Wayward Son (Simon Snow, #2)(32)

Thirty minutes pass like this.

I shout over my shoulder to Penny: “Do you still have to pee?”

“Yes!” she says.

“Should I stop?”

“No!”

There’s no next town. There are no lights. I can only see the road a few feet ahead of us and a few feet behind us. Baz and Penny are shadows.

The truck tailing us slips in and out of view.

I tell Penny to find a town on her phone. But she doesn’t have any bars.

The lights in the rearview mirror flash off, then on again.

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” Penny shouts.

“Pull over,” I say.

Baz turns to me. “Don’t you dare!”

The lights flash on, then off. It’s slow. Deliberate.

“Is it Morse code?” Penny asks, huddled between our seats.

“I think it’s basic code for ‘Pull over,’” I say.

“Don’t!” Baz says again.

“I won’t, all right?”

“We need a plan,” Penny says.

“We have a plan!” Baz is firm. “We wait for a town.”

“There are no towns!” I say.

Penny: “We need a battle plan!”

Me: “Agreed!”

“Listen to yourselves!” Baz shouts almost soundlessly. (We can hardly hear our own voices.) “We can’t afford to fight!”

“There are three of us,” Penny argues.

“There might be three of them!” he says. “And even if we’ve got more power, we can’t afford another scene!”

“Look around—” She waves her arm at the dark nothingness around us. “There are no witnesses!”

“They could be recording us right now, Bunce!”

“Well, we can’t just go on like this,” I say. I’m going mad, waiting for something to happen. I’ve never waited this long for a fight.

“This is safe!” Baz says. “This is de-escalation. No one is being hurt.”

The truck moves closer to us than it’s come before, its headlamps whitening Baz’s pale skin. He blocks his eyes with his hand. The lights blink off again, dark for a few beats, then on.

“Fuck this.” I change gears and press the accelerator to the floor.

The noise is monstrous. Penny and Baz hold on with both hands.





BAZ


I used to admire these two for getting out of so many tight spots.

Now I know firsthand that they make so many great escapes because they walk into so many traps! This is the behaviour that drove Wellbelove to California.

The Mustang sounds like a bat on its way out of hell. And Simon is its getaway driver. Fourth gear on a gravel road, his blue eyes narrowed to slits. My mother’s scarf catches the wind and slips off my head. Snow whips out his hand to rescue it. He glances over at me, for just a second, holding it like a banner.





SIMON


The silver truck falls back again, but it keeps up with us.

I take another ninety-degree turn. We’re back on pavement and picking up speed. Probably too much speed. I couldn’t stop now if I had to—the road is coming at me before I’m ready for it.

Baz has his wand out, and Penny has her right hand raised.

“Slow down!” Baz screams.

But I don’t. I don’t want to. I’m tired of this standoff. I’m tired of being chased.

Suddenly my wings explode out of my back—I don’t know why, a bell didn’t ring. The force pushes me into the steering wheel, and the convertible careens back and forth.

Baz is casting a spell, but I can’t hear it. Then he’s shouting at Penny. She tries a spell, too.

“There’s no magic!” Baz shouts.

“It’s a dead spot!” Penny hits my shoulder. “We can’t stop here!”

“I’m not stopping!” I say, but just then, the engine starts to sputter. “What did you do?” I yell at Baz.

“Nothing,” he says. “Not this!”

The engine flags. I pump the accelerator. I try to change gears. The truck behind us is gaining too fast. A driveway comes up on my right. I yank the wheel at the last minute, and we spin into a gravel lot.

The Mustang rolls to a stop at the foot of Stonehenge.





PENELOPE


When our car leaves the road, I close my eyes and cover my head. Every spell I’ve tried has failed. There’s nothing left to do but think about all the modern automobiles with airbags I failed to hire—and brace for impact.…

But there is none.

When we eventually stop moving, I open my eyes, and I swear I see Stonehenge just a few feet away. And all I can think is, We’re home, somehow, Morgana be praised.

But it isn’t Stonehenge. It can’t be. First of all, there’s no magic here—it’s a dead spot. (Has the Humdrum been to western Nebraska? Is there an American Humdrum? Is this one Simon’s fault, too?) Second of all, the standing stones aren’t stones. They’re … cars. Huge old cars, painted grey and arranged just like the stones in Wiltshire. Some of them are tipped on their ends and sunk into the ground, and some of them are stacked on top of the others. What is this place?