little. Her fur always smelled so sweet, especially after she gave herself a bath. Whiskey would only let me get close if she was sleeping and I crept up very quietly—my dad was right about housecats not enjoying the company of shifters, even in our human forms—but I loved to hover my nose over her warm body and inhale her yummy scent.
I wanted to cuddle her so much I must have tried a dozen times and ended up with scratches all over my arms to show for it. Vivi felt so bad for me that she promised to grant my wish to be beloved by all cats as soon as she was old enough to come into her genie powers, but her family moved away before we started fourth grade.
Victor sent his men to scare off all the non-shifter families living in our building, banishing all the other supernaturals to even worse housing situations in Parallel Red Hook.
I haven’t thought of Vivi for years, but as Diana and Jacob continue to banter about road trip snacks—and our captors continue to sit in stony silence—I vow that when this is all over, I’ll track her down. First, I’ll crush my enemies here in Human Side, then in the Parallel, and then I’ll set up an integrated council to establish peaceful rule in supernatural Brooklyn.
I realize I’m thinking like a queen—and a mad one, at that, considering my current situation—but I don’t care.
I refuse to be afraid anymore. Wherever we’re going and whoever sent these men, they don’t want us dead, or we’d be dead already.
Which means there’s no reason to be a model prisoner.
“Pull over, take this bag off my head, and let me use the restroom,” I announce firmly. “Now.”
Diana and Jacob are quiet for a second—clearly shocked by my outburst—but a beat later Diana says, “Yeah. I have to go, too. And I’m on my period, so we need to stop somewhere where I can buy tampons or I’m going to bleed all over your fancy car.”
My pulse spikes with hope—smart, Diana.
Make them stop at a shop where we’ll have a chance of getting help.
If we can get someone to call the police, we’ll have a shot. Human police won’t have a chance against our captors—they’re wearing fairy armor that bullets can’t pierce—but they might at least slow them down long enough for us to get away.
But as anticipated, our guards continue to play the quiet game.
