Chaos Choreography
Page 57

“I thought ghouls liked to live in secluded places when they couldn’t live underground,” I said. “You know, abandoned houses near cemeteries and slaughterhouses.”
“Would you want to raise a child near a cemetery or a slaughterhouse?” asked Alice.
She gripped the bottom of the garage door and hauled upward. I moved to help, and she shot me a grateful look as the door slid up, revealing a garage packed stem to stern with boxes, piles of yard equipment, and old, tangled Christmas lights. A space had been cleared off to one side, the scrapes in the dirt on the floor showing how quickly the job had been done. There was a motorcycle parked there, old and battered but still sturdy-looking, like it had been driven a long way to get here, and was more than ready to drive back.
“There she is,” said Alice. “California has helmet laws, right?”
“Right,” I said uneasily. I’ve never been a big fan of motorcycles. They seem like an even faster route to a horrible death than the usual cars. “I like helmets. They’re like exoskeletons for your skull. Please tell me you have helmets.”
“I have helmets,” said Alice. She reached into the pile of boxes, withdrawing two brown lumps that looked like they came from roughly the same era as the bike itself. Privately, I resolved to walk home. “Don’t make that face. They’re not cute, but they’re street-legal, and they’ll protect your head. Not that I’m planning to have an accident. Road rash isn’t my idea of a good time.”
“Grandma, your idea of a good time involves gutting things.”
“True enough,” said Alice, apparently unoffended. “Blood is good for your hair, and internal organs are good for your skin. Put your helmet on, and don’t talk back.”
I rolled my eyes, pulled off my wig, and put the helmet on.
The little ghoul girl was still playing tea party when the motorcycle came zooming down the driveway, my grandmother leaning forward to reduce our wind drag, me clinging to her for dear life. The little ghoul raised a hand in a wave. To my dismay, Alice returned it. I hugged her tighter, and she laughed, and drove on into the night.
Crossing the city was easier on a motorcycle than on foot, even for me. Alice seemed to have at least a basic understanding of traffic laws—she understood they existed, and she understood she didn’t like them, but if everyone else was playing by the rules, she should pretend to care. She only broke a few speed limits and drove on the sidewalk for about six blocks during a particularly nasty patch of traffic. Apart from that, she was a model citizen.
I still kept one eye on her rearview mirrors, waiting for the red-and-blue lights to start behind us. We were wearing helmets, but that was where our dalliance with being responsible drivers ended, and I had no faith that whatever license she was using would stand up to any sort of scrutiny . . . or hadn’t expired thirty years ago.
Luck was with us for a change. No police appeared by the time the neon sign of the Be-Well loomed ahead of us, and Alice was able to snag a parking space out front, using the weird alchemy of good fortune and random happenstance that had kept her alive for all these years.
“I’m walking home,” I said, sliding off the bike and pulling off my helmet. My hair, offended by going from under-a-wig to under-a-helmet, stood up in untidy hedgehog spikes.
“No, you’re not,” said Alice, removing her own helmet more carefully. Her hair was perfect. Her hair was always perfect. I’d seen her so drenched in blood that she looked like Carrie after the prom, and her hair had still managed to look amazing. As useless superpowers went, it was probably one of the more pointless, and I envied it fiercely. “You left your wig in the garage, remember? Unless you’re planning to explain to your dance buddies that I scared you so bad it turned your hair blonde, you’re going back with me.”
I groaned and stomped into the motel. Laughing, Alice followed me.
Hearing two women in the lobby was apparently novel enough to catch the clerk’s attention. He looked up from his magazine for the first time when there wasn’t money being shoved in his direction, and looked us both up and down before making an appreciative sucking noise. Alice’s eyes narrowed.
“Please don’t knock his teeth out, we’ve already paid our rent for the rest of the month,” I said, grabbing her arm before she could do anything.
“Men used to be more respectful,” she said, shooting one last glare at the clerk before allowing me to lead her to the stairs.
“You and I both know that’s not true,” I said.
Alice smiled, glare fading. “And thank God it’s not, or your father would never have been conceived.”