Claire shot back, “because Amelie had Shane in a cage and was going to burn
him
for something he didn’t even do. He’s changed. For the better. And he didn’t have to.”
“Perhaps he has changed for you.”
For some reason the whole idea of that just made Claire … angry. “No.
Not
for me. He’s a good guy, deep down, and he wants to make things better. Same as me. So just—shut up about it.” She was, she realized, short of sleep, tired, anxious, and scared, and Naomi’s cool analysis of someone she loved made her unreasonably irritated.
Naomi said nothing, just gazed at her with placid, polite interest. There was a lot of frost inside her. She’d been nicer when there hadn’t been lives at stake, Claire thought; now survival was a big and increasing concern for her, and it was testing the limits of her willingness to put up with disrespectful humans.
But she didn’t snarl, glow red eyes, flash fangs, or otherwise try to make a vampiric comeback, so Claire had to be satisfied with that. They waited in silence for a few uncomfortable moments before the growing throb of an engine and a splash of headlights across the pavement signaled the arrival of a massive pickup truck that pulled to a stop neatly ahead of them. It idled slow and deep, and the bed of the thing was approximately the size of a blue whale. The interior of the cab could hold a soccer team. It even had a handy—though empty—gun rack in the back window.
The bumper sticker read: YOU CAN HAVE MY GUNS WHEN YOU PRY THEM FROM MY COLD, DEAD HANDS . Some joker—possibly the owner of the truck—had added UN before DEAD with a black marker. Claire cast a glance at Naomi, who was focused on the same words. There was an odd, vaguely amused smile on her lips that was not just a little creepy.
Shane leaned out the window of the truck and said, “God, I love rednecks. Who wants to drive this bad boy?”
“Not me,” Claire immediately said, at the same time that Naomi said, “I do not know how.”
Shane jumped down from the cab, paused, and stared at thetwo of them with a blank expression. “Don’t want to?” he asked Claire, and then swung his attention to Naomi, looking even more stunned. “Can’t? Seriously, there’s something wrong with the two of you.”
“If by
wrong
you mean
sane
,” Claire said. “That thing is like a tank, only a tank gets better gas mileage.”
“This is your biggest concern right now? Gas mileage?”
“No, I don’t think I can actually see over the dash! Who drives this thing? Bigfoot?”
“Rad,” Shane said. “You know, Rad, who owns the mechanic shop and sells bikes? That guy. C’mon. I’ll buy you a booster seat.”
Claire gave him a doubtful look, but he pointed to the pale gray sky, at the brightest point. A silent reminder that the day wasn’t getting any younger and their chances of finding Theo were dimming with the afternoon sun.
“Fine,” she said. Shane had to boost her up to the chrome step, and then she climbed into the cab of the truck itself. There were eighteen wheelers that were lower to the ground, she was convinced. Naomi had no such issues; she made her entrance to the passenger side look graceful. Claire slotted her shotgun into the rack behind them, but Naomi kept hold of hers, eyes distant and watchful.
It turned out she could see over the dash, after all, though she had to pull the seat all the way forward to reach the pedals. Shane vaulted up into the open bed of the truck and slapped the side of the truck in a signal to go.
“Well,” Claire muttered, “here goes nothing.”
Literally.
She stalled the truck immediately, then leaned out the window to yell at Shane, “Who drives a
standard
transmission these days?”
“Manly men,” he called back. “C’mon, Claire, you can do it!”
She could, but she just hated shifting. Too much to thinkabout, especially in their current, extremely complicated situation. No help for it, though; she gritted her teeth,
him
for something he didn’t even do. He’s changed. For the better. And he didn’t have to.”
“Perhaps he has changed for you.”
For some reason the whole idea of that just made Claire … angry. “No.
Not
for me. He’s a good guy, deep down, and he wants to make things better. Same as me. So just—shut up about it.” She was, she realized, short of sleep, tired, anxious, and scared, and Naomi’s cool analysis of someone she loved made her unreasonably irritated.
Naomi said nothing, just gazed at her with placid, polite interest. There was a lot of frost inside her. She’d been nicer when there hadn’t been lives at stake, Claire thought; now survival was a big and increasing concern for her, and it was testing the limits of her willingness to put up with disrespectful humans.
But she didn’t snarl, glow red eyes, flash fangs, or otherwise try to make a vampiric comeback, so Claire had to be satisfied with that. They waited in silence for a few uncomfortable moments before the growing throb of an engine and a splash of headlights across the pavement signaled the arrival of a massive pickup truck that pulled to a stop neatly ahead of them. It idled slow and deep, and the bed of the thing was approximately the size of a blue whale. The interior of the cab could hold a soccer team. It even had a handy—though empty—gun rack in the back window.
The bumper sticker read: YOU CAN HAVE MY GUNS WHEN YOU PRY THEM FROM MY COLD, DEAD HANDS . Some joker—possibly the owner of the truck—had added UN before DEAD with a black marker. Claire cast a glance at Naomi, who was focused on the same words. There was an odd, vaguely amused smile on her lips that was not just a little creepy.
Shane leaned out the window of the truck and said, “God, I love rednecks. Who wants to drive this bad boy?”
“Not me,” Claire immediately said, at the same time that Naomi said, “I do not know how.”
Shane jumped down from the cab, paused, and stared at thetwo of them with a blank expression. “Don’t want to?” he asked Claire, and then swung his attention to Naomi, looking even more stunned. “Can’t? Seriously, there’s something wrong with the two of you.”
“If by
wrong
you mean
sane
,” Claire said. “That thing is like a tank, only a tank gets better gas mileage.”
“This is your biggest concern right now? Gas mileage?”
“No, I don’t think I can actually see over the dash! Who drives this thing? Bigfoot?”
“Rad,” Shane said. “You know, Rad, who owns the mechanic shop and sells bikes? That guy. C’mon. I’ll buy you a booster seat.”
Claire gave him a doubtful look, but he pointed to the pale gray sky, at the brightest point. A silent reminder that the day wasn’t getting any younger and their chances of finding Theo were dimming with the afternoon sun.
“Fine,” she said. Shane had to boost her up to the chrome step, and then she climbed into the cab of the truck itself. There were eighteen wheelers that were lower to the ground, she was convinced. Naomi had no such issues; she made her entrance to the passenger side look graceful. Claire slotted her shotgun into the rack behind them, but Naomi kept hold of hers, eyes distant and watchful.
It turned out she could see over the dash, after all, though she had to pull the seat all the way forward to reach the pedals. Shane vaulted up into the open bed of the truck and slapped the side of the truck in a signal to go.
“Well,” Claire muttered, “here goes nothing.”
Literally.
She stalled the truck immediately, then leaned out the window to yell at Shane, “Who drives a
standard
transmission these days?”
“Manly men,” he called back. “C’mon, Claire, you can do it!”
She could, but she just hated shifting. Too much to thinkabout, especially in their current, extremely complicated situation. No help for it, though; she gritted her teeth,
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