Because neither of us knew how to drive.
I cursed, and felt his apology; he wanted to help. Not your fault, I told him, and then cursed again, the deep sound echoing around the cab as the albino sped past us in a red sports car. One that screamed its way out of the lot a moment later, but we had no way to follow. The troll didn’t know what to do, and my twin’s mind was still unconscious, buried under a couple of fallen combatants. Even had I been willing to risk direct contact, she couldn’t help me.
Damn it!
Someone knocked on the door of the cab. I looked out and saw the bag lady from before, hanging off the side of the truck, gripping the mirror. And looking more than a little disturbed. She was babbling and pointing back the way we’d come, as if trying to tell somebody about the madness she’d just witnessed.
Until her bleary eyes caught mine, and she registered who it was, exactly, she was talking to.
She jumped down, surprisingly spry for her age, and took off, her shopping cart speeding in front of her. But I caught her mind—interesting—and made an offer. Not a demand; such things were difficult, and dangerous if the unwilling one was about to be piloting a few tons of racing metal.
But no such pressure was needed.
I saw her slow, saw her shoulders twitch. Saw the question in her mind, and knew the answer. She looked back, the fear in her eyes suddenly replaced by something else.
And then I was sliding over to the passenger side, and she was scrambling into the cab.
She was a strange-looking creature, with half-smoked cigarettes sticking out of her frowzled gray afro in a dozen places, patched skirts bunched up around her wrinkled knees, and the smell of alcohol on her breath.
“I really shouldn’t be driving,” she told me conversationally, as the engine turned over. “I drink, you know.”
“Hit the gas,” I growled, and we took off, the truck lurching ahead from a dead stop, and then screeching around a corner.
It had taken us only a moment to get going, but our vehicle was slow, and with the slaver’s head start, I was afraid we would be too late. But then I saw him up ahead, stopped at a red light. Because humans are creatures of habit even when running for their lives.
Until he saw us, coming up fast behind him, and shot ahead, barreling through the intersection and getting clipped by a truck in the process.
It spun him around, but didn’t do much to slow him down.
But the few seconds it took for him to get oriented bought us some useful time. The trolls we had come with had seen his flight as well, and had rushed down the length of the building, emerging on the sidewalk at a lumbering run as we shot past. And then stopped on a dime, my huge, borrowed arm sticking out of the window to beckon them forward.
They got in.
The truck sagged with their weight, making it even slower than before, but I wanted backup in case he was leading us to some of his own. And then the light changed and we went charging forward, the gas pedal all the way down because our driver had a crazy gleam in her eyes. Maybe she really shouldn’t be driving, I thought—too late.
But it seemed to be working. And the added weight ensured that we did not, in fact, end up on three wheels when she took a corner at a somewhat startling speed. “Ha, ha!” she said, cackling and rocking back and forth, the crazy eyes full-blown now.
“Watch the road,” I grumbled, and she nodded vigorously.
And, to be fair, while we plowed through a mailbox, a light pole, and part of a florist shop, we did not lose the red car. I couldn’t see the slaver too well in this guise, but when I slipped briefly into the old woman’s mind, I saw him glance at us over his shoulder, his eyes huge and one of his long, white hands gripping the steering wheel. While the other—
“Gun!” the woman and I said together, as the first bullet tore through the windshield, cracking it all at once.
“Gun, gun, gun, gun, gun, gun, gun!” she informed me, as we started slinging around the road, as if she were trying to dodge the bullets.
“Stay on target,” I growled, slipping back into the one called Sten. And starting to climb out of the door when someone tapped us on the shoulder.
I looked back, and the red-haired troll woman draped something over my head. When I looked down again, my borrowed body had transformed into that of a bulky human male with hairy arms. As had those of the trolls in the back of the truck, who could have been my brothers by appearance, yet were staring at me oddly.
“Thank you,” I rumbled.
“We talk later,” she said, and gave me a push.
Sten and I finished our transition to the hood of our vehicle and paused, to judge the distance.
He seemed to think we could make it, and he was proved right when we leapt from the front of our vehicle and smashed down onto the roof of the small red car. It had already been low to the ground and was now sending up sparks as we slung around another corner. Because the glamourie the woman had provided did nothing to change bulk, and Sten was well-fed.
But not well enough.
Slow him more, Sten told me, and sent a visual of us hanging off the back of the car, digging in our heels.
Better way, I told him back, and plunged our hand through the flimsy car top, ripping it open like a can and leaving the albino exposed.
He didn’t seem to like that, judging by the amount of bullets suddenly hitting us. Which didn’t penetrate even at this distance, but which hurt Sten the way bee stings would hurt a human. And caused him to put one of his huge hands in front of our eyes to protect them.
And before I could explain to him that I couldn’t kill something I couldn’t see, the car had raced around a curve and plunged down a hill, jittering and juddering as if we were no longer on a road.
Because we weren’t, I realized, as Sten parted two huge fingers enough to show us a construction site, which the albino had turned the car into. One crowded with equipment and silvered with moonlight, which was why I could see anything at all. But not in time.
A large girder dangling from a crane came out of nowhere and hit us in the head, sweeping us off the back of the car as the albino tore underneath. And almost causing us to be run over by our own support team, who were right behind. But the bag lady saw us and swerved, sending the truck flying up a dirt ramp and sailing over our heads—
And over the albino’s.
He had taken another ramp, this one going down into the ditch that was going to be the foundation of the new building someday. And abruptly realized that he had no way out except back the way he’d come, which was why he’d just spun around. In time to see the huge truck—heavy in its own right, and now also loaded down with troll—come hurtling at him off the edge.
I assume he did not see it hit down, since it landed directly on top of him and the little red car.
The crunch was . . . satisfying.
After a moment, Sten got back to his feet and lumbered to the edge of the ditch.
“Olga all right,” he observed, watching her and the rest of the trolls climb out of the ruined truck and get some distance.
“Yes,” I agreed.
“Slaver . . . could be,” he added, sounding less sure.
And then abruptly stepped back when the car went up, the explosion big enough to engulf both vehicles in a ball of fire and a column of billowing black smoke.
“Maybe not,” he conceded.
I sent the image to Magdar, along with the sounds and smells and memories of the chase.
One, he sent back.
I smiled.
Chapter Six
I woke up in a bed that smelled of butterscotch.
My favorite flavor, I thought, stretching. And rolled onto something muscle hard and skin soft that was taking up most of my bed. Like warm candy, I thought, my lips finding a nipple.
Strong hands gripped my waist.
“You aren’t up to this,” Louis-Cesare’s voice informed me.
“Neither are you, but give me a minute.”
I went back to the candy.
Until I was rolled over, which should have been pleasurable but which surprisingly . . . was not.