Good As Dead

Chapter Eighteen

It's Monday and the hot noon sun is the only thing that feels good while I'm on this fucking motorcycle. We're going up a mountain trail, and even though Gideon modified the tires and Christ knows what else, I feel every bump of rock and lurch of earth. I thought my body couldn't hurt worse than what I felt after fighting Frankie. Boy, was I wrong.

We stopped along the way once, at a gas station. While Gideon got me some clothes, I washed off the worst of the blood and checked myself out. So I know I look like roadkill in addition to feeling like it, too.

It's been two hours of riding since that stop, on winding dirt roads dipping us up and down toward the final rise of Red Devil Mountain. The trees here are huge but sparse, and the motorcycle's tires kick up the red, powdery earth in a trail that can probably be seen for miles. The pack has to know someone is coming to meet them.

But aside from the occasional turkey vulture circling in the sky, there's no sign of movement. I try to relax against Gideon, wanting to save my small amount of energy left for when I need to talk. It's hard getting any rest, though; straddling the motorcycle hurts like hell, and I keep shifting in my seat to ease the pressure there. And every time I move, the bite above my collar bone, the bad one that barely scabbed over, pulls dangerously, threatening to split open and bleed again. At least the rest of the bite marks faded to fresh scars, merely tender and itchy whenever my shirt rubs against them.

I'm not sure how long it is before light flickers in the corner of my eye, drawing my attention. Raising my head from Gideon's shoulder, I watch ink scrawl along his arm, turning his skin into a map of our path. The road we're on is a glowing line of blue, brighter for the parts we haven't reached yet. After the turn ahead, there are five orange dots clustered together, steady, waiting. Heartbeats, I realize, watching them pulse.

As we slow down around the final curve, my arms tighten around Gideon. He shifts enough to brush his hand over mine, but doesn't look away from the road. Neither of us do, because there they are, blocking the way just far enough to let us slow down and stop in time to avoid crashing. The motorcycle shuts off with a whisper, and I suck in a deep breath while easing off it, glad that Gideon's jacket hides my bite marks. The last thing I want to do is look weak.

When he moves up beside me, I manage a smile at him, trying to show more confidence than I feel. We already decided how to approach this, that it's better if I do the talking since I was the one invited up here. So, after a last glance between us, we walk the final couple of feet to meet what has to be the Red Devil Mountain pack.

Three women stand in a half-circle in front of a rusted truck, the engine sprites still grumbling. I don't want to stare, so the only detail I can make out is that all of them have the same thick, wavy, impossible-to-control hair as I do. Must be a family curse. There's also a burly white man in the driver's seat of the truck, the dark scruff on his face making his angry blue-green eyes stand out. Another stranger to me, but I can already tell I wouldn't want to sit next to him on a long bus ride. The last of the group is Desmond Healy, reddish hair picking up the sunlight while he leans against the hood of the truck.

Before I can decide who to focus on, the woman in the middle steps forward. Her hair looks as dark as mine, but her face is lined with hard years lived; I'm guessing she's in her forties. She's dressed in worn jeans and beat-up cowboy boots, but the way she stands drips with more authority than any suit could give her.

She looks me over as carefully as I do with her, and whatever she sees makes the grim line of her mouth twitch. "Well?"

With that one word, I recognize her voice. I'm looking at my aunt, Maya. "I'm Phoenix Belmonte. This is Gideon Glass. We're hoping to visit with someone from your pack."