8
Smash the Windows
“Enough of this, Korendil.”
Perenor’s voice was icy. When he spoke again, it was not aloud, but in the silent speech of the elvenkin. :Korendil, don’t be too much of a fool. You know you cannot fight me. Give up now, and I will make this painless and quick.:
Kory flung his response at the traitor’s mind, ringing and defiant. :Never! May you rot in the humans’ hell first, betrayer of our people—:
Perenor shook his head in mock-sadness. :As you wish. You know, Korendil, you would have been wiser to stay in the Grove, lost in your dreams.: He raised his hand slowly, his green eyes incandescent with resonating power.
Kory edged along the wall, knowing there was no escape, but unable to simply stand motionless like a frozen rabbit waiting for the strike that would kill him. His foot slipped on the wet asphalt, and he fell backwards over a garbage can, landing on his knees in the spilling refuse. The lid of the can clattered loudly in the silence.
No! I cannot die on the ground like an animal! Is there nothing I can use as a weapon, enough time to—
Kory sensed the burst of magic an instant before the blinding light and heat surged towards him.
Oh Gods, NO!
He groped for anything to shield himself, anything, and recoiled at the touch of Cold Iron. Then, disregarding the soul-scorching pain that lanced through his hands, he grabbed the metal object and desperately hurled it towards Perenor.
A silent explosion . . .
. . . as the trash can lid shattered into a million shards of light, impacting with the force of Perenor’s magic.
Kory blinked, then looked up to see Perenor warding his eyes with his hand, trying to see past the glittering snowfall of multicolored light-specks. Oh, thank Danann, I’m still alive—for at least another ten seconds—
He scrambled to his feet and picked up an abandoned piece of wood, not as long as his elven sword, or as balanced, but embedded with several short, blood-colored spikes on one end. By the icy twinge through his trembling hands, he knew that the pointed metal prongs were iron, possibly the only thing that Perenor might fear.
:I will not be easy prey for you, Perenor.: With a weapon in his grip, he felt the warrior’s fury rising within him as he cast the challenge at the elf-lord. :Come and fight me, if you dare.:
Perenor smiled, as if approvingly, and conjured his own blade, the bright elf-metal reflecting the lightning ripping through the skies above. :I am pleased, Korendil. At least you will give me a bit of sport before you die . . . :
Without warning, he struck at Kory, the sword arcing down towards him.
Kory rolled under the edge of the blade, somersaulting up onto his feet. I can’t let him touch this stick—that sword will cut through it instantly, and then I’ll be unarmed again—
He countered, slashing at Perenor’s face with the filthy board. The elf-mage dodged back, and Kory kicked the fallen trash can into his opponent’s path. Perenor tripped, falling hard on the wet ground.
Now—while I have a chance—
Kory ducked in close, bringing the spiked wood down sharply. But Perenor reacted instantly, his sword moving up to block.
The blade sliced through the wooden board like paper, then the stroke continued, across Kory’s exposed leg—
Kory’s scream echoed in the silent alley as he stumbled back, half-blinded by the pain. Oh gods—oh gods—he felt the slick hardness of the wall against his back, the warm wetness coursing down his leg. He tried to fight off the dizziness and overwhelming pain, but it was all he could do to stay on his feet.
He shook his wet hair out of his eyes, frantically tried to make them focus on where his foe had been. Perenor was lying on the ground, the elven sword beside him. He’s not moving. Please, Danann, let him he dead! If one of those pieces of Cold Iron—
Then Kory saw his enemy stand up and reach for the killing sword on the ground next to him. Perenor limped slightly as he shifted towards Kory, and he was no longer immaculate.
At least I did that much . . .
Perenor’s clothing was filthy and he was dripping wet. His face was a mask of fury as he turned towards Korendil.
Kory tried to muster anything, a last burst of magic, anything, but all he could do was stand there, fear coiling in his gut, watching his death approaching, one slow step after another.
Perenor smiled, and raised the sword for the fatal blow.
:No! Korendil—:
Fire, green and gold, blossomed around them.
Kory shielded his eyes against the blinding brilliance. When he could see again, Perenor was sprawled on the pavement again, but this time he was looking up with sudden uncertainty and fear visible—for a brief moment—in his eyes.
Kory followed Perenor’s gaze to the far end of the alley, where another figure stood, vibrant green light still flickering around his hands.
“Leave the boy alone, Perenor.”
The newcomer stepped out of the shadows, the witch-light reflecting off his golden hair and pale features.
