Death's Mistress
Page 56

“I’m good,” I assured her.
She shook her head tipsily. “You’re gonna get run over,” she insisted, opening the door and almost falling out. She stopped when the seat belt caught her, looking perplexed. “Is it still ‘run over’ if you’re, like, hit from above?”
“I’d rather not find out,” I said, moving so that I wasn’t directly beneath the car. Magic was magic, but my brain was having a hard time accepting the sight of huge hunks of metal just hanging in the air like that. I kept expecting one to drop on my head, snuffing me out like a mosquito under a thumb.
“Then get up here!” She turned to her companion. “Ronnie—take us down.” Ronnie nervously studied the gears, then did something that made the car shoot up another dozen feet. “No, no, down!” she yelled, as they came within a hairbreadth of hitting a legitimate race car with an official number on the side.
Ronnie panicked and veered sharply to the right, missing the race car but clipping a VW Bug that had stalled out in the middle of the air. Its hood was jacked up, and its owner’s butt was hanging over the side. Or, at least, it was until the impact caused the Bug to go spinning in one direction and flung the owner in the other. He was headed for the ground headfirst, but the race car driver snatched him out of midair to the wild appreciation of the onlookers.
For his part, the rescued man seemed less than thrilled. I could hear him shouting as the blonde’s convertible slowly drifted back down to my level. “Uh-oh,” she said as the race car driver started shaking his head and pointing at us.
Ronnie glanced at me. “Get in if you’re getting!”
I’d have refused, considering his grasp on the fundamentals of the road—or in this case, the air. But traffic was piling up around the accident, pushing more and more people outside the safe zone. And I was beginning to doubt that most of them even knew how to drive on land.
I grasped hold of the side of the car, waited for the top to lower again and hauled myself into the backseat. Ronnie floored it before I was even seated, sending me into the arms of a dishwater blond guy in a blue tank top. “Hey.” He grinned, as I tried to sort myself out without elbowing him anywhere sensitive.
“Toni and Dave,” the blond girl told me, hanging over the front seat. I assumed Toni was the young brunette who was currently giving me the evil eye. I crawled off her boyfriend, and she rewarded me with a sweating Bud from the cooler beside her feet. Enough empties rattled around the floorboards to explain Ronnie’s lack of coordination.
Since I didn’t have to drive, I drank up. The air was pungent with exhaust and heavy with humidity, and I felt like I was breathing through a damp towel. Ten minutes under the blazing sun had left my black T-shirt sticking to me unpleasantly and had me wishing I’d worn shorts and sandals instead of jeans and boots.
“I’m Lilly,” the blonde informed me, completing the introductions. “It’s short for Lilith, but nobody calls me that.”
I nodded. I’d rarely seen anyone who looked less like a Lilith. She was wearing a pink-and-white-checked blouse over a white tube top and shorts. Her bouncy blond curls—the ones that hadn’t escaped to stick to her sweaty face and neck—were trapped by a couple of Hello Kitty ponytail holders. They matched her glittery lip gloss and Pepto-Bismol nails. If the real Lilith still existed on some other plane, she was undoubtedly plotting a hideous revenge.
“Dory,” I said, saluting her with what remained of my beer. I lost it a second later as a couple of kids on Boogie Boards zoomed by like they had rockets attached to their backsides, whirling over and around the car in figure eights. One grabbed my beer and they took off, whooping like savages.
“Okay, that’s it,” the blonde said. “I’ve had enough of those little bastards. Catch them!”
I thought that was unlikely, as the kids seemed to have a lot more control over their small supports than Ronnie did of his big one. But he followed orders anyway, veering around the quarreling drivers and hitting the gas, heading straight for a large oak. The boys were swooping around, laughing at the Bug, which was sticking out of the top of the tree.
A tow truck driver had also stopped by the accident, and was attempting to attach a cable with a hook on it to the Bug’s cantilevered backside. But we whipped past at exactly the wrong moment, and he snared us instead. “Oh, shiiiit!” Lilly screamed, as we were slung around the tree, dragging the tow truck along for the ride.
“Hit the brake!” I yelled, as we were flung through the air like thrown bolas, the tow truck on the other side of the cord providing the counterweight.
It was the sort of situation that might have flummoxed the most experienced of drivers, which Ronnie clearly wasn’t. He panicked and started grabbing at everything. In quick succession, he popped the trunk, got the top to stay down and turned on the radio. He did absolutely nothing to stop us from heading straight for the middle of the traffic lane.
