Pale Demon (The Hollows #9)(49)
Author: Kim Harrison

"Demons are coming, Vivian," I said as I rolled my window up and angled the vents to me. "They’re finding ways around the rules. The genetic checks and balances have been broken, and the demon genome is going to repair itself. We’re going to become who we were. Maybe not this generation, maybe not the next, but when it happens, the witches can either be ready, or they can be pixies being eaten by giant birds."

Vivian stared at the road, her thoughts on my words. "I have to get to San Francisco. I have to talk to the coven."

"Me, too."

Leaning back, I turned my face to be in the light, seeing the bloodred spots of sun even behind my eyelids. I didn’t want to be labeled a black witch and imprisoned, but I was giving the coven a very clear picture of what might happen if they let me live.

And I couldn’t stop myself.

Chapter Twelve

The warmth of the sun on my face turned into an irritating come and go of shadow and light, and I stretched. The crackle of a fast-food bag reminded me of why my back ached and why I was sleeping sitting up. Feeling fuzzy, I opened my eyes, glancing at Vivian, currently alternating her attention between the busy urban street and the clock she was trying to change. It must have been the beeps that woke me up. Apparently we’d crossed into another time zone. Six-eighteen. But I felt like it was nine. Somewhere, I’d missed another meal.

Vivian gave me a quick, neutral smile, and turned away. I looked up at the washed-out buildings on either side, wishing I had my sunglasses. We were off the interstate, and there were palm trees, but it didn’t look like L.A. The timing wasn’t right, either.

The street was busy, clogged with traffic and people. Pedestrians were everywhere, and my eyes widened at the three guys dressed in velvet capes. Vampires in the sun? Living, to be sure, but they were Gothed to the max. "Where are we?" I asked.

"Las Vegas," Trent said from the back, his voice sour.

"Vegas?" Lips parting, I sat up and looked a little closer. Oh yeah. Where else would you get a pyramid and the Eiffel Tower on the same street? Leaning over, I found the map at my feet. "Why are we in Vegas? I thought we were headed for L.A." Which probably had vampires roaming the streets in capes as well, come to think of it.

Vivian tightened her grip on the wheel as if I’d brought up a sore subject. Her professionalism was running thin, and the petite woman frowned. "I’m not driving 40 to Bakersfield," she said through clenched teeth. "We’re going the long way."

My gaze went to Ivy in a question, and she shrugged. "What’s wrong with Bakersfield?" I finally asked, feeling the tension between Vivian and Trent.

"Nothing." Vivian frowned, but she still looked cute. Tired, but cute. "It’s 40 I’m worried about. There are no gas stations after Kingman, and we would have run out."

"Someone’s bad planning," Trent said softly. "The right person could make a killing."

Vivian made a huff of noise. "Someone’s good planning, and make a killing is right. The people there don’t want anyone driving through. Going to Vegas doesn’t add much time. Stop complaining. We all want to get to the West Coast as soon as possible."

I hid a smile. Apparently Vivian and Trent hadn’t been getting along, either. Settling myself, I ogled the people and buildings, acting like the Midwestern goober I was. I’d never seen so many flamboyant people flaunting their differences. It was easy to pick out the tourists with their pale faces and cameras. I’d never thought of myself as a conservative person, but this was like Halloween and Mardi Gras lumped together, a true Inderland playground.

"As long as we don’t stop," I said, thinking it would be easy to lose a day here.

"We’re stopping," Ivy said, voice low and confident.

From behind me, Trent muttered, "She speaks, so we must obey."

"You showered this morning," Ivy said, more loudly than she needed to. "I showered this morning. Vivian and Rachel didn’t, and Rachel fought off a demon in hundred-degree heat. We can stop for an hour." There was a hesitation, followed by a soft "Besides, I’m hungry."

"Fine," Trent said, sounding like a passive-aggressive teenage girl. "But when we get back in the car, I’m driving."

A shower sounded more than good, and worried about the backseat dynamics, I stretched again. "Could you pick me up a burger or something?" I said around a yawn, eying a tall, blond vamp pacing down the sidewalk in six-inch heels, her clothes hardly covering her important bits. "The faster we get out of here, the better."

"Burgers?" Trent’s voice dripped disdain, and my tension spiked. "We are in Vegas. This is the first time we might find something that passes for food, and you want burgers?"

I turned in my seat, surprised by how tired he looked, washed out and worried. Trent was never worried. Not enough to let it show, anyway. "Dude, why don’t you stop and think about what your mouth is saying?" I said tightly.

"Children," Vivian said, not entirely joking, "if you don’t stop arguing, I’m driving right through."

I turned back around, and Trent muttered, "I get to pick the restaurant."

Ivy sighed.

"And the hotel," he added, and she growled in annoyance.

I suddenly felt a whole lot ickier. And hungry. Leaning forward, I began tidying the front seat, tucking the map away and picking up trash. More Milk Duds boxes? "Jenks, you okay?" I asked, still not having seen him. It wasn’t like him to miss a chance to join in with picking on Trent, and he wasn’t on his usual seat on the rearview mirror.

"Peachy," came his voice from under the napkin draped over the open dash ashtray.

"He’s altitude sick," Ivy said.

I resisted lifting the napkin, but just. "Are you okay?" I asked again, eying the white square. "You don’t sound good."

"Leave me alone," he said, a green dust spilling over the rim of the ashtray, then sifting to the floor of the car. "I’ll be fine."

"You want some pop or anything?"

It wasn’t the right thing to say. In a flurry of motion, Jenks flung the napkin off, flying to an empty cup and throwing up in it, his wings flat against his back as he retched.

"Oh God!" Trent exclaimed. "He’s doing it again."

"Jenks!" I exclaimed, almost frantic. I mean, when someone throws up, you’re supposed to hold their hair back or make sure nothing hits their shoes, and I was way too big to do either.

"He’s fine," Trent said so callously that I glared at him. "There’s some honey on the dash. It helps."