* * *
Prince Terenil.
Awakened, alert, ready for battle—
—by all the Gods, it’s him!
The Prince smiled at Perenor, who was staring at him in stunned surprise. “I’m the one you want—right? The one who named you outcast, who banished you from the Elflame and the High Court.” He drew the blade sheathed at his side. “Now is your chance to avenge yourself. Fight me.”
He’s awake, he was only pretending to be lost in Dreaming, and now he’s going to fight Perenor! He lured Perenor into this, he must have!
Perenor nodded slowly, painfully picking himself up off the gravel. Kory watched silently as the two elven lords moved to face each other across the dimly-lit alley, swords at ready.
Another wave of dizziness washed over him. He glanced down, and saw the blood dripping from the long gash in his thigh. He quickly ripped away part of his shirt and bound it tightly around the wound, clenching his teeth against the throbbing pain.
When he looked up again, Perenor and the Prince were circling each other, each waiting for an opening, a chance to strike.
Even Perenor is no match for the Prince. He never was, which is why he fled into exile rather than face him the last time they met. Another minute, and Terenil will finally defeat the Traitor—
Then fear and dread tightened a fist around Kory s heart.
The Prince’s hands were shaking.
No—
As he watched, Perenor feinted lightly, and the Prince responded clumsily, leaving his own side wide open to a killing thrust.
Oh no—no—
But Perenor did not take the opening, only smiled and feinted again.
This—it can’t be happening! My lord, my liege—
He’s—he’s falling to pieces. And Perenor’s playing with him! Oh gods—he’s going to kill the Prince!
In that instant, Terenil slipped on the wet pavement, and Perenor lunged, swinging the flat of his blade against the Prince’s head.
Prince Terenil collapsed, crumpling on the ground; Perenor kicked the Prince’s fallen sword away from him. As Kory choked on a sob, Perenor reached down and took Terenil by the hair, and forcibly turned his former liege over onto his back.
The Prince stared blankly upwards, unseeing, his body shaking uncontrollably, convulsively—
—like a man caught in the throes of drug withdrawal.
Tears joined the rain on Kory’s face.
Perenor set the edge of his sword against the Prince’s throat. “What an amusing evening,” he remarked conversationally. “I’ve wanted to kill you for some time, Terenil, but I never thought it would be this easy.”
:NO!:
The weak burst of magic that hit Perenor was scarcely more than a flicker of light, but the elf-lord looked up nevertheless.
At Kory, standing against the wall, his hands trembling.
:No. You can’t kill him. I won’t let you.:
“Really?” Perenor smiled humorlessly. The renegade elf raised his sword, pointing the weapon at Kory. “And do you really think you can stop me?” His eyes narrowed, bright with eldritch power.
He’s going to—
Oh SHIT!
Kory dived for the fence as the wall exploded outward in the spot where he had stood; hauled himself over the top, and tumbled down again on the opposite side. He gasped in pain, feeling something snap inside his chest as he landed hard on the ground.
Just run—keep running—
The backyard of someone’s house, shadows of trees, a low hedge. Kory vaulted over the bushes and out onto the darkened street, the pain blinding him to anything but the need to run, keep going—
Sweat was stinging in the small cuts on his face and hands, where he had fallen and hurt himself before and not realized it, and he could barely breathe against the stabbing pain in his chest.
Something’s broken inside—a rib—can’t catch my breath!
Just . . . keep running—
At the corner, he glanced back once, and saw Perenor close behind him, running at a light, steady pace.
If I can keep him after me, maybe the Prince will be able to get away. If I can keep running . . .
Oh Gods, it hurts!
Another alley, the glimmer of streetlights, far ahead. I can’t lose him by running, he’ll just track me down with his magic. And I won’t be able to run much longer.
He’ll chase me until I fall, and then he’ll kill me. And he’ll go back and finish off Prince Terenil, and then he’ll find Eric, and—
—no! I won’t let him win!
Cold Iron. That would block his magic. He wouldn’t be able to find me, but he’d waste a lot of time trying. Perhaps even enough time for the Prince and Eric to get away.
A glimpse of movement on the street ahead, a large vehicle that Kory could smell even at this distance. He doubled his speed, running desperately, and gathered the last of his strength, channeled it inward, reaching inside, changing—
A small silvery cat, running painfully on three legs, suddenly leaped up at the passing garbage truck, landing in the back among the reeking trash.
The searing touch of Cold Iron, burning through his fur, his skin—
Oh Gods! I can’t—the pain!
