“DWL?” She arched an eyebrow. “Do I even want to know?”
“Driving while laughing. It’s a serious offence in the great state of New York. Have you ever seen a trooper crack a smile?”
She smothered a laugh. Damn, he always managed to make her grin, no matter how bad things got. She actually envied his endless supply of optimism — he could whip out a smartass remark while he was standing at the wrong end of a gun. Maybe he was a little stupid sometimes, but he made up for it with buckets of brass fucking balls. She had to admire that. “Happy troopers? That’d scare the shit out of me,” she finally said.
“Me too.” He maintained the serious-like-a-church-service front. “I actually saw one, once. He was cuffing me at the time.”
“Figures.” She smiled and glanced at the speedometer. The sedan was doing a whopping 24 mph. At this rate, they might make civilization some time before New Year’s. They cleared the rise — and Jazz eased the brakes down, practically gaping through the windshield. “Tell me I’m not seeing things,” she said. “Is that pavement?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Donatti grinned. “See any road signs?”
“Yeah, sure. Right next to that mini mall over there.” She stopped with the front tyres on the paved surface, not in the mood to push this thing out of the mud. Trees to the left, and trees to the right. Nothing in either direction said head-this-way. She flicked the hazards on — as if anyone else would be out driving on East Bumfuck Mountain in this weather — and said, “Okay. Now what, Mister da Gama?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Turn.”
“Brilliant idea. Which way?”
“Hey, don’t look at me.” He folded the map in his hands a few times. “If I pick the wrong way, you’ll kick my ass.”
“I should probably kick your ass anyway. This was your idea.”
Donatti stiffened and stared straight ahead. “Yeah,” he said softly. “How stupid of me, thinking we might have a good time together.”
I’m sorry. It was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to say it. Instead, she popped the car into gear and eased into a left turn. “I think this way’s down,” she said. “At least we should hit a crossroad or a sign eventually.”
“You’re the boss.”
Jesus. Did he have to sound like she’d kicked him in the balls? Irritated, more with herself than him, she took the car up to a decent speed and listened to the tyres slice over drenched asphalt. After a long silence, she coughed once and gestured to the radio. “You want that on? It might take a while until we get oriented again.”
“Nah. If there are any stations in range, it’s probably your choice of country, country and western.” He dropped his gaze to his lap. “Jazz, I’m sorry I got us lost.”
His apology where hers should’ve been sent a spark of anger sizzling through her. She managed to throttle it back. “It’s not completely your fault,” she said. “I’m driving.”
“Yeah, well — holy shit. You see that thing up there?”
“What. .” Thing? The rest of the question faded from her lips. The rusted hulk of an old car lay by the side of the road ahead, choked in tangles of weeds. She slowed when they passed it, and gave a low whistle. “That’s a DeSoto. Well, it used to be. Back in the fifties. Jesus, it’s crumpled to hell.”
“Kind of weird, isn’t it? All the way out here?”
“Yes. Weird.” It was damned unsettling. Like finding a horse in a parking garage — or rather, the bleached skeleton of a horse.
The road curved, and when they rounded the bend something shivered in her gut. “There’s another one,” she said. A rusted, twisted auto body overgrown with brown vegetation. This one had come to rest after a collision. “A Mustang. Early seventies.”
Donatti stared at it. “Okay, I’m creeped out,” he said.
“I’m turning around. We’ll go the other way.” She tapped the brake.
The car sped up.
“What the fuck?” Jazz gripped the wheel and tromped on the brake. It didn’t slip, shimmy or sink to the floor. Went down cushioned, like a normal pedal. But the sedan didn’t slow. The speedometer climbed to thirty-five, forty, forty-five. She didn’t dare take her eyes from the road.
“Uh, Jazz?” Donatti’s voice shook a little. “We going for a Dukes of Hazzard turn here?”
“It won’t stop.” She managed to sound calm. “I changed my mind. Use magic.”
“Right.”
They flew past another wreck, too fast to make it out — but definitely a classic car like the rest. She knew it took him a few minutes to do anything magic. It had to warm up or something. The needle climbed. Fifty. Fifty-five. The wheel strained in her hands, and the car tilted.
Ahead, the road curved.
A string of curses refused to pass her lips. She grabbed for the emergency brake, hit the button, and the steering wheel lurched from her grip. She didn’t even have time to shout a warning. With a squeal of rubber, the car spun out of control, rammed something on the shoulder and lifted, airborne.
Her body jerked like a whip, and her head smacked the wheel. The lights went out.
Sunlight and singing birds. The crisp, sweet smell of autumn leaves. All the ingredients for a beautiful fall day hovered just outside Jazz’s closed eyes.
None of them were right. It was raining. Dark. And she’d crashed the car.
Her eyes snapped open, and a startled gasp escaped her. No broken glass or twisted metal. She was on a bed, in a room — not a hospital. Thick log walls. Cabin walls. To her right, french doors stood open on a wooden patio overlooking miles of picturesque mountain forest, red and gold and green. It would’ve taken her breath away if she hadn’t already lost it.
Though her body ached, there was no real pain. She touched fingers to her forehead where she’d cracked the wheel and found smooth, unbroken skin. No bumps or gashes. Had she dreamed the accident? Maybe they’d made it to the stupid cabin after all. But if they had, where was Donatti?
Besides, it’d been too vivid for a dream. So maybe she was dreaming now, and she was actually lying unconscious in the wreckage. Not a cheerful thought.
She sat up slowly. Movement flickered in her peripherals, and her hand went reflexively for the piece she’d stopped carrying after Cy was born. She turned towards the motion, and a figure walked through the french doors.
Definitely not Donatti.
The guy was tall and solid. Dressed in jeans and a dark tee stretched over lean muscle, his steps were practically silent despite the sturdy black leather boots he wore. Shaggy red hair framed angular features and light brown eyes, almost gold, sparkled at her over a sexy-as-hell smile.
A hot guy in a cabin, in the middle of nowhere. This had to be a dream.
“I hope you’re not too frightened,” the guy said. He had a deep, soothing voice, as hypnotic as his eyes. “I couldn’t leave you in your car.”
“Christ, it really happened?” She shivered. Impossible. She’d damn near shattered her skull. Should’ve been in a lot worse shape than this. But she was uninjured and completely clean. Not a speck of dirt or rain anywhere. “Where’s Donatti?”
His smile vanished. “Your friend,” he said, and the sympathy in his tone punched her gut. “I’m afraid he didn’t make it.”
“No.” Not a dream, but a nightmare. The world dimmed and blurred at the edges. She was going to faint. She pinched her arm hard, and the pain snapped everything into too-bright focus. A cabin. A bed. A stranger’s face, lined with terrible sorrow. “He’s not dead,” she whispered. “Not Donatti. He always gets out of everything.”