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Westvane and his supersonic hearing picked it up. “Why not?”
“Too close to home.” Her eyes jumped from a low-slung Mercedes to an SUV, then moved on to a pickup truck. Lots of bling. Monster tires. Too showy. No way she was breaking into and stealing any of those. Rolling through Philly with Westvane made her conspicuous enough. “We need to go farther afield.”
Westvane gave her a strange look. “You do realize your house is invisible.”
“Invisible?” Another slice of startling news. Truly stopped beneath the outstretched arms of a big oak tree. Really, it was getting old. She ought to be used to surprises by now. “What do you mean — invisible?”
“Humans can’t see it.”
“But…” She frowned. “I have an address.”
“Not one that exists in human databases.”
Well, there went the possibility of meeting her new postman.
“Safer for you. The Yeomanry can’t attack what they can’t find.” Parallel to her position on the sidewalk, Westvane glanced up through the maze of branches, his gaze on the rising moon. “And Azlandians who require an audience with you can visit without drawing notice.”
An audience? “I’m not the Queen of England, Westvane.”
“No, you’re much more important.”
“You need to stop.”
“What?”
“I can’t handle any more surprises right now.”
Dragging his focus from the sky, he looked at her from the corner of his eye. “Can’t help you there. Until you learn what you need to, surprise is part of the game.”
“Figures.”
“Stop stalling,” he said, gesturing to the line of vehicles. “Pick one.”
“I want my baby.”
“Who?”
“My ’Cuda.”
He grumbled something under his breath. “We spoke about this.”
“You did. Doesn’t mean I agreed.” Liberating her girl from the PPD’s impound yard ought to be priority number one.
“Truly.”
“All right, all right.”
Making it clear she was doing it under protest, she started walking again. She took inventory, tracking both sides of the street. She needed something fast with clean lines, nothing too flashy. She wanted to fly under the radar. The last thing she needed was cops on her tail.
Halfway down the block, Truly spotted it — a low-slung El Camino. Rusted in spots, scratched and dented in others, at a guess, circa the mid-1980s. Perfect. Big engine. Tinted windows. A bucket in back to toss the Wendigo after Westvane trussed it up.
Stopping beside it, she checked both sides of the street. “Keep an eye out.”
Westvane nodded.
She slipped her kit from beneath her leather jacket. A pro at getting into cars, she handled the tool with ease, sliding the bar between the window and the rubber seal. A quick thrust down, a quicker jerk up and…
The lock clicked as the door knob flipped up.