He clenched his teeth on the feline scream trying to escape from his throat. This is far better than what Perenor intends to do to me—
The silver-haired cat shrank away from the side of the truck, and found a large plastic bag among the refuse. Moaning faintly, the cat collapsed upon the plastic, barely moving.
But it watched with large, frightened green eyes as Lord Perenor stood alone on the corner, staring in silent fury at the empty street before him.
* * *
This sure has been one helluva night. Beth Kentraine flipped down the clasps of the Fender’s case, then lugged it toward the open back door to the club, and the waiting Jeep beyond. Allie and Jim were already standing in the rain next to Jim’s pickup, quickly loading the last of the trap set into the back.
“Beth, we’re heading out,” Allie said, seeing her walking across the wet asphalt towards them. The keyboardist looked intently into Beth’s eyes. “Are you—are you going to be all right, Beth? Bo said you told the police you didn’t want to press charges against that guy.”
“No, I don’t.” Beth managed to keep her voice level. They booked him on public drunkenness and felony possession”—God, the man was carrying a virtual pharmaceutical business around in his jacket pockets—“And I really don’t want to get involved in a court case. He didn’t hurt me, Allie. Really, he didn’t.”
Just scared the living daylights out of me, that’s all. And he would have done a lot more, except Kory came to the rescue.
Kory—I’ve never met anyone like him before. Never seen anyone who could do what he did, fighting off that bastard.
And he’s gone. He left without even saying good-bye . . .
Is it just bad luck, or do I always fall for the flakes? The Eric Banyons and Korys of this world, the guys that vanish at the first possible opportunity. Leaving me standing out in the rain, literally.
And Eric—
It’s hard to believe what Kory said. Eric Banyon, a Bard? Sure, he’s a terrific musician, but Eric’s so feckless, such a . . . a twit. He can’t even balance his own checkbook. How in the hell is he supposed to save the L.A. elves?
And, speaking of Banyon . . .
“Allie, are you and Jim giving Eric a lift home? It’s almost midnight, and I think he’s missed the last bus across Van Nuys.”
Allie shook her head. “I haven’t talked to Eric since we finished the gig. I think he’s back inside the club.”
Figures. He’s probably expecting me to remember that he’s stranded. “All right, I’ll check on him. And I’ll see both of you at practice on Wednesday, okay?”
Jim grinned. “You bet. This was a wild gig tonight, hey?”
“Yeah.” And stranger than you know, m’friend.
Beth walked back inside the building, shaking the icy droplets of rain from her short hair. Rain in May. Terrific. If this doesn’t dry out in the next couple days, the Faire is going to look like a mud-wrestling competition. Not to mention the fact that I’m going to have a helluva time getting home tonight if I don’t leave soon . . .
She walked into the break room and picked up Eric’s gig bag, still lying on one of the packing crates. A moment later, she found his flute, abandoned on one of the stage speakers.
What in hell? Eric never leaves this flute alone for a minute, never. What’s going on here?
She put the flute in the gig bag, slinging it over her shoulder, and looked out at the shadowy, smoky club. Most of the crowd had left soon after the band finished their show, but a few were still on the floor, dancing to the beat of the canned music.
Banyon shouldn’t be too hard to spot in all of this. He’s probably soaking up a last free beer, knowing him. I still can’t believe he left his flute onstage. She moved along the edge of the stage, scanning the crowd.
Then she saw him, standing on the far side of the room, talking with someone, a woman she didn’t recognize.
Who in the hell is that lady? And what is Banyon doing with her?
Beth stared at the vision of blonde, tailored perfection, laughing at something Eric apparently had just said, her hand resting on his with obvious familiarity. And Beth felt a peculiar emotion rising within her. He’s making time with Miss America, that’s what he’s doing.
Jesus C. Frog, I’m not getting jealous of Eric Banyon, am I?
No, not of him. Of her, maybe. She looks like everything I could never be—beautiful, rich, poised, and elegant. I probably shouldn’t even bother to ask him about a lift home. She looks like she’d be more than willing to take him anywhere.
No, I should ask, just in case. Maybe he’s trapped in a conversation with this woman, waiting for someone to bail him out. Expecting me to show up any minute to rescue him.
Yeah, right. Sure he is, Kentraine. And you’re Princess Di.
Well, I should ask him anyhow . . .
She walked around the dance floor, sidestepped the gyrating bodies of the two mohawked dancers, wove a path around several others merrily rolling across the floor. As she moved closer, she realized that the woman was even more beautiful than Beth had originally thought. Lady, you sure know how to make every woman in the room feel real insignificant, don’t you?
