It was a beautiful
vehicle, a lovingly restored and updated 1969 Firebird convertible. It had a 350 horsepower engine, a glossy black paint job, and lipstick red interior. It had been love at first sight, smell, and sound for
Josette.
The engine had purred like a very large kitten from the minute she'd turned the key. It might be completely impractical, but it was absolutely perfect. She couldn't help but glance at it again out the window of the tiny motel, the Shooting Star.
Rick would love this car.
She took another sip of coffee and lifted the clean, but worn, drape. The Shooting Star Motel wasn't nearly as well maintained as some of the larger chain motels. It stood on a corner lot at the very outskirts of Pony, directly across the access road from an old-fashioned drive-in theater that had been fully restored. The moment
Josette
saw the tall neon sign with its five-pointed star she had a sinking sensation of
d
éjà vu.
Pulling into the parking lot she'd recognized every detail of the place. The office was a small separate building of tan brick with large tinted windows that sat in front of two long rows of cabins with
what should have been a narrow grass courtyard between. From where she parked she could see that the "courtyard" was nothing more than a mass of overgrown weeds. Still, the small tan brick cabins looked as though they were in fairly good condition. Each was separated from the next by a covered parking awning. The corrugated metal of each awning had been given a new coat of dark turquoise to match the window trim and cabin doors.
The place was familiar, but try as she might,
Josette
couldn't remember the content of the vision. It had been long ago, in a time before motels
—before even the cars that had spawned them.
The harder she tried to chase the details, the more they eluded her. But the tightness that wouldn't leave her back and shoulders made her think it was bad.
In fact, everything felt bad lately
…
as though she had walked into a future war zone without knowing when the battle would start or, worse, who the enemies were. When they'd arrived in town the day before, Ellen had taken her to Mrs. Hunt's house to pick up the car. She had the strange feeling that they were being watched, but nothing seemed out of place to her sensitive nose or ears. Even trying to force a present-time vision hadn't been effective like it had so many times in the past.
After picking up the Firebird, they'd made the long trip back to Albuquerque with Ellen, already an accomplished driver at seventeen, driving the SUV.
Leaving the rental in the outskirts of Albuquerque in a nice suburb might not have been the best solution, but at least there was a good chance the snakes or whoever came to claim their bodies wouldn't be able to track them beyond the city limits. The persuasion magic she'd used had kept the humans there from being interested in watching. Nobody should be able to identify them, even if tortured.
Ellen had cocked her head when she'd gotten in the passenger seat of the convertible, as though something was tickling at her memory. "Are you
sure
you haven't met my parents? I could swear I've seen your picture somewhere around the house. In fact, I know I
have?
Josette
felt herself shrug once more, as she tried again to remember like she did the previous day. "I suppose anything's possible but I'll be honest
—the last time I traveled anywhere was fifty or sixty years ago. If your parents are human, I sincerely doubt I've met them, and I never get any visitors at home."
Get
…
used to get.
A tiny slip of the tongue. What a difference a few short words made. She had no home anymore.
She needed to call Amber. Her sister might not even be aware of what had happened by now, but if she was, she'd be worrying.
Josette
was too cautious to call her from the motel phone, or any landline. Calls to and from the residences of the Chief Justice were routinely traced. There'd still been no sign of anyone looking for
her thus far, but
Josette
was going to assume the worst and act accordingly. She'd wait, buy a cell phone at the little grocery store on the other side of town, and call while driving. It wasn't a perfect solution. She'd need to keep the call very short. But to her mind it was better than the alternative. After all, Aspen Monier was gone. Only
Josette LaRue
remained.
The
Josette
LaRue who'd picked up the vehicle and checked in yesterday was very different than the person Ellen had met at the truck stop. Gone were her shoulder-length curls that she'd worn for a century. Her blond hair had been cut short before they left Albuquerque, so that it bounced and moved with her. Chandelier earrings graced each ear, giving a soft, musical tinkle if she turned her head quickly. She'd indulged herself with just a single drop of her all-time favorite perfume. It was barely enough for the humans to notice, but she knew.
