“But you said your plan worked! The cops would’ve been after us by now if it hadn’t.”
“It’s not the cops I’m worried about.” He glances in his rearview, then hits the gas, pushing us a little faster—a whole five miles above the speed limit now. “No calls until you’re safely settled on campus.”
“What about my things? My shop?”
“Returning to Tres Búhos is no longer an option,” he says, his tone much gentler than before. “I’m sorry.”
“Wait.Ever?”
“You saw the headlines. The story has made national news—possibly even international. The reason we had to go to such elaborate lengths at the prison was so the guards have a plausible explanation for your disappearance.”
“I thought you said all would be forgotten?”
“And it will be. But first, people need to believe you’re dead and justice has been served.”
Justice. What a fucking joke.
The images of Luke’s desecrated body flash behind my eyes. He didn’t get justice. His poor Mom didn’t get justice.
“I’m going to find out who did this,” I tell him, blinking quickly before the tears fall. “I’m going to bring the bastard totruejustice. And after that I’m going home, putting on my bunny slippers, and fixing myself a cup of hibiscus ginger tea, and I really don’t give a shitwhatthe Academy has to say about it.”
If Devane thinks I’m crazy or misguided, he keeps his opinions to himself.
“You should probably get some rest. And I should probably just… think.” He hits the button on the sound system, flooding the car with cello music and ending the conversation.
Just as well. I’ve got so many questions, my brain is on complete overload. For now, my only escape is sleep.
I snooze for another hour or so, waking only when I sense the ground beneath the car turning from pavement to dirt.
I open my eyes and take in the surroundings. We’re still in the desert, though the highway is long gone, the car crawling up a long, dirt path toward the top of a rise. Late afternoon sunlight slants through the dust as we wind our way up, giving everything a smokey, magickal quality.
Slowly, like a plant blooming on a time-lapse video, a reddish-pink adobe house comes into view, nestled in among the saguaros.
There’s no driveway or parking area. Devane simply pulls the car up in front and kills the engine.
We sit in silence for a moment, him still thinking, me not knowing quite what to do.
The house is tiny—just a single-story box, really, with a shabby wooden door and two windows near the top, eyes on a blank brown face. A row of potted plants lines the front, an explosion of bright pinks and greens providing the only color contrast.
“Strange,” I say, unhooking my seatbelt. “I thought the Academy would be taller.”
Ignoring my weak attempt at humor, Devane gets out, stretches. I follow him out. The moment I close the passenger door, the car turns from a sleek black luxury sedan into a rusty old Toyota Corolla, so old and decrepit it’s impossible to tell what color it is.
“Um… what?”
“Glamour,” he says. “We’re safe here, Miss Milan.”
Taking him at his word, I follow him to the front door, but I don’t get too close. I’m still a little self-conscious in my prison garb and grime.
“Safewhere, exactly? What is this place?”
“It’s the home of Eulala Dominga Juarez,” he says quietly, like he doesn’t want to disturb her. “Lala for short. It’s our weigh station—last stop before we cross over.”
“Cross over?” At my words, a breeze stirs my hair, carrying with it the scents of warm earth and fresh tortillas, onions frying in a pan, and something else I can’t quite put my finger on. It makes my nose itch, my heart beat a little faster.
“That would be the magick,” he says, holding his hands out as if to grab hold of it. When he spreads his fingers, light dances across his skin.
I take another step toward the door, mirroring his motions. When the light touches my skin, it feels like warm water, but less dense, and way more tingly.