Even her voice is lovely, Beth realized, now close enough to hear the blonde’s low contralto.
And to see the way her fingers were tracing little patterns on Eric’s hand.
I can’t be jealous. That’s Eric Banyon, Eric “I’m a twit” Banyon. It’s not like there’s anything between us, more than just friendship—
—so why do I want to kill the bitch?
Beth walked uncertainly towards the pair, and stopped a few feet away. Neither Eric nor the blonde woman noticed her. What in the hell, am I invisible or something?
“—No, I’ve never been to the Elizabethan Faire, Eric, but I think that’s really a marvelous idea—”
“Hey, Eric,” Beth said uncomfortably.
Eric glanced at her. For a stunned moment, Beth thought he didn’t recognize her. Then he smiled. “Oh, Beth, hi. I thought you’d left already.”
“I wanted to make sure you have a ride home first.” Something is really strange here. He’s not quite looking at me, or her, or anything. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s had too much to drink. But Eric’s not like this when he’s drunk—he never gets this strange, distant look in his eyes—
He gets silly, that’s what he gets. Or he gets morose. And he can’t be stoned, either, or he’d be snoring at her feet, or panting at them like a cocker spaniel in heat. You can set your watch by the fifteen minutes it takes Eric Banyon to pass out after he gets stoned.
There’s definitely something weird going on in the three brain cells residing underneath all that hair.
“Thanks, Beth, but I’ll just catch the bus.”
Beth’s voice tightened with annoyance. “Eric, the last bus went by half an hour ago!” You fool, don’t you ever look at your watch?
No. That’s not it. There’s something else going on here. I don’t know what it is, but . . . something about this lady is making the back of my neck prickle. That predatory little smile, the greedy way she’s looking at Eric. Something is very wrong—
“Oh, I didn’t realize it was that late.” Eric said after a moment, and smiled vaguely at her. “I guess we should go, then.” He turned to the woman beside him. “I—uh, I’m leaving now. It’s really been nice talking to you, Ria—”
The vixen gave him a warm, seductive look. “I’ve enjoyed talking with you as well, Eric. If you’d like, I—” Her lips curved invitingly. “I could give you a lift home . . . ”
Like hell you will, lady!
The blonde looked up suddenly, as though she had heard Beth’s thoughts. Her eyes met Beth’s, intense and calculating.
Where did Eric find this wench, anyhow? God, but he looks wasted. Too many drugs, Banyon. I’d better get you out of here.
Beth took Eric’s hand firmly, and was startled at the chill of his flesh, the way his hand seemed nerveless against hers. “Come on, Banyon, we’re leaving.”
:Do you really want to fight me for him, little sister?:
Beth blinked, not certain if she’d heard the woman speak, or had just imagined the words. No, she didn’t say it, I didn’t see her lips moving at all. She didn’t say anything.
Then—who did?
I didn’t take any drugs!
“Banyon?”
Eric had a remarkably stupid look on his face, one that Beth recognized from too many evenings of seeing him passed out drunk at Fairesite.
Banyon, what in the hell have you been drinking? Sterno?
Well, you can sleep it off. Assuming we don’t get caught on the road. Woodley Park is probably already flooded from this storm—
“Nice meeting you,” Beth called over her shoulder, starting to walk away with Eric in tow.
A delicate hand descended on her shoulder. Beth felt the elegantly lacquered fingernails digging in, even through the thickness of her leather jacket.
“I think you’ve interrupted a private conversation,” the blonde said softly, her contralto voice rich with barely concealed menace.
“No, I think that Eric and I are leaving now,” Beth retorted, with just a hint of steel in her voice. Get your mitts off me or you’re going to lose them, Blondie.
“Are you?” the bitch smiled, her fingers tightening on Beth’s shoulder. “And what makes you think that he wants to go with you?”
Beth glanced at Eric, who was staring off into space, completely oblivious to everything and anything going on around him. Banyon, what is wrong with you? And why in the hell am I defending your virtue?
No. I know why I’m doing this. I know what this “lady” is, I can read her loud and clear. Man-eater. She wants to take the Banyon-boy under her wing, amuse herself for a while, suck him dry, then spit him out again. And laugh as he falls apart.
I won’t let her do that to him. He may be a real schmuck sometimes, but he’s my friend.
