Paige and I lean over the dash and scan the garage for signs of Bishop.
“Maybe he didn’t go inside,” I say. “Maybe he just got mad at us and left.”
Paige shakes her head, bangs shuffling over the rims of her glasses. “He wouldn’t do that.”
“Why not? He took off before.”
“But your mom wasn’t in danger.”
“What does he care about my mom?”
“He cares about you, obviously, or he wouldn’t have come back.”
I snort. “Oh yeah, he really cares about me.”
“Has it escaped your notice that the two of you have done nothing but flirt since the minute you met?”
I laugh. “You obviously don’t know what flirting is. We’re fighting. Big difference.”
“God, are you really that blind? It’s like in kindergarten when a boy pulls a girl’s hair. He likes you.”
I shake my head. “No way. And in any case, he’s a jerk. I would never be interested in him.”
It’s her turn to laugh.
“He’s completely not my type, Paige. He wears leather. He looks like he hasn’t washed his hair in weeks. He’s wearing a freaking beret!”
“It’s not a beret, it’s a beanie. A slouchy beanie. And you know it’s sexy.”
“Sexy?” I draw back to get a better look at her. “You can’t be serious.”
She shrugs.
“What, do you have a crush on him now or something?”
“Why, would that bother you?” She cocks her head, waiting for my reply.
My mouth opens and closes before I get a handle on what I should say. “No! Not at all. If you like him, go for it.”
She doesn’t look convinced. I change topics.
“What could be taking him so long?”
Paige looks out the window at the shadowy corners of the garage. “Getting the layout of the place, I guess.”
Neither of us mentions the idea that maybe he’s been caught, even though we’re both obviously thinking it.
A group of clubgoers totter around the corner, talking and laughing loudly. We edge up in our seats to look for Bishop, because there are scantily clad girls involved and it’s entirely possible he got distracted. But he’s not there.
“Should we check on him?” I ask.
“Yeah, no. If Bishop can’t get in and out safely, we most definitely won’t be able to.”
Before I can argue, something lands on the roof of the car with a jarring thud.
We shriek, instinctively ducking. Metal crunches overhead, and then two shiny alligator shoes step onto the hood. My heart races, adrenaline surging through my veins.
The feet hop off the hood. Frederick bends next to the driver’s-side door, his face just centimeters from mine. His mouth curves into a menacing smile.
“Drive!” Paige yells.
I fumble with the keys, unable to break eye contact with Frederick. But the car won’t start. The engine doesn’t even attempt to turn over.
“It won’t start!” I cry.
“Try harder.”
“I am trying! It’s not working.”
Frederick circles around the front of the car, knocking out a tune on the hood.
As Frederick nears Paige’s side, she inches back against me so that she’s practically in my lap.
I catch sight of the group of clubgoers a few car lengths’ down, and for a fleeting moment hope flares up inside me that they’ll help, or at the very least, run for help—but they don’t move. A girl holds a camera out and her friends all huddle for a picture, but they’re just as frozen as if I were looking at a photograph. No one’s going to come. No one’s going to help us.
“Now this is just getting silly,” Frederick says, his voice muted by the quarter-inch of glass between us. I can hardly hear him above the sound of my heartbeat.
He circles around the car again, and Paige and I crane our necks to follow his movements. He nears my window and bends low, regarding me with icy blue eyes.
“I just want my mom back,” I manage.
“Oh, don’t you worry,” he says. “She’s in good company. You might know him, actually. A little brat by the name of Bishop. They’ve been great support for each other. And you know, support is very important when you’ve …” He trails off, then waves his hand. “Well, better not get into specifics.”
A sob escapes me, a sick sense of foreboding clamping down on my chest.
“But then I got to thinking. You know, it’s not very fair for them to have all the fun.” He smiles to reveal a row of crooked, decaying teeth, then braces his hands on the hood of the car.
The rocking starts gently, like the tremor of a small car as a semi whooshes past on the interstate. A spider of dread climbs up my spine. Paige and I exchange wide-eyed stares, and the spider becomes a big, hairy tarantula. Frederick quickly picks up momentum, and the car rocks hard from left to right, knocking Paige and me against each other and the windows, then is suspended on two wheels for mere seconds before crashing down hard in the other direction. My head smashes against the window, and a searing pain shoots through my skull. White spots dance in my vision. I feebly brace my arms, trying to stop some of the impact, some of the pain.
But then the rocking stops.
My first thought is that someone’s saved us. But when my eyes adjust, Frederick is still there, walking in front of the car, taking slow, purposeful steps as if he’s got all the time in the world. He locks eyes with me and tips his head to the side, one thumb under his chin as he taps an index finger on his lips. And that’s when I realize something: he’s not going to kill me. Even if killing me wouldn’t bleed him of his powers, he wouldn’t do it. He’s going to keep me alive until he gets what he wants. But Paige? He has no reason to keep her alive.
“Should we make a run for it?” Paige asks between gasps for air.
I swallow. “On the count of three”—I drop my voice to barely a whisper—“you go left and I’ll go right.”
“What? No way.” Paige clings to my arm.
“It’s the only way either of us has a chance.” It’s the only way you have a chance. I squeeze her clammy, shaking hand.
She nods, biting down on her lips as tears stream over her pale cheeks.
“Good luck.”
Frederick moves in my peripheral vision. Time’s up for mushy moments.
We scramble to open the doors, and without another glance at each other, dash across the garage in opposite directions.
“Indigo, what sort of way is this to treat your old pal?” Frederick says, his lilting voice sending a chill rippling through me. But his voice is distant now, like he hasn’t moved. Like he’s letting me run. Which should make me feel relieved, but instead it just makes me wonder what he’s got up his sleeve. If he’s going to go after Paige instead of me.
But I can’t turn back now. Because if I can just make it upstairs to street level, maybe there’ll be people there who can help. He can’t have frozen all of Los Angeles.
I careen around a corner and make a mad dash for the escalator, leaping the moving stairs two at a time. My chest burns with every gulp for air, adrenaline pushing me forward like an Olympic sprinter. Hollywood Boulevard comes into view. I jump onto the street and blindly hang a right. That’s when I spot them: people. Moving, living, unfrozen people, milling around outside the Hard Rock Cafe. Sure, the women wear miniskirts and six-inch heels and the men sport shirts unbuttoned to reveal waxed chests, but they’re people. They can help me. My heart pounds so hard I think it might break free and make a run for it if my pesky rib cage weren’t getting in the way.
I run toward them. “Help! Help me!”
Heads spin in my direction, and I notice their eyes: red, burning, demented. As if on cue, they surge toward me like zombies in some cheap horror film, shrieking and frothing at the mouth, flailing their arms in their desperation to reach me. Behind them is Frederick, leaning against the huge windows of the bar, casually pushing back his cuticles.