A mellow reggae beat spilled out of the radio as I scrambled over Toni to try to free the hook, but it had been caught in the metal frame of the convertible’s top, and with the hood down, I couldn’t even see it. And then it didn’t matter anyway, because the tow truck guy stomped on his brakes, hurling us around him in a furious orbit. The top tore off the convertible with a screech of agonized metal as we went spinning back in the other direction.
“Don’t worry,” the radio lilted as we headed straight at the race car. “Be happy.”
The driver didn’t look too happy, but he ducked just in time as we screamed by overhead. He immediately popped back up, and he looked pissed. So did the tow truck guy, who was heading our way trailing the flapping remnants of the convertible’s top behind him. Ronnie managed to find the brake, and we spun like a top, with no traction to stop us, for several revolutions. Then he hit the gas and the car shot ahead.
We retraced our own greasy plume of exhaust straight between our two pursuers, the acrid smoke making everyone cough and my eyes water. The tow truck guy had his window rolled down, so maybe he was having the same problems and didn’t realize we’d turned. Or possibly his reflexes just weren’t that good. He kept going forward, toward where we no longer were, but the race car spun on a dime and came after us.
Lilly spied the tow truck and abandoned panic for righteous indignation. “Hey, that guy has my top!”
“Not anymore,” Toni said as the remains flew off the cord like a giant bat, landing over the race car’s windshield.
The now-blind driver slammed on the brakes, causing the car behind him to accordion into his trunk before getting creamed by a third. Meanwhile, the tow truck’s empty hook had snared the top of a tent, which tore loose from its anchors, leaving a bunch of locals to swill their beer in direct sunlight. They did not appreciate this, as they demonstrated by swarming after the tent as it was dragged through traffic, until they reached the cord. Six or seven big guys grabbed it and started towing the truck back to Earth.
“Wow,” Toni said as the three of us hung over the trunk.
“I’m so screwed,” Ronnie moaned, watching the carnage in his mirror.
“Did you see where my top landed?” Lilly asked, scanning the ground while the three-car pileup wafted above the traffic lanes to sort things out, taking the fluttering remains of her car’s accessory with them.
“Twenty on the drunk guys,” Dave offered, as several more joined the tug-of-war. But then the tow truck guy stomped on the gas and tore away, taking a few of the more stubborn types along for the ride.
One unwilling hitchhiker landed on top of another tent, collapsing part of it, while two more were dragged through the crowd at an autograph signing. Several fights broke out over that, as people lost their places in line, but I didn’t get to see how they turned out because Ronnie had exercised the better part of valor and got us out of there. A moment later, we merged with a line of vehicles inching toward the ticket booth hovering above the front gates.
The house was quite a sight, glimmering in the sun at the top of the hill like a marble wedding cake. Despite being in upper New York State, it looked like something straight out of ancient Rome, with columns and porticoes and a huge balcony. Most of the hosts were gathered there in plush comfort, sipping at tall, frosty glasses as if dehydration was a possibility, and watching the controlled chaos below.
I wondered what the consul thought about the wreck the mages were making of her formerly manicured lawn. It was only the third day of the event, which was scheduled to last a week. But the grounds were already strewn with trash and crisscrossed with tires tracks from vehicles that had the sense to stay where God, or at least the automotive industry, had intended.
I assumed the offending vehicles belonged to the vendors, because the fans’ cars were being directed off to the side, where a colorful explosion of several thousand floated like giant, oddly shaped clouds over the landscape. They were arranged in three tiers—like a parking garage without the garage—with the highest maybe thirty feet up. There were no stairs.
The obvious message was that, if you couldn’t manage a basic levitation spell, you shouldn’t be here. It was typical; mages acted as if they controlled the supernatural world and the rest of us just lived in it. But considering who was sponsoring this year’s event, it was pretty tacky.
We headed for the closest group, which was forming next to an ornamental pond. Beer bottles, soda cans and snack wrappers tangled in the surrounding rosebushes and bobbed beside a fountain designed by Bernini. Nearby, a massive set of weathered bleachers faced the house. It was packed with people watching the empty space over the large circular driveway with rapt attention.
Every few minutes, another line of assorted craft—mostly cars, but with the odd motorcycle, airplane or even boat thrown in—would levitate out of the mass in a cordoned-off area beside the house. They would line up even with the balcony and stay there for a moment, letting the frenzy wash over them. Some of the drivers would wave or stand up to further incite the already-rabid fans. When the flag-waving, banner-fluttering, screaming hysteria had reached a peak, the consul would rise from her seat in the center of the balcony and drop a scrap of silk. An earsplitting crack later, and the whole lineup would disappear.