Page 82 of A Malicious Menagerie
“I don’t have a passport,” I admit. “I never had a reason to need one. Plus, I wouldn’t be comfortable using it anyway. Who knows if any of Mathis’s people are looking for us and what resources they have?”
“Okay, then we can’t cross into Canada.” He squints at the map until his bright eyes widen with an idea. “So we don’t. We take a ferry.” He points to the top of Washington state—Bellingham, the map reads—and traces along the curve of Canada into Alaska. “Bellingham to Whittier. You can put a car on the ferry, too, so we can drive from Whittier to Fairbanks.”
That actually sounds… possible. Hope begins to warm my chest. “All this is dependent on us finding a cheap car,” I note. “Without using ID.”
He gives me a lopsided grin, one dimple making an appearance. “How’re your acting skills?”
* * *
“Abusive boyfriend, huh?” the used car salesman says, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
I dash a crocodile tear from under my eye, drawing attention to the bruise on my cheekbone from where Smarman ground my face into the iron bars. When the bruise showed up this morning, Chase threatened to learn necromancy so he could “bring that asshole back to life just for the pleasure of killing him again.” But the mark does add some credibility to my story.
“Yes. He threatened to kill my grandmother, and then me.” I motion to Nan beside me, who’s sitting stony-faced in her chair. She took my story in stride, not blinking an eye at the fact that werewolves and vampires and mermaids exist. She even softened to Chase once she heard how he’d been taken from his family and forced to live in a cage. Still, she’s not a huge fan of all the lying I’ve had to do.
“So you need a car to get away,” the salesman surmises with a nod. He’s middle-aged, not thin but not fat, with slicked-back black hair that’s too dark compared to his gray-speckled stubble not to be dyed. His name tag reads “Samson.” “But you can’t use your real name, ‘cause you’re scared he’ll find you.”
“Yes,” I agree, not having to feign my relief that he seems willing to play along.
Samson makes a production of looking left and right before leaning in close enough for me to smell his cheap cologne and his morning coffee on his breath. “Between you and me, I think I can make that happen, Miss… let’s say Smith.”
Batting my eyelashes at him, I hope I’m not laying it on too thick when I gush, “Thank you, Samson. You’re my hero.”
Either I’m a better actress than I thought, or maybe he’s just into it, because he grins, revealing a chip off one upper incisor. “Not at all, Miss Smith. Always happy to help a damsel in distress.”
* * *
With its flaking red paint and worn seats, the ‘93 Grand Cherokee is an eyesore, and it tends to vibrate when it hits eighty miles per hour. Still, it runs, which is about our only qualification at this point. Any other time, I would be thrilled at the idea of taking my first cross-country road trip. But with Nan looking more haggard and pale with each passing mile, I’m more worried than excited.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, reaching across the center console to take Nan’s hand. Chase is crashed out across the back seat, his knees tucked up awkwardly. He took the last shift driving, and I know he hasn’t been sleeping well. The couple of times we stopped to rest in a motel, I woke to find him staring out the window, his watchful gaze cataloging every car and wayward pedestrian. I hope that wariness will fade once he’s home, but the truth is, I don’t know that it will ever leave him completely. You don’t walk away from an experience like his without scars—physicalandmental.
Nan shoots me a surprised look. “What for?”
“For getting us into this mess,” I reply with a sigh. “For taking that job. For lying to you about it. For everything Chase and I have had to do to get free of the menagerie.”
“For setting a wendigo loose in the city?” Nan adds wryly.
I wince. That particular fact haunts me, especially given the newspaper headlines and news bulletins we’ve glimpsed along our way. So much for hisclaims that he’d just go home after we freed him.
“At least he’s only killing murderers, rapists, and drug dealers,” I note weakly. Like him being avigilantewendigo makes it so much better.
Nan sighs. “Anna, I’m not mad at you. And you have nothing to be sorry for.”
I shoot her an incredulous look. “I don’t?”
“What do you think you need forgiveness for?” she asks gently, giving my hand a feeble squeeze. “Working yourself to the bone to take care of me, sticking to your principles when asked to abandon them, or risking it all for the people you love most?”
“Well, when you put it like that,” I reply faintly. I remember when I said those words to Chase in my childhood bedroom that fateful night not too long ago. How is it that they can see these things in me that I struggle to see in myself?
“Anna, you are exactly the woman I knew you would be the first time you brought an orphaned kitten home. You are strong, compassionate.Fierce.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. “That’s what Chase calls me, too.”
“The man has good sense,” Nan says with a nod. She shoots me a sly smile. “And good taste. So, when’s the wedding?”
“We can stop in Vegas,” Chase chimes in from the back, his deep voice rusty from sleep. I watch in the rearview mirror as he sits up and stretches, his T-shirt riding up his stomach to give me a glimpse of his happy trail and shallow belly button. My stomach gives a pleasurable dip at the sight. With Nan in such close quarters, we haven’t been able to have a repeat of the other night, and I’ve been going a little crazy with how badly I want to jump him. My thoughts must be written all over my face because Chase catches my eye in the mirror and grins suggestively.
“It’s not on the way,” I reply with a disappointed sigh. In all honesty, if it were, stopping for an impromptu wedding sounds like an amazing plan.
