Rolling her eyes, she returned the bulky phone to the back pocket of her tight jeans and lifted her feet for quad stretches. Then, Cheyenne leaped over the metal highway barrier into the wooded area alongside 231. Shaking out her hands again, she revved herself up for one final push and took off running at full speed.
The metal highway barrier screeched and pulled outward away from the highway, leaving a rippled dent as if a car had smashed into it from the other side.
A man in a red pickup saw the streaking blur of gray and white before the metal barrier jerked away from the road. He slapped his buddy in the passenger seat, who jolted awake. “Dude. Dude! Look at that.”
“You woke me up to show me how windy it is? Man, go fu—”
“You ever seen wind hit one strip of trees like that and nothing else?” The driver pointed toward the snapping, rocking trees on the side of the highway stretching miles ahead of them now. “That ain’t wind.”
“Huh. Maybe it’s a bear.”
“Shit, Donnie. Ain’t no bear out here ripping out trees faster’n sixty-five miles an hour.”
“Well, I don’t know what the hell it is!”
“Bigfoot.”
“Man, get outta here—”
“I told you, Donnie. I told you Bigfoot was real. You owe me twenty bucks.”
“Man, I don’t owe you jack!”
* * *
Cheyenne slowed considerably to dart around trees. She’d had plenty of practice moving through the woods like this when she lived with her mom in the middle of nowhere out in Henry County, but her damn hip frustrated her. Twice, she slipped on the thick foliage. The first time, her shoulder crashed into the trunk of the closest tree and ripped a chunk out of the bark. The second time, she slid sideways into another tree and snapped the thing in half. The broken top of the tree shot after her for a dozen yards, slamming into other trees.
Gritting her teeth, Cheyenne pushed faster. When it looked like she was getting close, she emerged from the woods and ran through the tall grass beside the highway. Two streets blurred past, and she had to swerve to avoid hitting a black Jeep parked on the shoulder. When she passed the next street, she stopped. The trees bent and creaked beside her, swinging wildly in the shockwave. “Seriously? I passed Wilson Road!”
Rolling her eyes, Cheyenne turned around and shot back the way she’d come.
The black Jeep hadn’t stopped rocking from the drow halfling’s wake when the streaking blur of gray and white passed the vehicle from the opposite direction. It bounced on its tires as leaves and pine needles and a spray of pebbles from the shoulder pelted the hood and the windshield.
Cheyenne stopped and grimaced as the spray of debris hit her from behind, but it was nothing compared to her screaming hip. She braced her hands on her thighs again to catch her breath, then glanced at her scraped right shoulder.
Blood’s still red, no matter my skin color.
Her scratched shoulder and the top half of her arm were numb from crashing into the tree, but they had nothing on the bone-deep ache in her hip. She straightened with a grimace and pulled up the hem of her black tank top with satin straps and metal studs through the satin bows at her shoulders—at least, the right-shoulder used to have studded bows. Now it was a mess of shredded ribbon.
She peeled down the top of her tight black jeans for a view of the shiny, puckered scar. It was red and chafed from all the running, but it hardly compared to how much her hip ached on the inside.
The driver’s side door of the Jeep shut, and Rhynehart’s heavy boots crunched across the gravel on the shoulder of the highway. “You should’ve been here two minutes ago.”
Cheyenne dropped the hem of her shirt and glared at him. A little breeze blew against her back, ruffling her bone-white hair and making the leaves caught in it scratch her cheek. She brushed her hair aside, then tugged out the twigs and whatever other plants had hitched a ride.
She tossed the twigs on the tarmac. “Seriously?”
“I said eleven hundred hours.”
“Yeah, and I ran all the way out here from downtown Richmond in forty-seven minutes.” She cocked her head. “Okay, forty-nine.”
Rhynehart hooked his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans, which were clearly not FRoE issue, and cocked his head. “How’s the hip?”
“Peachy.”
“You might wanna invest in some running clothes.” Rhynehart sniffed and pinched his nose. “I heard yoga pants are pretty good.”
Cheyenne blinked at him. “I don’t do yoga pants.”
“Your call. Get in.” The man slid behind the wheel of the black Jeep again.
The half-drow scoffed. “Yoga pants.”
She tossed her hair back from her shoulders and headed toward the passenger door. As she reached the hood of the Jeep, her knees buckled. Her hands slammed down on the hood so she could keep herself from falling flat on her face, and she leaned against the Jeep.
Maybe I pushed a little too hard.
Blinking off the dizziness, Cheyenne shook her head, righted herself on shaky legs, and limped along the side of the Jeep until she opened the passenger door. She almost didn’t make it into the seat. She slumped next to Rhynehart, closed her eyes, and melted into the black leather.
Rhynehart stared at her. “You look pale. Even in drow form.”
Cheyenne turned her head against the headrest and blinked at him. Then she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
Thinking of the woods isn’t hard. I destroyed a bunch of it on my way here.
A wave of cool relief washed over her, and when she opened her eyes again, she’d returned to human form, with pale skin and pitch-black hair to match her outfit. “How ‘bout now?”
“That’s a given. Here.”
The crinkle of a cellophane wrapper filled the car, then Cheyenne was staring at
