“Holy shit!” I squeaked.
Rans must’ve been keeping half an eye on our pursuers as well, because he muttered, “I suppose that simplifies things somewhat,” with the air of someone discussing dinner seating arrangements rather than a James Bond-worthy car chase through the California foothills. We negotiated the fork that would send us to Highway 108, where I gathered the sleek sports car could safely be opened up to its full speed, outdistancing the heavier Mercedes by enough that we could finally slip its pursuit.
I was just drawing breath to ask what the plan was once we reached Modesto, but the words died as Rans cocked his head. “Can you hear that?” he asked.
“All I can hear is the engine roaring and tires squealing,” I replied.
“Train whistle,” he said. “New plan—I don’t like our chances on the highway if state law enforcement gets involved. One well-placed set of spike strips could put us right out of commission. Find those railroad tracks on the map. It should show up as a solid gray line somewhere off to our left. I need side roads with a railroad crossing.”
I peered down at the phone and tried not to lose my shit. “Uh... both the tracks and this road lead into the city of Jamestown. There’s some kind of railway state park there, and a bunch of the side streets cross the tracks.”
“Perfect,” he practically purred. “Direct me on the nearest road running parallel to the tracks, love. I’ll take it from there.”
It seemed highly likely that I’d be happier not knowing the exact details of this new plan, so I directed him onto one of the two main north-south roads running through the town. Behind us, the Mercedes was a small black dot, but they’d be able to make up ground now that we’d been forced to slow down. Indeed, the pursuing vehicle grew visibly larger as I watched, the Fae driver apparently unconcerned by the possibility of pedestrians and cross traffic as the car roared into the modest town behind us.
“Any of these next few side roads should do the trick,” I said, trying to focus on the phone’s screen as the Aston Martin jounced over potholes.
I could hear the train whistle now, my mostly human ears finally registering what his vampire senses had detected from a much greater distance. Rans’ eyes flicked from the front windshield to the rearview mirror, gauging the gap separating us from our pursuers.
“Almost,” he murmured. “Almost...”
My eyes widened as he slowed; the Fae would be on us in no time. Without warning, Rans veered onto the next side street, heading straight for the tracks. The crossing was old-school; just a simple white X-shaped ‘Railroad Crossing’ sign with no flashing lights or safety arm. The Mercedes screeched around the turn behind us, and I swallowed a shriek as the approaching train bore down on us, its whistle blaring shrilly.
FIFTEEN
RANS MASHED THE GAS pedal, the Aston hurtling forward as though it had rockets attached. The tires thudded across the uneven tracks, the car juddering as the suspension tried to absorb the jouncing at speed. I imagined I could feel the wind of the train’s passing buffeting the car’s back end. Train brakes squealed in belated and completely useless reaction to the near miss.
My head whipped around to take in the scene behind us. The Fae were trapped on the far side of the tracks, blocked from further pursuit by the lumbering behemoth separating us. I whooped, the adrenaline of fear transforming into jubilation.
“Glad you approve, love,” Rans said dryly. “Excitement’s not over yet, though—we need to ditch this car before the police get their act together and try to come down on us.”
I refused to think about what it actually meant to ditch a car that was probably worth an easy six figures. Not my car, not my problem, I told myself firmly.
Besides, I was pissed at Nigellus anyway.
Rans had slowed the vehicle to a sedate, law-abiding pace immediately after winning his race with the train by a nose. We turned onto the next main road and pulled into the first busy parking lot we came to, which turned out to be a steakhouse and seafood grill. Rans parked the car in the back, hidden behind the building, positioning it as unobtrusively as possible for a vehicle that so blatantly screamed money.
“Come on,” he said, opening the door and springing out. “Let’s go get ourselves a new ride.”
In the distance, I could hear police sirens again. Something about being the target of a cross-country car chase made the paranoid human instinct to wonder whether sirens in the distance were coming for you feel a heck of a lot less paranoid.
Apparently I wasn’t alone in that feeling.
“And here come the rozzers, right on cue,” Rans observed philosophically. “We’d best not dally.”
He led me toward the busier area at the front of the restaurant parking lot, walking straight up to a portly man wearing a poorly fitting business suit as he fumbled with the keys to his Prius. The man turned to look at us, frowning in displeasure at having his personal space invaded by strangers in such a way. An instant later, his frown melted into blankness as Rans’ eyes flashed icy fire.
“Afternoon, old chap,” Rans said, his voice resonant with power. “Give me your car keys. This isn’t your car anymore, and if anyone asks you about the make, model, color, or license plate number, you don’t remember.”
The man’s jaw fell open for a moment, then he snapped it shut and wordlessly handed Rans his keyring. Rans slipped the Prius’ fob free of the rest and handed the remaining keys back to him—there was no point in leaving the poor guy locked out of his house after stealing his car, I supposed.
He tossed the fob to me and I caught it in surprise.
“You’re driving,” he said. “While I worry about coming up with a