Her finger and toenails were polished a vivid crimson that exactly matched the tight scooped neck T-shirt she wore over her new black jeans. Strappy sandals with a three-inch wedge heel put a wiggle in her walk, which had drawn admiring glances from more than one man in the grocery store and a sharp elbow in the ribs for one particularly unlucky gent. The only thing that was the least bit out of character was the watch, but she wouldn't have traded it for all the rest combined.
It was, admittedly, ugly. Bulky and black, made of
plastic
with Day-Glo numbers it was the kind of sports watch that could tell you more than you wanted to know in several time zones. But it had one feature that made it priceless to
Josette.
With the push of a button it showed the date,
with the year.
Any time she wanted she could simply look at her wrist and know
when
she was. No more asking embarrassing questions, searching for a newspaper, or scanning the area for clues. She could just hit the button and viola.
And the date was so very critical right now. Visions from two hundred years were all converging on this time and place. Her mind had been worrying at the issue like a terrier with a bone. So many things were about to happen, and some needed to not happen. It was difficult to know what to influence and what to leave alone.
Part of it was the responsibility. Whether they meant to or not, people blamed her when she saw something awful
…
and truthfully, most of the time what she saw
was
awful. But it was more than that. She didn't really trust her foresight completely anymore. There were too many people doing too many important things. Every action affected the whole cloth that was the future in new and unpredictable ways. Sometimes the consequences were good; sometimes bad. But there were always consequences, and it played merry hell with her memory every time Charles and Lucas started mucking about with things. And they both insisted on doing it. They were both so
confident
that they knew the best course of action. She wished she could be so sure.
It was as if thinking about the vision brought it on. She felt it coming just before it hit. Translucent images superimposed themselves over the rugged rural scenery outside the window. Then the room disappeared, and she found herself in another place and time.
The cave was dark and cool, lit only by the flickering fire of the torch in his trembling hand. The scents of verdant jungle greenery were almost overwhelming. He gathered his courage, forced himself to be strong. The punishment he would receive was well deserved. He should have known better than to delegate such an important project. He should have gone after the cat himself. She was too strong for the ones he had sent to take her out. Now two of their people were dead, and she had vanished.
They would find her.
He
would find her, and she would die. It was necessary. The Sazi must have no warning of what was about to happen.
A breeze caused the tangled vines that hid the cave exit to sway. He used the snuffer to extinguish the torch, sliding it into the holder with the others. Squaring his shoulders, he brushed the vines aside with one arm and stepped into the blinding daylight.
A knocking sound seemed to come from everywhere at once. It beat against her mind, one moment a booted foot on oak planks, then the hollow tones of iron on stone, and finally settling into light knuckles on a cheap painted door. The last was a tone she recognized. It was the same sound as when Ellen had stopped by the previous evening to deliver towels.
Josette
gasped for air and fought her way back to the present until she stood blinking in the center of the motel room, the coffee in her cup now ice-cold.
As she walked toward the door, a scent hit her like a blow
—warm and musky, tinged with oil and gasoline and just a hint of lemongrass cologne.
Rick!
Her brain screamed the name and her heart began to beat frantically. Another knock, this one a little heavier, followed by his voice. "Josie? Are you in there? Are you okay,
mon ch
ère?"
How long had she waited to hear his voice again
— prayed someone would call her and say his death was all a mistake? But he'd even disappeared from her visions of the future. She couldn't seem to move from where she stood, as though she was bolted to the floor by the weight of indecision.
Anger
…
apprehension
…
delight
—they all fought for dominance in her heart and she had no doubt he'd be able to feel all of them through the door.
As in times long ago when they'd fought, she heard him rest his head against the door. His voice
was soft, because he knew she could hear, and it answered the questions she couldn't seem to get out of her mouth. "I know I hurt you,
mon ch
ère,
my beautiful
Josette.
I never meant to. But I was too consumed by what was happening to me—to my
gift
—to do anything more than disappear. I swear to you, though, when I heard you were missing, that you might be in danger, all I could think of was finding you. I want to help you face whatever future you're running from. Please, I just want to talk to you, to tell you what I've learned from Charles and the others. And then, if you want me to go, I will."
