Page 9 of Awry
“You … their numbers won’t be listed.”
“That’s fine.”I shift the car into the right-hand lane, hitting the accelerator to dart around five cars before slipping back into the next open lane.I can feel it now.The eddy we’re riding has solidified again.I let it direct the steering wheel … just a little bit.
“Open the phone app,” I say, noting the bikers making an effort to catch up to us.The highway is a bit clearer for a stretch ahead, so I press all the way down on the accelerator.The engine responds eagerly.
“Done.”
“Look at the numbers.”I can’t figure out if drawing the attention of any authority figures by seriously speeding is a bad idea or not.Would I just get any cops who tried to stop us killed?Would they simply hand us over to the bikers even though this isn’t Cataclysm territory?
I push the thought away, to be explored after I connect Presh to her brother.She needs the grounding while I find us a way out.“Look at the numbers,” I repeat.“And think of your brother.”
“Um, which one?”
“Whoever you want to talk to.”
“Well … I don’t know them all that …” She huffs, interrupting herself.“I know.Focus.”She inhales deeply, all but glaring at the phone now.“I want to speak with my brother Rath.”
Something shivers through me at the odd name.“Wrath?As in anger?”
“Rath,” Presh repeats, pronouncing it sweetly but determinedly.“NoW.It’s his biker handle.Will that work?”
I nod, suddenly more distracted than I want to be during a high-speed chase.Maybe the shiver means nothing.But maybe it means that Rath is the right choice, and all of what that entails.
“I want to speak with my brother Rath,” Presh repeats, talking deliberately to the phone.“Like that?”
“Yes.”I really only need her intent, if this is even going to work, but words will help her focus.I allow myself to slip a little further into the eddy ofknowingwe’re riding, just enough to split my focus a smidge, not enough to lose control of the car.“Again.”
“I’m going to call Rath,” she says.
I reach for the whisper ofintentthat curls around her hand, around the phone.“You know the number.”
Her shoulders stiffen slightly, but before she can refute my assertion, I add, “You’ve seen it come up on the screen numerous times.As the call connects.It’s there … it’s right under your fingers.See the numbers.”
Ipush, trying to not draw from the necklace.This is a parlor trick.I can do this sort of thing without even thinking about it.Well, when I’m not hurtling along a crowded highway near the top speed of a performance sports car while being chased by bikers.
“The numbers …” Presh murmurs.Then her fingers fly over the keypad, and the phone starts connecting the call.
I’m forced to slow as the traffic tightens up ahead, probably in response to an on-ramp.The bikers smoothly slip back into our wake.Drivers on either side of them visibly blanch, then involuntarily hit their brakes before correcting themselves.
Even two shifter bikers can create a lot of havoc.Few individuals — essence-wielders or not — can take them on one-on-one.
Presh stares down at the screen, waiting.The phone is still trying to connect.“What if … he won’t recognize the number.What if he doesn’t … ?”
“He will,” I say, making it the truth just by speaking it.
Yeah, there’s a whole lot of arrogance connected to what I do.Some of it passed down to me, some of it taught.Even more of it is lived experience.
The call connects.
“What?!”a deep voice snarls over the phone speakers.
“Rath!”Presh all but screams, then she dissolves into sobs.Her hand bounces on her thigh, and she nearly loses hold of the phone as her limbs go limp with relief.
“Where the fuck are you?”Rath demands.
The word ‘fuck’ sends a delicious and completely inappropriate shiver down my spine.Damn.That is quite a connection.And we aren’t even sharing the same space.
“I’m … I’m …” Presh gulps air, trying to quiet her sobs and speak at the same time.“Highway … Washington.”
