the car into gear and eased into a left turn. “I think this way’s down,” she said. “At least we should hit a crossroad or a sign eventually.”
“You’re the boss.”
Jesus. Did he have to sound like she’d kicked him in the balls? Irritated, more with herself than him, she walked the car up to a decent speed and listened to the tires slice over drenched asphalt. After a long silence, she coughed once and gestured to the radio. “You want that on? It might take a while until we get oriented again.”
“Nah. If there’s any stations in range, it’s probably your choice of country, country, and western.” He dropped his gaze to his lap. “Jazz, I’m sorry I got us lost.”
His apology where hers should’ve been sent a spark of anger sizzling through her. She managed to throttle it back. “It’s not completely your fault,” she said. “I’m driving.”
“Yeah, well—holy shit. You see that thing up there?”
“What...” Thing? The rest of the question faded from her lips. The rusted hulk of an old car lay by the side of the road ahead, choked in tangles of weeds. She slowed when they passed it, and gave a low whistle. “That’s a DeSoto. Well, it used to be. Back in the ‘50s. Jesus, it’s crumpled to hell.”
“Kind of weird, isn’t it? All the way out here?”
“Yes. Weird.” It was damned unsettling. Like finding a horse in a parking garage—or rather, the bleached skeleton of a horse.
The road curved, and when they rounded the bend something shivered in her gut. “There’s another one,” she said. A rusted, twisted auto body overgrown with brown vegetation. This one had come to rest from whatever crashed it on its side. “A Mustang. Early ‘70s.”
Donatti stared at it. “Okay, I’m creeped out,” he said.
“I’m turning around. We’ll go the other way.” She tapped the brake.
The car sped up.
“What the fuck ?” Jazz gripped the wheel and tromped on the brake. It didn’t slip, shimmy or sink to the floor. Went down cushioned, like a normal pedal. But the sedan didn’t slow. The speedometer climbed to thirty-five, forty, forty-five. She didn’t dare take her eyes from the road.
“Uh, Jazz?” Donatti’s voice shook a little. “We going for a Dukes of Hazzard turn here?”
“It won’t stop.” She managed to sound calm. “I changed my mind. Use magic.”
“Right.”
They flew past another wreck, too fast to make—but definitely a classic car like the rest. She knew it took him a few minutes to do anything magic. It had to warm up or something. The needle climbed. Fifty. Fifty-five. The wheel strained in her hands, and the car tilted.
Ahead, the road curved.
A string of curses refused to pass her lips. She grabbed for the emergency brake, hit the button, and the steering wheel lurched from her grip. She didn’t even have time to shout a warning. With a squeal of rubber, the car spun out of control, rammed something on the shoulder and lifted airborne.
Her body jerked like a whip, and her head smacked the wheel. The lights went out.
* * *
S unlight and singing birds. The crisp, sweet smell of autumn leaves. All the ingredients for a beautiful fall day hovered just outside Jazz’s closed eyes.
None of them were right. It was raining. Dark. And she’d crashed the car.
Her eyes snapped open, and a startled gasp escaped. No broken glass or twisted metal. She was on a bed, in a room—not a hospital. Thick log walls. Cabin walls. To her right, French doors stood open on a wooden patio overlooking miles of picturesque mountain forest, red and gold and green. It would’ve taken her breath away if she hadn’t already lost it.
Though her body ached, there was no real pain. She touched fingers to her forehead where she’d cracked the wheel and found smooth, unbroken skin. No bumps or gashes. Had she dreamed the accident? Maybe they’d made it to the stupid cabin after all. But if they had, where was Donatti?
Besides, it’d been too
“You’re the boss.”
Jesus. Did he have to sound like she’d kicked him in the balls? Irritated, more with herself than him, she walked the car up to a decent speed and listened to the tires slice over drenched asphalt. After a long silence, she coughed once and gestured to the radio. “You want that on? It might take a while until we get oriented again.”
“Nah. If there’s any stations in range, it’s probably your choice of country, country, and western.” He dropped his gaze to his lap. “Jazz, I’m sorry I got us lost.”
His apology where hers should’ve been sent a spark of anger sizzling through her. She managed to throttle it back. “It’s not completely your fault,” she said. “I’m driving.”
“Yeah, well—holy shit. You see that thing up there?”
“What...” Thing? The rest of the question faded from her lips. The rusted hulk of an old car lay by the side of the road ahead, choked in tangles of weeds. She slowed when they passed it, and gave a low whistle. “That’s a DeSoto. Well, it used to be. Back in the ‘50s. Jesus, it’s crumpled to hell.”
“Kind of weird, isn’t it? All the way out here?”
“Yes. Weird.” It was damned unsettling. Like finding a horse in a parking garage—or rather, the bleached skeleton of a horse.
The road curved, and when they rounded the bend something shivered in her gut. “There’s another one,” she said. A rusted, twisted auto body overgrown with brown vegetation. This one had come to rest from whatever crashed it on its side. “A Mustang. Early ‘70s.”
Donatti stared at it. “Okay, I’m creeped out,” he said.
“I’m turning around. We’ll go the other way.” She tapped the brake.
The car sped up.
“What the fuck ?” Jazz gripped the wheel and tromped on the brake. It didn’t slip, shimmy or sink to the floor. Went down cushioned, like a normal pedal. But the sedan didn’t slow. The speedometer climbed to thirty-five, forty, forty-five. She didn’t dare take her eyes from the road.
“Uh, Jazz?” Donatti’s voice shook a little. “We going for a Dukes of Hazzard turn here?”
“It won’t stop.” She managed to sound calm. “I changed my mind. Use magic.”
“Right.”
They flew past another wreck, too fast to make—but definitely a classic car like the rest. She knew it took him a few minutes to do anything magic. It had to warm up or something. The needle climbed. Fifty. Fifty-five. The wheel strained in her hands, and the car tilted.
Ahead, the road curved.
A string of curses refused to pass her lips. She grabbed for the emergency brake, hit the button, and the steering wheel lurched from her grip. She didn’t even have time to shout a warning. With a squeal of rubber, the car spun out of control, rammed something on the shoulder and lifted airborne.
Her body jerked like a whip, and her head smacked the wheel. The lights went out.
* * *
S unlight and singing birds. The crisp, sweet smell of autumn leaves. All the ingredients for a beautiful fall day hovered just outside Jazz’s closed eyes.
None of them were right. It was raining. Dark. And she’d crashed the car.
Her eyes snapped open, and a startled gasp escaped. No broken glass or twisted metal. She was on a bed, in a room—not a hospital. Thick log walls. Cabin walls. To her right, French doors stood open on a wooden patio overlooking miles of picturesque mountain forest, red and gold and green. It would’ve taken her breath away if she hadn’t already lost it.
Though her body ached, there was no real pain. She touched fingers to her forehead where she’d cracked the wheel and found smooth, unbroken skin. No bumps or gashes. Had she dreamed the accident? Maybe they’d made it to the stupid cabin after all. But if they had, where was Donatti?
Besides, it’d been too
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