The last few lines did it. He was lying. She could smell the black pepper so strong that she sneezed. But she couldn't decide why, or what part was the lie. Maybe he wouldn't be willing to leave; or perhaps there was more to his visit than he was saying, but her logic clamped down on her emotions. The annoyance at grieving for him for so long flooded her, so that when she put down her cup and opened the door, she was more than a little suspicious.
Rick looked exactly the same as the day he'd walked out her door, so many decades ago. As in her vision the other day, his hair was sun-streaked with so many shades of yellow that Van Gogh would be impressed. He looked miserably hot in a forest green flannel shirt, which was far too thick for the climate, but the color was the perfect to show off his golden eyes and neatly trimmed beard.
He seemed awestruck at the sight of her, and she fought to retain her annoyance as his eyes raked her body with a need that took her breath away. Apparently, he was even more adept at projecting emotions than in years past, and it was difficult to put any venom behind the first words out of her mouth. "You're lying."
"Probably." He nodded as he reached for her and no matter how hard she fought against it, the burning, desperate desire to be touched by him crushed her willpower. Magic flowed over her skin as their bodies met and when his lips found hers, a nearly anguished yowl rose from her chest.
God, he tasted so good; felt so wonderful wrapped around her again. His grip was like steel around her shoulder, and her own fingers convulsed against his solid back muscles in reflex. When his tongue slipped in her mouth, she nearly giggled at the first flavor to greet her after so long.
Maple syrup and butter. He's still a sucker for waffles and sausage for breakfast.
How she'd missed the sensation of his rough beard against her face as his jaw moved against hers in the deepening kiss. It was nearly enough for her to forget everything that had happened. It wasn't until his mouth left hers to gently kiss down her neck that he dissolved the illusion of happiness.
"I've missed you so much, Bun."
The words struck her like a blow to the heart.
Bun
—the warm endearment went far back in time to the day they were out hunting in animal form and had come upon a young rabbit. Unlike its siblings and parents, it hadn't run from the pair of stalking cats. The little brown rabbit was either too
naïve
or too brave to show fear, and the casual curiosity of the tiny thing as it had hopped
toward
them completely charmed
Josette.
To Rick's supreme amusement, she'd shifted forms and took the rabbit home to live with them for a short time, until it finally found a mate and moved on. He laughed and called her "bunny-lover," which was eventually shortened to Bunny and then just Bun.
It was that casual reminder of the solid life that they'd had, the warm and loving relationship that had been destroyed when he left
…
and then when he
died.
She pulled away from him, pushing against his chest. Now the words had venom, and she watched him flinch. "But not enough to call? You didn't miss me so much that you felt compelled to write, or even send a message through my sister? A simple 'I'm alive, but have to stay hidden' would have been enough." He opened his mouth to reply, but she cut him off with a raised hand and a slap of angry magic against his face that pulled a hiss from him. "No, Rick. You
let
me mourn. You knew where I was. I've been in the same house for a century, and never once did you
miss
me enough to seek me out."
He stood there for a long moment, soaking up her
emotions. It wouldn't matter if she tried to hide them from her face, so she didn't bother. Instead, she walked to the small chair at the far corner of the room and sat down, staring at him with all the pain and anger she felt.
Finally, he sighed, crossed his arms against his chest and dropped his head. "You're right. I didn't do any of those things." Tiny little movements of his head now, accompanied by a wave of self-anger were enough to make tears well in her eyes. "I was far too wrapped up in my own life to think about what my decisions would do to other people. I guess I figured
—" He looked up and into her eyes. "That it wouldn't matter to you because of how we split." He shrugged before turning to the door and touching it. "I was stupid and immature, and you have every right to tell me to get out and stay out."
He stood there, his hand on the door, waiting for
…
something. She stared at his broad back, felt the rolling tide of emotions he was projecting, and truly didn't know what to do. The part of her that was devastated wanted to slash him to ribbons and throw his bloodied body into the parking lot to heal or not. The part that was still desperately in love with him wanted to forgive all and clutch him to her until the pain went away. But she had no way of knowing whether he wouldn't just do it again
—open a second wound that might never heal.