Raoul.” Vayl spoke so slowly that even my Spirit Guide could tel he was reaching hard for tact because the predator in him was swimming hard toward the surface. “Tel me. From what are you
Raoul’s face took on that frozen look that so often preceded a barked recitation of name, rank, and serial number fol owed by stony silence. Then his lips pursed, and his loyalty to the Trust he’d become part of without even meaning to won out. He said, “Hanzi’s fate has come to a crossroads.
It’s not for me to make his choices now.” He nailed Vayl with a hard look. “Or you.” My ears started to tingle. I said, “What the fuck does that mean? Speak plain, Raoul. We’re not into riddles, especial y not this late in the game.”
Raoul squeezed his eyes shut. The international sign for
“I got that feeling during my Spiritwalk,” Dave muttered to Cassandra. “But how do you tel a guy his son’s been pretty much a jerkoff for the past three centuries?” A slight turn of Vayl’s head acknowledged he’d heard the whisper, but he let the comment go because he was so fixated on Raoul. “Give me a bottom line, Raoul. I have time for little else today.” Raoul’s shoulders tightened. Vayl’s were already so stiff they could’ve doubled as car jacks.
Raoul said, “Hanzi may very wel die today. A crew of demons is waiting to take him if he does. If the humans at the event where it is to happen can resuscitate him, the Eminent hope that he wil make the choice to change his life. In that case he would be a fine addition to our circle. But, because of how he has lived to this point, they’ve ordered us not to interfere.” He stared hard at Vayl. “This is one place where
He rammed his cane into the road so hard I was surprised it didn’t shatter. In his most control ed, and therefore dangerous, voice he grated, “We must reach Andalusia as quickly as possible.” My Spirit Guide looked up, like the clouds held a map only he could see. “We’l make it in time,” he said. He looked at Vayl and said cryptical y, “Just be ready for a few more surprises from your firstborn. I haven’t told you everything because, wel , for you I think some things have to be seen to be believed.”
CHAPTER TWENTY- SEVEN
Since it was nearly four in the morning, giving us only ninety minutes until dawn, we decided to find ourselves a place to shower, grab a meal, and set Vayl up inside his sleeping tent before jumping back onto the road, where we’d take shifts sleeping on the bus. Having already left Bucharest far behind us, we gathered in the bus and broke out the maps and laptops. Bergman, Aaron, and Cassandra searched for hotels while Dave, Vayl, Raoul, Cole, and I plotted our next big move.
“I can’t imagine it happening,” I told Cole.
“Come on,” he whined. “We’re right on the border of Slovenia. I can practical y see the guards waving leis at us from here. This is our big chance to experience true Slovenian culture.” Vayl shook his head. “I am certain the lei is a Hawaiian tradition. And I do not see how dressing up in leopard-print uniforms and racing l amas around the city square while we shout ‘Long live General Maister!’ has anything to do with being Slovenian.”
“Trust me, it does. I should know, my grandma married a guy who could answer al the crossword puzzle questions that made any reference to Eastern Europe.” He clapped a hand on Vayl’s shoulder. “I’m tel ing you, buddy, you’l feel so Slavic when you’re done you may just get the urge to talk out of the back of your throat for the rest of your life.”
“I’ve never ridden a l ama,” said Raoul. “Are they comfortable?”
“They’re covered in wool!” Cole said. “It’s like sitting on a pile of sweaters!” Dave snorted. “Sweaters with teeth, maybe.”
I know, I know. We should’ve shut him down the minute Cole uttered the words “l ama saddle.” But those of us who hadn’t been in the room when our wizard friend Sterling brought his soul back from the brink of Spawn City had heard the story enough times to know that these moments, above al others, were the ones that Cole needed to help him maintain his humanity. So we indulged him until Bergman hooted in triumph.
“I found something! It’s a place cal ed the Flibbino Inn. Oh wait, the reviews are pretty scary.
There’s no indoor plumbing, and this one lady says they give you a toilet lid to take outside with you when you have to go, otherwise the neighbor kids steal them for their own outhouses.”
“I wonder if they’re the squishy kind,” Cole said.
“Is that real y going to make a difference in your decision?” Cassandra asked him.
He thought a minute. “That depends on the reading material that goes along with the lid,” he decided.
“I’m beat,” Dave said. “As long as nobody mentions bedbugs, I’m wil ing to put up with primitive conditions for one night.”
I glanced at Aaron expecting, at the very least, the look of lawyerly disdain he’d probably practiced in the mirror for the day he final y passed the bar. He said, “I was a Boy Scout. I can sleep on the floor if I have to.”
As I shared a look of dawning respect with Vayl, Bergman tapped at his keys a few times. “No bugs here,” he said. “Although one reviewer felt the rooster was kind of a pest.”
“Am I to understand this inn is situated on a farm?” Vayl asked.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Pass,” I said. “The last thing I need is to be squatting in an outhouse on an unattached lid when some big- and-ugly jumps down from the haymow because, guess what? it’s my time to die.” Among a general chorus of agreement, during which somebody mentioned that Bergman might even accidental y slip down the hole in such a situation, Cassandra came up with plan B. “How about this place?” she asked. “Its name is translated as The Stopover.” She passed around the laptop so we could al study three muzzy shots of the trucker-type hotel situated between a major highway and what looked to be a wel -traveled goat track lined with beech trees. The Stopover stood two stories tal , a square brown edifice that drooped at the corners, making it resemble a
