held him tighter. “My technopathic friend lives in Birmingham. If we need to keep off the grid, he’s the guy to see. I think it’s farther than going back home, but he could probably figure out where this key belongs.”
“The harder we are to track without magic, the better. Hell, the harder we are to track with it.”
“I can email Ben before we leave. He could have IDs and credit cards for us by the time we got there.” Which would mean a real hotel, with a bath she wasn’t afraid to climb into and sheets she’d let touch her body. “Ben will know the local magical community too.”
“Good. We might need that.”
Kat didn’t want to ask the next question, but she had to. “My life’s boring right now, but you have things to do. Important things. Do you need to—”
Both his eyebrows shot up. “Are you about to say what I think you’re about to say?”
Stepping back gave her space. “Someone should say it.”
“Does someone also want her cousin to find out she got shot before she gets what she came here for?”
Not so reasonable after all, then. Kat could read between the lines. Andrew would let her pursue any leads she felt the need to, as long as he got to watch her back. “That’s a little bit like blackmail.”
“It’s a little bit like self-preservation,” he argued. “I don’t want Derek to murder me.”
Whatever the reason, she didn’t have to do it alone. “So we go to Birmingham?”
“We go to Birmingham.” He backed toward the bathroom. “I’ll clean up in here. You get on the line with what’s-his-name.”
“Ben.” Kat reached out and caught Andrew’s hand, and damnable butterflies fluttered to life in her stomach at the simple touch. “Thanks. Even if you’re only doing it for Derek.”
He looked down at her, his mouth set in a firm line. “I’m doing it for you . I’m just not above blaming Derek.”
She couldn’t look away. “It means a lot. More.”
He pulled away with a quick nod. “Shouldn’t take more than four hours or so to get there. We’ll hit 65 and head north.”
“Got it.” Kat checked her wrist out of instinct before she remembered she’d lent her watch to Sera twenty-four very long hours ago. She circled the bed on the way to her bag and caught a glimpse of the cheap bedside clock. Bright red numbers informed her it was just after six in the morning.
Way too early. If she knew Ben, he’d only fallen into bed a few hours ago. She’d never actually called him before—she’d never needed to, considering how much easier it was to use voice-chat—but his number was stored in her address book along with the numbers to every takeout restaurant within ten miles of her apartment.
She dug her phone out of her bag and plugged it in to charge before calling Ben. After four rings, she was directed to his voicemail.
Sorry, Ben. She left a brief message, then began the systematic process of annoying him awake with a series of text messages. The first was her phone number, followed by a string of abrupt notes typed as fast as she could manage.
Got shot.
Need papers.
Coming to town.
I thought you always answer text messages.
Even if your phone is on vibrate.
Or if you’re asleep.
Or drunk.
Wake up, lazy ass. Or I’ll stop using punctuation.
BTW, I’m stuck in a crappy motel room.
With Andrew.
She was seriously considering a few messages filled with creative obscenities—or offenses against the English language—when “The Ride of the Valkyries” filled the room. Kat jabbed at her phone to answer the call. “Ben?”
“You got shot ? What the fuck?” Ben’s voice was groggy with sleep, but familiar enough from long hours of gaming to bring the stark absurdity of her present circumstances into sharp focus. The residual warmth from her quiet moment with Andrew faded, leaving her cold and scared as she outlined the story to Ben.
Just as well. A little fear was probably appropriate for her first foray into fake identities.
“The harder we are to track without magic, the better. Hell, the harder we are to track with it.”
“I can email Ben before we leave. He could have IDs and credit cards for us by the time we got there.” Which would mean a real hotel, with a bath she wasn’t afraid to climb into and sheets she’d let touch her body. “Ben will know the local magical community too.”
“Good. We might need that.”
Kat didn’t want to ask the next question, but she had to. “My life’s boring right now, but you have things to do. Important things. Do you need to—”
Both his eyebrows shot up. “Are you about to say what I think you’re about to say?”
Stepping back gave her space. “Someone should say it.”
“Does someone also want her cousin to find out she got shot before she gets what she came here for?”
Not so reasonable after all, then. Kat could read between the lines. Andrew would let her pursue any leads she felt the need to, as long as he got to watch her back. “That’s a little bit like blackmail.”
“It’s a little bit like self-preservation,” he argued. “I don’t want Derek to murder me.”
Whatever the reason, she didn’t have to do it alone. “So we go to Birmingham?”
“We go to Birmingham.” He backed toward the bathroom. “I’ll clean up in here. You get on the line with what’s-his-name.”
“Ben.” Kat reached out and caught Andrew’s hand, and damnable butterflies fluttered to life in her stomach at the simple touch. “Thanks. Even if you’re only doing it for Derek.”
He looked down at her, his mouth set in a firm line. “I’m doing it for you . I’m just not above blaming Derek.”
She couldn’t look away. “It means a lot. More.”
He pulled away with a quick nod. “Shouldn’t take more than four hours or so to get there. We’ll hit 65 and head north.”
“Got it.” Kat checked her wrist out of instinct before she remembered she’d lent her watch to Sera twenty-four very long hours ago. She circled the bed on the way to her bag and caught a glimpse of the cheap bedside clock. Bright red numbers informed her it was just after six in the morning.
Way too early. If she knew Ben, he’d only fallen into bed a few hours ago. She’d never actually called him before—she’d never needed to, considering how much easier it was to use voice-chat—but his number was stored in her address book along with the numbers to every takeout restaurant within ten miles of her apartment.
She dug her phone out of her bag and plugged it in to charge before calling Ben. After four rings, she was directed to his voicemail.
Sorry, Ben. She left a brief message, then began the systematic process of annoying him awake with a series of text messages. The first was her phone number, followed by a string of abrupt notes typed as fast as she could manage.
Got shot.
Need papers.
Coming to town.
I thought you always answer text messages.
Even if your phone is on vibrate.
Or if you’re asleep.
Or drunk.
Wake up, lazy ass. Or I’ll stop using punctuation.
BTW, I’m stuck in a crappy motel room.
With Andrew.
She was seriously considering a few messages filled with creative obscenities—or offenses against the English language—when “The Ride of the Valkyries” filled the room. Kat jabbed at her phone to answer the call. “Ben?”
“You got shot ? What the fuck?” Ben’s voice was groggy with sleep, but familiar enough from long hours of gaming to bring the stark absurdity of her present circumstances into sharp focus. The residual warmth from her quiet moment with Andrew faded, leaving her cold and scared as she outlined the story to Ben.
Just as well. A little fear was probably appropriate for her first foray into fake identities.
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