If the Queen really did send his soul to hell, what happened to the part of me that was tied to him?
"Start my car," Luke whispered in my ear.
My eyes flew open. "Tell me you didn't just whisper 'start my car.'"
Luke's smile was crooked. "You want me to lie to you?" "I don't suppose you're going to give me the keys," I
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grumbled. "That is, if you meant it literally and not as a dirty innuendo."
Luke's grin widened and he pointed out the window. "Look, it's easy. It's even in direct line of sight."
"This counts as discreet? What's indiscreet? Strangling Eleanor?"
He considered. "That would be indiscreet. Tempting, but definitely indiscreet."
I stared out the pane-glass window at Bucephalus, crouched in a lonely parking space across the lot, dimly lit in the dull circle of a floodlight, the glowing face of the sticky pig reflected on its windshield. "You do know, the most I've really done is move plant life around."
"You'll never know until you try."
I sighed, feeling stupid as I leaned forward on the table to get a better look at the car. I frowned, trying to remember the warm feeling I'd gotten between my eyes when I'd screwed up our memories in the cemetery.
The night pressed against the glass, invading my eyes, and I saw a ghost of Bucephalus somewhere inside my head. I was there, in the car. But how was I supposed to start the damn thing? Mentally, my eyes ran over the gear shift and up to the ignition, noticing strange details I'd not noticed before, like the Jethro Tull tape inside the cassette player and the dark, worn prints on the steering wheel where Luke always held it. I tried to imagine a key, but the image slipped away from me, intangible.
If I'd known anything about how car engines started, I could have come at it that way, but all I could remember
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was something about explosions. I could just imagine that, with my luck, I'd blow up his friggin'
car. Maybe I was just being too complicated. Start, I willed furiously. Start.
This was pointless. Nothing was happening. The image of the car was slipping away, replaced by the red vinyl of the booth seat across from me.
Luke whispered in my ear. "Name it."
Bucephalus, I thought. Instantly, the image of the car strengthened again, forming solid lines around me as if I sat inside it and around it and over it all at once. I could see a line of pistons, the brake line, the gas pedal, the ignition, the seats, all at the same time. Bucephalus, start.
Across the parking lot, headlights flicked on and blinded us both, but not before I saw the car jerk sideways as the engine turned over and roared to life.
The waitress set down two plates in front of us.
"Have a sandwich!" Luke said, glowing brighter than the headlights.
"Can I get you any sauce?"
I blinked at her. "I think I need to get sauced."
The waitress blinked back.
"She's fine," Luke said. After the waitress had gone, he looked at me, the corners of his mouth quirking, and said, "Are you just going to leave it running? Now that my salary's not being paid by supernaturals, I have to worry about the price of gas."
I tried to convince the engine to turn off, but it remained running. Eventually, I had to let Luke out of the booth to go switch off the ignition. I watched him out the window, 223
his lanky form trotting to the car and getting in, fumbling behind the wheel for a few minutes, and then popping the hood open and fussing under it. He shut the hood, climbed back into the driver's seat, and in a few seconds the car lurched forward, the lights finally going out.
He returned and slid back in next to me, a little out of breath. "You're a bit of an atom bomb, aren't you? I had to stall the engine to get it to stop."
A smile broke out across my face; I couldn't help it. It was just so crazy. And instead of feeling shaky, like I did whenever I moved stuff in the daytime, I felt great. I felt like that great mass of night pressing in the windows was pulsing through me, huge waves of energy pumping like a wicked bass line. I felt like whooping, but when I found words, it was just an ordinary question.
"How did you know I should use the name?"
"They think names are very important, remember? And so they are."
I frowned. "Is that why no one can remember your name?"
He nodded, mouth full of barbecue, and mumbled past the food. "Names are a way of keeping someone in your head. Most people don't remember me very well, either."
"But I do. I can say your name: Luke Dillon. And They can too. At least, Brendan could."
"They see things differently. I guess you do, too. Big shock there." He poked the corner of my mouth where my smile ought to be. "Eat your food."
I remembered my hunger, and we both ate our sandwiches
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in silence. When we were done, Luke put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close to him. Resting my head on his chest, listening to oldies music playing overhead, feeling the cold touch of the vinyl booth on the back of my arms, I thought, again--despite the Sticky Pig looking the same as it always did--that this night wasn't like any other night.
Luke leaned over and whispered in my ear, "I wish I could have this with you." Something about his breath against my skin as he spoke, his fingers brushing against my neck, and the unfamiliar, exciting night pressing in against the windows made my stomach turn over. I sat up and grabbed his hand, tugging him out of the booth with a sort of urgency.
