Page 74 of Break Out the Girl

Parfait.

I take three strides until I reach the center of the lane. The driver slams on the brakes, trying to go around me, but I do not allow that. The vehicle grinds to a halt inches from my knees.

As the door flies open, a middle-aged Elite is already red in the face and cursing. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Are you on drugs, man? I could have crushed you!”

I don't bother responding with words. I simply step into his space, tilting my head until the gray morning light catches the flat, reptilian depth of my irises.

“Look at me,” I command, my voice dropping into a low, and vibration-heavy tone.

The man’s chest hitches, the rage instantly draining from his features. With satisfaction, I study his face as the jaw goes slack and eyes glaze over.

“Strip,” I tell him. “Everything off. Your blazer, shoes, watch. All of it.”

Mechanically, the man obeys, undressing to his bare skin, leaving his garments in a messy pile. I happily throw off my own clothing, and redress.

“Now.” I gesture toward the muddy ditch I just crawled out of. “Put on my clothes, then you will lie down in that mud, close your eyes, and go to sleep for the next six hours. You will remember nothing but a deep, dreamless exhaustion.”

The hypnotized Elite slides into my discarded rags, stumbles blankly down into the weeds, instantly dead to the world.

His crisp shirt, the tailored trousers, and the charcoal wool overcoat fit reasonably well, instantly masking the worst of my degradation, but the Oxfords, however, are too small.

No matter. I close my eyes, channeling a tight, focused current of my returning magic into the leather. It’s exhausting but worth it.

The shoes groan as the fibers warm and stretch under the pressure of the spell, until they expand to perfectly accommodate my stride. Better.

There’s a comb and a bottle of hand sanitizer in the middle console of the car. I can improve my appearance somewhat with those, but I’m still a wreck.

My stomach lurches again, and I’m almost tempted to drink down all the disinfectant gel, but I have to move. The road will not remain quiet much longer.

The digital clock on the dashboard glows: 07:45 AM.

Sliding the sedan into drive, I do a u-turn which puts me heading north. I will drive until I find her.

A mile down the highway, I pull over at a convenience store. It’s no good—I’ll lose my mind if I have to carry on like this. François de Vaux does not navigate society looking like a common vagrant, and the dark stubble along my jaw is making me jittery.

I grab a disposable razor and a can of shaving cream from the aisle before bypassing the counter and slipping directly into the cloakroom bathroom.

With the hot tap all the way up, I scrub my hands, face and neck until my skin burns, and every visible trace of the Ashgrave coast is erased. Coating my face in the foam, I use the cheap plastic razor to scrape away the grit and stubble in long strokes until my face is completely clean and restored—though desperately in need of moisturizing.

On my way out, I toss a handful of the driver's stolen cash onto the counter. “A black coffee. And antacids. Lots.”

The cashier slides over a paper cup and a packet of Tender-Tummies. I swallow three of the mint tablets, washing them down with the bitter coffee from the glass jug.

I guess that’s the best I can do for now.

Sliding back into the sedan, I put my foot on the accelerator and start to follow the golden hum in my chest straight towards some rolling hills.

26: TALIESIN

I am completely, utterly spent.

Every muscle in my back feels taut and brittle; I’d not be surprised if driving over a pothole snapped me in half.

At least the rattle of the LandRover’s engine keeps me awake. I haven't slept properly since breaking out, and that’s not good. My brain is misfiring, and my reactions are slow.

But I can’t let it show.

Not now. There is still so much to be done.