Arcana Rising (The Arcana Chronicles #4)(9)

I rolled my eyes. “Can I? Thanks for the okay.” I had a thousand other questions for him, but I could interrogate him on the way.

He gave me a strange look. “Even if I had a map, I like the idea of being useful to you.”

“Good. You can drive.”

_______________

What do you get when you mix two Baggers, a bloodthirsty toga-wearing card, and a half-mad Empress?

Road trip A.F.–style.

I was about to be living one of Finn’s jokes. . . .

With Sol’s Skins trapped, the Shirts had overrun the crops, Pops and his grandkid among them.

I’d freed a few Skins to supply us for the trip. Oh, if looks could kill . . . I’d dared to threaten their god, and they were pissed. I’d created a rose crown, a skittering halo above my reddened hair, to remind them of my own power.

Then I gave orders.

The only trucks Sol had were the large military ones I’d seen parked outside, so I commanded his followers to fuel one up and pack it with tanks of gas and water. I ordered a couple others to bring me packaged food for my bug-out bag and to find out what day it was.

I’d been rocked by the answer: 389 A.F. I’d lost a week. Add another two days to get to Fort Arcana.

Tick-tock.

Now as we awaited the truck provisioning, I told Sol, “We’re heading outside of your safe, warm coliseum. You’ll need layers and boots.” He was wearing Birks, for f*ck’s sake. And a sheet. A useless wristwatch rounded out his ensemble.

He cast me his first smile. “Concerned for me, querida?” I’d bet he could be a charmer when not homicidal.

Same could be said for me. “Your frostbite or hypothermia will slow me down.” I pulled the matching fingerless glove from my pack and drew it on. Before I concealed my hand, I noticed him noticing my icons, but he didn’t remark on them.

“I’ll suffer neither condition,” Sol said. “I’m forever warm.”

Must be nice. I recalled shuddering atop that antenna tower. “Glass can cut your bare feet.”

He glanced down. “They aren’t bare.”

“With your first step out into the Ash, mud suction will eat those sandals.” I surveyed him. “What about jeans? Denim would protect your legs from falls. And I don’t know how bonebreak fever spreads, but I wouldn’t want to be going commando if we pass a plague colony.”

He swallowed and subtly narrowed his stance.

“You must have a bug-out pack you want to bring.”

“Bug-out?” Sol blinked at me.

Had Jack felt this much frustration at my cluelessness? “A backpack. With survival gear. To keep you alive.”

Unconcerned shrug. “I suppose I could prepare for a more rugged environment. Care to come back to my apartments and dress me?” He gave me a heated look, and I almost laughed.

Barking up the wrong oak. He had no idea how untouchable I was. “Get one of your men to collect some clothes and boots. If he’s not back before the gas cans are loaded, you can raid corpses like the rest of us.”

He waved a Skin over and gave him the orders. Then he turned to me. “What will you do to my worshippers?”

Really? “They all committed murder—just to walk around without a shirt.” Most of them remained under my net.

“You heard them say victi vincimus? That’s Latin for conquered, we conquer. Some of them might have killed in self-defense.”

Maybe some were good; maybe some weren’t. I answered, “Maybe some can get loose. Maybe some can’t.” None of this mattered anyway! “We’re on a clock.”

One of the Skins signaled that the truck was loaded.

I ordered Sol, “Load your pets into the back, then get in.”

With a wave of his hand, the two zombies marched up a loading ramp. I gestured to one of the Skins to close it, and Sol and I climbed into the cab of the truck.

He settled behind the wheel. “Now that we’re traveling together, shouldn’t I know your name?”

“No.”

His lips turned down. “My worshipper isn’t back with my clothes. After teaching me the error of my ways, you expect me to go without boots and jeans?”

“Not if there’s a body nearby when we refuel.”

“You can’t be comfortable in your own wet, muddy clothes,” he pointed out. “I can provide dry jeans and a sweatshirt. A warm pair of socks. What’s the rush?”

Get to Tess. Get to Tess. Get to Tess. Eleven minutes on the carousel versus nine days. Thousands and thousands of minutes.

When I had forced Tess to reverse time and she’d narrowly survived, I’d been worried that she would hate me forever. But Joules had told me, “She’ll be glad she helped. Lass likes to help.”

That sweet girl had been glad.

Which meant she would be willing to work.

Together, we could do this! But I wouldn’t stack the deck against us by adding unnecessary minutes. I told Sol, “That’s my business.” I used a rose stalk to lash one of his wrists to the wheel, the other to the gearshift.

He sighed. “I’m down with kink, but these bindings are quite painful.”

“Oh dear. Are they?” I tightened them. “Go.”

Clenching his wide jaw, Sol clumsily ground the truck into gear. Could he suck at driving worse than I did? I’d never even gotten my learner’s permit—because I’d been locked up in a mental ward the summer before I turned sixteen.