Wings to the Kingdom (Eden Moore 2)

“What?”

“Hang on, I’m coming back. Keep holding that up. ”

I caught my foot on something heavy, and I crouched on one knee. I’d found a half-buried branch that might or might not suit my car-fixing purposes, so I kicked at it until I dislodged it.

“You hit me,” Malachi accused when I returned to him. He aimed the flashlight directly into my face.

“Yes. Get that thing out of my eyes. ”

He lowered the light and ducked his head. “Sorry. Hey, you found a stick. ”

“Yes, I found a stick. Come on. Let’s get back to the car. We need to get out of here. ” I took the light away from him and used my stick to push him in front of me. “Move it. If we’re lucky, no one’s seen it yet. If we’re even luckier, this thing won’t fall apart when I shove it up under the tire rim. ”

“Did you see him? Did you?”

I nodded, aiming with the stick. “This way. Yeah. I saw him. ”

He went back to that low-pitched whisper he’d used on me before. “He’s awful, isn’t he? Is that what all the ghosts are like?”

“Awful?” I thought about it for a minute, but chose to disagree. “No. He’s very different, though. He’s no ghost; he’s something else. I don’t know what. ”

“I thought he was awful. ”

I remembered that one reflecting eye and wondered if Malachi wasn’t right, but I couldn’t make myself believe he was correct this time. “He’s different, and strange. But not awful. At least I don’t think so. ”

“You must not have seen his eyes. ”

“Not both of them exactly, no. ”

We scrambled back to the car in time to duck away from incoming headlights. Thankfully, they did not stop for us—though they slowed long enough to make me worry. I had a feeling the driver was pausing for a cell phone call, or making a mental note to send out security later on.

I handed the flashlight to Malachi and made him train it on the badly battered wheel-well while I wielded the stick. I slid it between the tire and the dented metal; slowly, carefully so as not to destroy the stick or further damage the metal, I levered the rim away from the tire. When I was confident that the tire would not explode upon my first ninety-degree turn, I tossed the stick into the trees and unlocked the doors.

“Get in. Now. ”

I didn’t have to tell him twice. He yanked the door open and threw himself inside before I had time to offer him a rag or a towel to clean himself up with. I crawled into the driver’s seat and turned the key with a wish and a prayer.

The Death Nugget started up immediately and without incident.

I flicked the headlights on and noted that the right one aimed in an altogether incorrect direction, but that was better than if it were smashed. I accelerated slowly out of the grass and mud, sliding a tad but catching solid ground soon enough.

In a moment we were back on the road and trying to look innocuous.

We didn’t speak for five or ten minutes, and when we did it was all I could do not to start swearing at him.

“Why did you hit me?” he asked, tempting me to do it again.

“Because you didn’t follow directions. ”

“It hurt. ”

“It was supposed to hurt,” I grumbled back, even though it wasn’t true. I’d meant to stop him, not hurt him—and if one was a side effect of the other, then that was tough luck. “And don’t whine at me like I’ve done you some great wrong. I did drive all the way out here in the middle of the night to pick your ass up, and I have wrecked my car on your sorry behalf. ”

“Your car’s not wrecked. ”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re driving it, aren’t you? The car’s not wrecked. ”