Page 31 of Box of Frogs
‘Gasbudlikins!’ I slammed on the horn. The only response I got was a tanned arm thrusting out from the driver’s window and flicking me the finger. Then he accelerated away.
For the briefest moment, I stared after the disappearing car. A typical superhero would catch up to him, force him to stop in a safe place and remind him pointedly of the rules of the road. I had no idea what a typical faery would do. I did, however, have a very clear image in my head of what a villain would do after such a slight. Bad guys move the plot forward, I reminded myself. Well, I was going to move this arsebadger’s plot forward.
Speeding up, I gripped the steering wheel and focused, keeping the red car in sight. He wasn’t stupid enough to run the red light at the next crossroads so I caught up to him quickly enough. Music blared out, some thumping, tuneless idiocy that I supposed passed for a song. He deserved some come back for forcing everyone to listen to that rubbish. My guts tightened. I had to time this perfectly.
In the split second before the traffic lights flicked to green, I altered time. It was becoming easier to manage the more I did it. This time I felt the smooth transition as the road rager’s seconds turned to sludge whilst mine remained normal. Then I veered out on the hard shoulder in front of him, effectively blocking his path. A moment later, time returned to normal and his oh-so perfect vehicle smashed into the back of mine with a tremendous sound of crunching metal.
For a few seconds I watched in my mirror as he sat dumbstruck in his car. He had the sort of tanned smooth skin and overly large forehead that were annoying all on their own. I paid close attention to his expression, noting the exact moment when it changed from shock to grim determination. He opened his door and got out, anger vibrating in his shoulders.
There was no doubt in my mind that he’d find it easy to shout at me. He’d use the fact that I was a slightly built female with unkempt hair to try and intimidate me with his maleness. As if. All the same, this would be far easier if I were a large burly bloke. Preferably with a swarthy beard and biceps.
I waited until he was almost at my car door and got out. When he caught sight of me, his face altered and he hesitated. Then he pulled back his spine and glared.
‘You crashed into me!’
I cocked my head and regarded him. ‘No,’ I said calmly. ‘You crashed intome. You hit my rear. Not only is the liability yours, but the fault is yours.’
His brow creased for a heartbeat as if something were confusing him. Then he pursed his lips and shook off whatever was bothering him. ‘That’s bullshit,’ he blustered. ‘You … you came out of nowhere.’ He swung his head from left to right as if searching for witnesses who didn’t exist to prove his claim.
‘I think you weren’t paying attention. Give me your insurance details and we can settle this properly.’ It occurred to me, rather belatedly, that I didn’t know whetherIhad any insurance. It didn’t matter; this wasn’t about the money, it was about the racing arsebadger getting his come-uppance. ‘In fact, given that you’re clearly a menace on the roads, we should probably just call the police.’
As expected, his face paled dramatically. No doubt he had some form of contraband in his wanker-tanker that he didn’t want the police to find. Drugs, probably. Even though I was supposedly a drug dealer myself, I didn’t have any sympathy for him. He should have thought of that before he drove like a maniac and almost killed three people. Although it was tempting to pop out one of his eyeballs or demand his firstborn as retribution, given his reaction to my mention of coppers this seemed like the best way to go.
‘We’re not calling the fucking police,’ he hissed. His fists clenched.
Here we go: this was where he would step forward and threaten me. There would be numerous epithets – bitch, whore, whatever – and he’d use his size to tower over me and force me into submission.
I upped the ante myself and took the first step, closing the gap between us. Huh. He was shorter than I’d realised. ‘Why not?’ I enquired, the very picture of calm, cool and collected.
The man’s face contorted, a furious red flushing his neck. ‘I’ll give you money for the repairs,’ he muttered. ‘We don’t need to involve anyone else.’
I blinked. I hadn’t expected such a fast climb down. I was almost disappointed. ‘Really?’ I asked. ‘You’ll just give me a wad of cash?’
He looked from the damage at the back of Julie’s car to the damage on his. ‘Yeah. Like you said, it was my fault. I’ve got money in the glove box. Hang on.’ He twisted on his heel and got into his car, as if fiddling around to find the money. A second later, he started the engine and swerved round both me and Julie’s car in a bid to escape.
He hadn’t appreciated quite how much damage had been done to his own vehicle. He barely got fifty metres away when his car came to a juddering halt and smoke started to pour from his engine. Once again he got out. He kicked the tyres and started to yell inarticulately at the sky. Either he was a supernatural creature who had the power to talk to animals or he was having a very, very bad day because he’d only just started when a pigeon flapped overhead and let loose, splattering both him and his smoking sports car with gross white liquid. He screeched and then shouted even louder.
I walked to the back of Julie’s car. It was dented, to be sure, but the damage looked fairly superficial to me. She could dock my wages but it would be worth it. I shrugged, got in, drove the short distance up to the still-bellowing arsebadger and popped my head out of the window.
‘Tell you what,’ I said, interrupting his tirade, ‘you pay more attention to how you drive and we’ll call this quits.’ He was lucky I was in a good mood. I was an evil villain, after all.
He opened his mouth then apparently thought better of answering, snapped it closed again and nodded mutely. I watched him and decided I should make sure. Leaving my own engine running, I got out of the car again and opened his passenger door, ignoring the smoke still billowing out of the front. While the feckless man stared at me, I reached into his glove box. There was, alas, no money but there was a small plastic bag filled with at least a dozen white pills that I doubted he’d got on legal prescription. I ignored them and found his driver’s licence.
He stomped towards me. ‘What are you doing?’ he shouted, finding his voice.
I read the details on the small card. ‘Julian Mayweather,’ I said aloud. ‘23 Grand Bellock Road, Manchester. Date of birth…’ I paused. ‘Wow, you look younger than you really are. Do you use Botox?’
His steps faltered. ‘What do you want?’ he whispered. ‘What are you really after?’
‘I told you,’ I said pleasantly. ‘I want you to be a better driver.’ I waved his driver’s licence in the air before tossing it in his direction. ‘If not, I know where I can find you. I might just pop in from time to time to make sure you’re behaving.’
I reached up and patted him on the shoulder. He flinched in response. That was weird. It made an odd kind of sense that people who knew who I was were afraid of me – or at least of my connection with the mysterious Rubus – but this guy didn’t know me from Adam. Yet I’d still managed to terrify him into submission with very little effort. It had to be my demeanour, I decided. Yep. I was evil through and through.
Whistling, I returned to my car and closed the door before pointedly clicking my seatbelt into position. It was important to abide by the laws of the land. Then I checked my rear-view mirror and started: the face I’d started to get used to wasn’t looking back at me. I was no longer Madrona of the pale skin, freckles and mousy brown hair; the face in the mirror was that of a swarthy man with a bushy beard, harsh eyes and, when I glanced down at my body, the most enormous bulging biceps.
Chapter Twelve
It was strange. I still felt the same. I still sounded the same. When I parked Julie’s car, got out and tried to lift it, my pathetic lack of strength was the same as ever. Most of my upper torso and right arm were still in agony from the poisoned cut on my finger, so that hadn’t changed along with the rest of me. Neither did I feel like a thirty-something man and, when I scratched my chin, my skin felt as smooth as usual. Yet, in the mirror, I still looked like a thirty-something Hell’s Angel, with a ridiculous scratchy beard, who should know better. Apart from my eyes, that was. They were still a bright Fey green despite the hard light which shone within them.
