Summoning the Night (Arcadia Bell #2)(83)

“Where are they?” Lon asked as he sped away from the intersection.

“Shit! They went through the light!”

This was no friendly follower.

“Watch the gold thread and hold on.” He took a sharp right. The SUV’s wheels protested as we rounded the corner. I swiveled to peer out the back window. As we sped down the block, a pair of headlights made the same sharp turn.

“Still following!” I said.

“What the hell?” Lon mumbled. “How many people in the car? Can you tell?”

“Just a driver, I think. You think it could be Merrin?”

My head bounced as Lon raced across railroad tracks. The golden thread stretched straight ahead, but the sedan was gaining on us. We were going to have to do some fast maneuvering to lose it. I blurted out heated instructions to Lon. He ignored everything I suggested and cut across two lanes of traffic without warning, scaring the hell out of me.

We made another sudden turn and tore down a busy street filled with strip clubs and seedy restaurants offering $4.99 steak dinners. A few adults in Halloween costumes dotted the sidewalk as we wove in and out of traffic, nearly clipping off a car door that was swinging open on a parallel-parked van.

“Still following.”

“I’ve got eyes,” Lon snapped.

I ignored that—you know, his son being snatched by an evil demon and all. Besides, I was too busy feeling woozy, either from the loss of Heka or the crazy driving. I tried to watch the golden thread but was terrified to take my eyes off the road. Then I recognized a cross street. Lon did, too. We were in the Rancho District. He caught the tail end of a yellow light through a busy intersection and turned. Don’t follow, I thought, as if that would help.

Lon took a couple of quick turns, and traffic became sparse. We sped through the edge of a residential neighborhood, then the four-lane dropped to two. Woods lined either side of the road. It was a straight shot, but hilly. My stomach lurched. Memories of Jupe speeding up the Halloween ride at Brentano Gardens filled my head.

As we headed toward a short bridge that stretched over a dry riverbed, one car flew past us in the opposite direction. Then we were alone. Just us and the green sedan. Lon could outrun it in the SUV out here on the straightaway. Easily. You don’t pay six figures for German engineering without some perks. So when he yelled, “Brace yourself!” I didn’t expect him to stop.

Brakes squealed on asphalt. Both my palms hit the dash. The green sedan sounded like a flock of screeching harpies as the car slid across the pavement behind us. Time slowed. I saw Lon watching the rearview mirror intently. I silently thanked providence that we were in a vehicle built like a tank and not in my tiny car.

Without warning, Lon hit the gas and whipped into the opposite lane. He stopped on a dime, right before the bridge. The green sedan rotated sideways as it skidded past, their front bumper missing my door by an inch. An angry face stared back at me through the windshield. The sedan’s back wheels flew off the pavement and it slammed into the concrete road barrier, then careened backward over the bridge into the dusty riverbed below.

Lon jumped out of the car. I hustled out to join him and peered over the siderail. The drop to the riverbed wasn’t far—ten, fifteen feet, tops. The green sedan sat at the bottom, haloed by a cloud of dust. It was too dark to see much, but I was pretty sure the engine was smoking. The back end of the car was smashed against a concrete girder below the bridge.

The driver’s door opened with a squeal. A short figure stumbled out.

“Merrin, you demon-f*cking piece-of-shit warlock!” Lon shouted, then pulled up the shotgun, nestled the butt against his shoulder, and took aim.

I lurched sideways a couple of feet and covered my ears as the blast went off. All this time we’d been trying to find the magician and now he was hunting us down? That figured. When I peered down into the riverbed, he was ducking behind his car door. I knew Lon wouldn’t really shoot him. We might need the guy. Or maybe not . . .

The golden thread caught my eye. It wasn’t pointed above the treeline anymore. It had lowered and leveled out, and it was much, much brighter. Jupe was close. They must have landed just ahead. I squinted at the quiet intersection in the distance.

“Monte Verde!” I shouted at Lon, maybe a little too loudly, because my ears were ringing again. First the damn wards, and now the shotgun blast. I was going to be deaf before the night was over.

Lon glanced where I pointed, then gauged it against the gold thread.

We both peered down at Merrin. He was drawing something on the hood of his busted-up sedan. “He’s doing magick,” I said.

Lon racked the shotgun and blasted it over Merrin’s head. He flattened against the ground. Good enough. Someone would be calling the cops after hearing all that. Lon and I retreated to the SUV and took off. I knew which way to turn on Monte Verde due to the line of gold light, and there was no need to check house numbers once we got closer. Situated at the end of cul-de-sac in a heavily wooded lot, the small two-story home stood out like a circus tent, striped yellow and red. And the golden thread was heading straight for it.

Hiding in plain sight. No abandoned cannery, no deserted warehouse—just a house in the suburbs, tented for pest control. Brilliant.

Lon sped down the block and braked hard in the short driveway, slamming the SUV into a plastic trash can as we came to a sliding stop. I threw off my seat belt and pushed the door open. A tall wooden fence lined with trees shielded Ms. Forsythe’s backyard from the neighbors on either side, one of which had a For Sale sign staked out front. Big lot. Lots of trees. Very private. A great place to hide kids. Even better when you’d traced out spells over the tent to keep things quiet and ignored—I could see the Heka all over it.