“Because I’m his friend,” Beth said, surprised at the way Blondie was gazing intently at her. Like she’s trying to burn a hole though me with those eyes. If she stared at me any harder, she’d probably go cross-eyed. “Besides, he thinks I’m cute.”
“Does he? So, tell me, dear, just how do you get that particular kind of hacked-off-with-a-knife look with your hair? I’ve never seen anything like it before, even at my coiffeur’s in Beverly Hills. I’m sure Eric finds it very attractive.”
Why you bitch!
“Try hacking your hair off with a knife,” Beth retorted. “And, you know, I really do like your remarkable color of blonde, while we’re on the subject of hair styles. Do you use Clorox to get that effect, or just hair coloring? It’s really you.”
The woman’s eyes darkened. “My dear, you’re treading on very dangerous ground.”
“So are you, lady.” Beth smiled, showing teeth.
The woman shrugged. “Be that as it may, I do think Eric enjoys my company more than yours. Don’t you, Eric?” She favored the flute player with a winning smile.
“Uh, yeah, sure,” Eric said dazedly, staring at the flickering colored lights of the dance floor.
What in the hell is going on here? Beth gave the bitch a stiletto glare. “Listen, Blondie, we’re leaving, and I’m taking Banyon here with me. I won’t let you take advantage of my friend, who’s obviously too drunk off his ass to fend for himself. You’ve struck out, so why don’t you go find some other happy hunting ground? Like, in another county?” She bared her teeth again. “Maybe you’d find somebody more your type on Hollywood Boulevard. Or do you prefer to work in Santa Monica?”
For a moment, Beth thought that Blondie was about to haul off and swing at her. Just try it, and you won’t know what hit you, lady. I’d love an excuse to knock you flat on your derriere.
Then the woman’s eyes narrowed.
:No. Not that. I’m going to do something very, very special instead—something you’ll never forget, you little bitch—:
And she smiled, her eyes locking with Beth’s.
Blue eyes—icy blue, so cold, so . . . murderous. As if she’s trying to reach out somehow—trying to do something—
Beth felt a chill run down the back of her neck, a warning tingle. Those eyes, so cruel, reaching—
She gave herself a mental shake, and glared right back.
Well, I hope the silly bitch gets a migraine, staring at me that way.
Beth broke eye contact first, shrugged, and saw a visible ripple of surprise run through the other woman.
What the hell? Did she expect me to run away screaming, just because she gave me a dirty look? Honey, I’ve had nastier looks from my landlady.
“Come on, Banyon, we’re leaving. It’s been a long night, and you need to get some sleep before heading off to work tomorrow, right?”
“Work?” he repeated dully, looking from her to the other woman.
“Yeah your day job, remember?” She glanced at the bitch, still staring at her in shock. “Buenos nachos, Blondie. I hope you enjoyed the show.”
The woman’s astonished expression faded into something else: a thoughtful speculative gaze. Then her eyes widened, looking at something beyond Beth.
Beth turned to look, and stopped short.
There was a man standing on the other side of the dance floor, a silver-haired man wearing an expensive, stylish business suit.
Well, it had been an expensive suit. Now the trousers and jacket were stained and torn, dark with mud. Blood trickled from a small cut on his cheek, mixing with the water dripping from his hair, plastered against his face and ears.
His pointed ears.
Equally unmistakable was the burning fury in his green eyes, seething as he stared at Beth and Eric. Especially as his gaze rested upon Eric Banyon.
Green eyes, like Kory’s. He’s an elf, one of them—
No, that look in his eyes, such hatred and fury—I’ve never seen anything like that before. He’s not like Kory, not like the dancers, there’s something about him that just feels wrong. I don’t know what it is, but—
—Jesus H. Christ, I think I’m in trouble—
The blonde started and crossed the dance floor, hurrying towards the bedraggled silver-haired man. “Father! What happened to you? Are you all right?”
Her dad? That figures. They definitely look like two of a kind. Like a couple of exotic snakes.
She turned to Eric standing openmouthed next to her, and punched him lightly on the arm. “C’mon, Banyon, I’m taking you home.”
He looked at her as though seeing her for the first time. When he spoke, his voice sounded distinctly puzzled. “Bethy? I thought—”
“That’s the problem with you, Eric. You don’t think. Look, I want to get home before dawn. Let’s go.”
“Yeah.” He shook his head. “I just—I just feel funny—”
Terrific. With my luck, he’s going to end the evening by throwing up all over the inside of my jeep. Wonderful.
Why in the hell do I bother with him, anyhow?
