Page 30 of Blood and Bells

“Please be a Porsche. Please be a Porsche.” Holly is crossing her fingers and bouncing on her toes like a toddler who’s had too many candy canes. We walk past a row of Mercedes before coming to a stop in front of my car.

“Here we are.”

“This is a Toyota Camry.” Holly’s voice is flat and unimpressed.

“It’s economical,” I shrug.

“You are the most complicated vampire ever. I’ve met very few vampires and yet I feel very comfortable in saying that.”

We pile into the car. Or at least, we attempt to. Ronan loads his giant, preposterous axe in the trunk. Holly’s disapproval lingers, and, annoyingly, it matters to me more than it should.

“No offense,” Holly says as we try to configure ourselves, “but why is Crinkshaw coming?”

“What is the inoffensive version of that sentence?” Crinkshaw asks.

“We’ll need him.”

Everyone seems to be entertaining themselves by second-guessing me, and my patience is beginning to wear thin. After some grunts and seat shifting, we manage to get everyone situated, and I warily pull out and take us to the road that leads to the outskirts of town. Blinkers on. Complete stops. Not risky maneuvers. Holly taps her fingers impatiently as we drive.

“If we went any slower, we’d be walking,” Holly notes.

“No one wins when you play games with traffic safety.”

I lean forward, making sure no cars are coming before inching out onto the road from the last intersection. Technically, sweating isn’t an option, but this is close enough. So I rub my hands on the steering wheel.

“This is absurd. At least go the speed limit.”

“Your odds of survival improve ten percent for every ten miles per hour you do not go.”

No one verifies this statistic.

“You’re immortal,” she huffs. “I’m the only one who might die if we crash, and I’m completely fine with going faster.”

I check my blind spot for the third time. There are no cars on the road, but you never know. The odometer shows we’re doing a dangerous, reckless speed. A frantic forty miles an hour. I pump the brakes a little.

“Oh my god,” Holly says. Her eyes are sparkling with humor, and even though it’s me she’s targeting, I like the way she teases me. “You’re afraid of driving, aren’t you?”

There’s no point saying anything. Besides, I don’t like to talk and drive. Concentration is important. Particularly when Holly’s sitting next to me.

“You are.” She laughs and claps her hands. “You’re afraid of driving.”

“Don’t be preposterous.”

“Crinkshaw?” Holly turns around to look. “Is he afraid of driving?”

“Oh, now you’re happy to have me on the trip?”

“It’s more accurate to say he’s afraid of cars,” Ronan interjects.

“They just don’t make any sense,” I huff. “Things the size of wagons shouldn’t move without horses. It’s indecent.”

“Every immortal has some modern invention that unsettles them,” Ronan says. “It’s a consequence of living across the ages.”

“What’s yours?” Holly asks.

“Bread makers,” he says without pause. “The machine accepts flour and eggs, hums ominously, and manifests bread. There is no difference between what they do and a warlock summoning a demon.”

Holly laughs, light and musical. “And you, Crinkshaw?”