(FREE TO READ) Bad Moon

chapter 36 ; spell

Tisper reclined against the back of Quentin's passenger seat, the scent of leather and pine growing stale the longer they drove. He'd turned the radio on some time ago, but she couldn't hear a word past the violent rustle of the trash bags taped over the busted window.

She thought about offering to pay for the damages but the last thing Quentin needed was more money. Besides he deserved it. He deserved to have holes in so many more places than his car window.

They'd been driving on the interstate for some time now and still Tisper hadn't asked where they were going. She didn't care, as long as they came back with Jaylin in hand. Along the way, Quentin had made phone calls—several of them. Tisper couldn't tell if he was calling multiple people, or one single person who just wouldn't answer.

The silence burned in her ears. Each time she looked at Quentin, he was piercing the road with his steely gaze. Staring down the horizon with his angry, solemn eyes, but never turning to see the inquisitive expression on her face.

He had a destination. And Quentin Bronx may be something of legends, but his car was still only a machine. The gas light blinked on empty as the fuel started to take from its reserves. Tisper watched the reluctance, the tight, helpless-frustrated set of his jaw as Quentin pulled onto the exit. They were just beyond Snoqualmie Pass, where the world was more mountain than men. Houses and rest stops were sparse—the land in these parts still belonged to the wilderness and the roads to trucks and other transports.

She couldn't help but think it was funny. A wolf, in the snowy mountains where the evergreens grew like moss on this stony face of the world. This should be just the place for him and yet Quentin looked so out of his element. She swore for a moment, as he wrangled himself free of his seatbelt, that she saw the faintest sheen of sweat on his forehead. The door clapped shut behind him and Tisper sunk in her seat to inhale the stale, recycled air. She could only bear the quiet for a moment before she knocked the door open and stumbled out into the open breeze.

"The least you could do is buy me a soda," she grunted, meeting Quentin at the gas pump. The air was so different in the mountains. So pure.

"Here," Quentin said. She'd expected a few dollars, maybe a credit card. But instead, Quentin handed her his entire wallet. "Get something to eat. It's a four hour drive to Spokane."

"Why are we going all the way to Spokane?"

"We need help," Quentin said, selecting his gas and jerking the pump free. "From a friend."

"And why couldn't we fly to Spokane?"

"Next flight doesn't leave until nine tonight." He socketed gas pump into his tank. "I've even looked into private planes. Driving is our only option."

She didn't care what the deal was. As long as Quentin knew what he was doing, she'd put her trust in him. Her world wasn't equipped to handle these situations. Maybe Quentin wasn't either, but he was her best shot. He was Jaylin's best shot.

By the time she'd returned to the car with bags in hands and a stick of jerky between her teeth, Quentin was leaning against the frame, his large hand lost in thick locks of dark disheveled hair. The other gripping a cell phone, holding it to his ear, bringing it away when he felt like cursing to himself. He looked like he'd aged ten years in the ten minutes she'd been gone.

"Why wasn't I informed?" He was trying to control his voice—trying to speak quietly to the person on the other end, but Quentin sounded angry and as she tossed her bags into the passenger seat, Tisper heard every word. "No. Imani's here—I need her here. Call her sheriff. Amelia Newbridge. I'll text you the number; she'll take care of it."