“Now, this guy can fly,” I said, “so really, he could show up anywhere.”
“Then why head north?” Cassidy asked, blinking as she tried to reason along with me.
“The eastern seaboard is the mostly densely populated section of the United States in easy traversal distance,” I said. “I mean, except during rush hour. You can go from Boston to DC in—what, a few hours?”
“In perfectly optimal conditions, six hours, forty-five minutes,” Cassidy said, “via the Acela Express.”
“So, we could go west, hope he shows up in LA,” I said, shrugging as we started to cross the parking lot toward the car. “But to cover the west coast, without aid of an airplane …”
She got it. “You’d spend days going from LA to Seattle. Less dense, more spread out.”
“Bingo,” I said. “So, until we know his motive, we’re going to pick the geographically closest and most populated section of America—and hope that since he’s already evinced interest in a person, that his next attempt to get whatever he wants involves another person—one located in that giant metroplex we call DC-Jersey City-New York-Boston-whatever.”
“By the sheer numbers … you’re probably right,” Cassidy said, blinking and thinking. “How did you—”
“Learn people, Cassidy,” I said, waiting for Eilish to fiddle with the car keys and pop the rear of the SUV. “It makes everything easier when you do.”
That shut her up. We stowed our baggage and got in, Eilish in the driver’s seat, me in the passenger side, and Cassidy like a black hole of churning thought in the back. Eilish started the car, fiddling with the seat, with the steering wheel, what felt like endlessly.
Finally, my patience at an end, I asked her, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
She stopped fussing with things. “Well … you Americans drive on the wrong side of the road.”
I chortled. “I thought the same thing about you Brits.”
“I’m Irish, not a ‘Brit,’ okay?” She blew air impatiently out. “But the fact remains—I’m driving and I’m not familiar with the way you do things here. Also, I’m pretty sure that since I never went through customs when I arrived on that magical SR-71 with the shrunken living quarters beneath the seat, that I’m probably going to be in big trouble if I get caught for driving without a license.”
I glanced back at Cassidy and she paled. “I’m—I can’t really drive very well—”
“Another area of theoretical knowledge yet to become practical in your life, Cassidy?” I took a shot at her. “Well, Eilish, you’re either going to have to convince Cassidy or do it yourself, because I’m really not capable of it after two rounds of scotch.”
“Three,” Cassidy said.
When I fired a glare at Ms. Skinnyjeans in the backseat, Eilish chimed in. “Don’t think we missed that nip you took just before we left.”
“Fine,” I said. “Three. In any case, I’m drunk, and cannot drive.” I smacked my mouth together. “So … we’re left with either Cassidy, who apparently hasn’t—”
“I mean, I maybe could,” Cassidy mused. “I guess I haven’t tried.”
“Yeah, let’s not learn now, on interstates filled with truckers and busy people,” I said. “Or we could go with you—experienced—”
Eilish did a little flushing herself. “Well, I’ve been in London the last few years, so—no, I haven’t exactly been driving there—”
“Oh, for f—” I started.
“Well, I ask men to drive me places if I need a ride,” Eilish said, throwing up her hands. “It’s not like driving’s this great, fun thing!”
“Not in European shoe cars, it probably isn’t,” I said, thumping my head against the headrest.
“And that’s another thing,” Eilish said, looking around the SUV. “It’s so big! I feel like I’m going to run over a small child and not even notice in this thing!”
“I imagine the screaming would give it away,” Cassidy muttered.
“But it’s insulated, see?” Eilish said, knocking on the door. It made a light thump, her fist against the pleather. “Anyway—I think we should ask a nice man to drive for us. I can do that.”
“How do we know he’s going to be any more competent than you two?” I threw a little feral savagery into the question, a little shot. A shot. God, I wanted a shot right now. I slumped, my head in my hands. “I’m casually shrugging aside the fact that you’re proposing kidnapping a man in order to chauffeur us. How far I’ve fallen.”
“Look, there’s a man coming right now,” Eilish said, looking at the rearview. “I’ll just step out, and ask him kindly for help—”
“Bending his will to yours,” I said.
“And then we’re home free,” she said.
“Except for the kidnapping.”
“And across state lines, no less,” Cassidy said. “That’s extra bad, in the US. I mean kidnapping at all is bad, but statutorily and punishment-wise, involving federal authorities—”
“Ugh,” I said, gurgling into my hands.
“I’m going to ask him,” Eilish said and started to get out. “I mean, he’s coming this way anyhow—”
“He could be a dad on vacation with his wife and kids,” I said, still speaking into my hands. “And you’re going to kidnap him for possibly days, and when he gets back to his wife he’s going to have to explain why he disappeared in a car with three strange young women—well, two strange young women and me, a perfectly normal young woman who just has a lot of shit happen to her—”
“Oh, hell,” Eilish said, “he’s coming right up to the—”
There was a knock at my window and I jerked my face out of my hands before I could even stop myself. I threw open the door and the man leapt out of the way, a step ahead, and kicked the door back at me expertly.
It caught me in the hands as I was springing out to attack, driving me back into my seat before I could deploy, so fast it just bowled me over without warning.
“Didn’t come for a fight!” he shouted at me, “Sienna … it’s me.”
I blinked, the painful ache in my wrists slightly dulled by the alcohol. “Who is that?” I asked. His head was out of sight, blocked by the roof of the SUV. I ducked down slightly, trying to see.
“Just me,” he said, and something drifted into my view, extended from between the door and the vehicle’s frame. If I yanked the door closed, it’d catch whatever he’d stuck in—
Oh.
It was a bottle of scotch.
“Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes,” Cassidy murmured.
“Clearly a good friend of mine,” I said, yanking the proffered scotch out of his hand. He let me. I yanked the top and took a long pull, sighing once I was done.
“Well, definitely someone who knows you well, at least,” Eilish muttered, still looking a little on edge.
“Obviously,” I said. Mm. Peaty. “Who is that?” I asked, trying to peer at the man standing there. He was definitely in fine shape, definitely metahuman, definitely … uhm …
Kinda yummy. And that probably wasn’t the alcohol talking. He was wearing a suit, no tie, and … shapely. Greyscale suit, pressed white shirt …