Because—because he’s my friend. And it was hard enough watching that bitch Maureen tear him apart, let alone standing by while somebody else repeats the performance. I wish Banyon had common sense. Or better taste in women.
Though I have to admit that on looks alone, Blondie really is a class act—
“C’mon, Eric, let’s go.” She gave him a push in the direction of the door, then glanced back at the two across the room. And froze.
They were watching her. And Eric.
I’ve never seen such hatred in anyone’s eyes before, such venomous hatred. And menace, like all they want to do is see our blood leaking out all over the floor.
Sudden fear crawled up Beth’s back.
He’s an elf. I don’t know what she is, but she’s obviously with him.
Maybe they do want to see our blood all over the floor . . .
Kory told us about his enemies. No, his Enemy—an exiled elven lord, by the name of Perenor. An older elf, silver-haired.
Silver-haired.
Like this guy, staring at me from across the room. Who looks like he wants to vivisect me and Banyon.
Oh shit.
What—what if Blondie wasn’t just trying to lure Banyon into her bed? What if she was trying for something else?
And—
And where in the hell is Kory? I haven’t seen him since—
Everything clicked in her mind at once.
Oh holy shit!
Beth grabbed Eric’s hand and pulled him bodily towards the front exit. She looked back over her shoulder, and saw the two start across the dance floor. Heading towards her, towards them, striding purposefully through the last of the Monday-night crowd.
Beth signaled frantically at Bo, who was standing at the bar, talking with the barkeep, and pointed at the pair coming up behind them. Bo raised an eyebrow curiously but nodded and said something quietly to the bartender who stepped out from behind the counter, wiping his hands on a cloth.
At the front door of the club, she took a moment to glance back. Bo, with the barkeep right behind him, had stopped the bitch and her dad and was speaking with them, the words lost in the noise of the blaring Top Forty dance music.
Thank you, Bo. You’ll keep ’em busy for a few minutes, at least . . .
She shoved Eric out the door, steering him around the corner to the Jeep, parked in the side alley.
“Bethy?” Eric looked at her, very bewildered, the rain dripping down his too-handsome face.
“Just shut up and get in the ear, Banyon!” She pushed him headfirst into the jeep, tossed his gig bag in after him, slammed the door shut, and dashed to the other side of the vehicle. Christ, this can’t be happening to me.
No. It’s real. That guy is after Eric, maybe after me, and he’s definitely after Kory—who has vanished. I have a real bad feeling about this—
She turned the key in the ignition, and the Jeep’s engine rumbled into life. Thank God, the Beast is actually running this week. I want out of here, right now!
Someone stepped out from the edge of the building, silhouetted by the Jeep’s glaring headlights.
Oh shit, it’s him!
Beth slammed the Jeep into gear and shoved the emergency brake off. Baby Beast, don’t fail me now!
And a blinding flash of light hit her right in the eyes.
The world vanished into white, images searing into her retinas, impossible colors and shapes. Beside her, she heard Eric Banyon moan softly, incoherently. Something about D minor . . . What the hell, Banyon?
She cursed and rubbed at her tearing, aching eyes with one hand. Can’t see, can’t drive—God, I can’t believe this is happening to me!
Then she heard the quiet footsteps on the gravel, moving towards the parked Jeep.
Christ! I am not staying around to see if he can do something besides fireworks!
She hit the gas, unable to see, but praying. Oh Lady, take pity on us. Whatever happens, I’m not going to stop. Either we’re going to get away, or Eric and I will be splattered all over Burbank Boulevard, but I’m not going to stop. Gods, get us out of this—
She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, expecting to feel the bone-crushing impact at any moment—
A split-second later, her vision cleared. Beth glimpsed a gray-suited figure diving to the side of the alley, barely managing to get out of the way of the accelerating vehicle, just as the Jeep bounced off the edge of the sidewalk and onto the street.
Hah! Almost, but not quite, you bastard!
A red sports car screamed to a stop only inches from her, and Beth yanked the wheel hard, the Jeep spinning wildly in a half-circle across the wide street. Then she had control of the vehicle again, and floored the gas pedal.
She glanced at her passenger, white-faced and shaking in the seat next to her. His fingers, clenched tightly to the dashboard, looked like they would need to be pried off with a crowbar.
The Noble Bard gulped audibly as Beth took another turn at a reckless speed, putting all the distance she could between them and the Dive.
And the elf-lord that tried to kill us.
Beth laughed, and Eric looked at her like she was crazy.
Maybe I am. But, by the gods, we’re alive!