I walk through the turnstile, trying to remember where I parked. The space is lit with bright fluorescent lights, and it smells faintly of rubber. The place is huge, but that makes sense. Not only does it house all the tourists’ vehicles, but everyone who lives in town must keep theirs here, too.
As I walk down an aisle on the second level, I spot Rowan. He flies over the tops of cars and lands on a luggage rack.
“How did you get in here?” I ask.
“The upper level is open to the roof,” he says. “Why do you look lost?”
“I’m not lost—I know where I am.” I frown, standing on my tiptoes to survey the space. “I’m just not sure where my car is.”
“What does it look like?”
“It’s a dark blue sedan with Washington plates. I call it Blueberry.”
“Of course you do.” He leaps into the air. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
I keep walking, mostly because he told me not to, and I know the car must be somewhere up ahead anyway. Less than a minute later, he returns.
“Third floor, toward the back.”
Skipping the elevator since I’ve already walked this far, I go up the ramp and down the aisle markedRed Maple,to my waiting car.
“You’re kind of handy,” I tell Rowan, who’s perched on the roll cage of a small off-road truck. “Want me to set you on the seat, or can you fly in on your own?”
“I can do it,” he says, reminding me of a stubborn toddler.
“Suit yourself.” I open the door. “Go ahead.”
He swoops inside and perches atop the passenger seat headrest.
“Don’t puncture the upholstery,” I warn him.
“I can’t make any promises. If you drive like a mad woman, I’ll have to hold on for dear life.”
“I’m a good driver.” I slide into my seat.
“Bad drivers say that all the time.”
“How would you know?”
“Laverna was a bad driver.”
“Laverna had her license?”
“Yes, but she shouldn’t have.”
I laugh. “Well, relax. I really am a good driver.” I put the car in reverse. “But I’m terrible with directions. How do I get out of here?”
Chapter 12
Poke it with a Stick
Not only do I find my way out of the parking garage, but with the GPS’s help, I also manage to find the mages college in Albany.
“Why are you so excited?” Rowan asks as we travel down the country road and park outside a large iron gate.
“Because it’s fun seeing new things,” I answer.
The fence looks far too grand to be protecting the small, aged farmhouse peeking from the tree-and-shrub-lined lane beyond. It must be an illusion, and a grand one at that.
