Page 47 of Backpacking through Bedlam

It normally takes about thirteen hours to drive from Buckley to Manhattan, depending on traffic and stops. With a routewitch behind the wheel, it could take six or sixteen, depending on their current relationship to the road. Since the Ocean Lady wanted us to get our butts over there and take care of the Covenant, I was willing to bet this was going to be an unreasonably swift trip, one marked with an absence of construction zones or speed traps. But I’ve been wrong before.

Sally was in the front room when we came downstairs, a mouse on her open palm. Her attention was focused on the tiny creature, which was earnestly reciting one of the rituals associated with Mary. There were plenty of those. “Ready to go?” I asked.

Sally looked up, almost startled, before giving a single sharp nod and setting the mouse down on the couch. “All packed,” she said, standing. “You expect we’re coming back here?”

“We always do,” I said, reaching back to put a hand on Thomas’s arm.

The words felt hollow. We’d just managed to get here; leaving already felt like an admission of some kind of failure, like we should have been able to find a way to stay put at least long enough to cook a proper dinner and start falling into a routine. Sadly, the world has never been that accommodating. We’d be back. We always came back.

We had to.

Thomas took my hand in his, clearly seeing my discomfort, and asked, “Has either of you called the mice?”

Sally blinked. “I was just talking to one . . .”

“Yeah, but did you tell them we were leaving?” I asked. She shook her head, and I snorted. “Right. Clergy! Mine, and those representing the Conscripted Priestess and the God of Inconvenient Timing!”

As I’d expected, there wasn’t even a pause before several small heads poked out of a hole in the wall. The mice might be constrained by the Holy Bargain, but they were still going to be stalking us through the house as long as we were here, soaking up every scrap of liturgy they could get.

“We’re leaving,” I informed the mice. “Not for very long, hopefully, but we should see the Arboreal Priestess while we’re away. Please choose representatives from the appropriate clergies to accompany us.”

The mice popped back into the wall, their disappearance followed by the sound of violent squeaking. I waited patiently, and less than thirty seconds later, five mice emerged: representatives of our four branches of the faith, and one of the senior members of the local branch of Verity’s clergy. They ran across the room and up my leg, grabbing onto my backpack and getting themselves settled.

“To the rest of you, stay safe, and please don’t pick any fights with the tailypo before we get back,” I said.

There was no immediate reply, but the air in the room shifted slightly as more mice ran down the walls, coming to watch us go.

“That Holy Bargain packs a punch,” said Thomas, voice low.

“It does, which is part of why we only invoke it when we absolutely have to,” I agreed, and made for the front door, Sally and Thomas close behind.

I opened it to reveal a green sedan parked in the driveway. The driver was waiting inside, assuming there was a driver, and the Ocean Lady hadn’t sent us some sort of phantom coach or something. Sally and Thomas filed out behind me, and I locked the door, tucking the key into my pocket.

“We’ll get you keys of your own cut as soon as we get home,” I promised them, and started down the steps toward the car.

It felt odd to be taking the key with me rather than hiding it or giving it back to the tailypo. One more brick in the wall of “we are home, we are staying” that I was trying to build. I’d given up on carrying a key through adjoining dimensions after I lost the tenth one, preferring to trust that I’d be able to get inside when I got home.

The car window rolled down as we approached, and the driver—a broad-shouldered Black man in a red flannel shirt over a white tank top, leaned over to address our group.

“Y’all my fare?” he asked.

“That depends on who sent you and where you think we’re going,” I replied.

“Lady sent me, says you lot need to be tossed out in Manhattan, near the Meatpacking District,” he said, accent a blend of New Jersey twang and something broader and less defined. He’d been driving a while, then, long enough to blunt the edges of whatever he’d originally sounded like. “Sound about right?”

“Right name, right city, although I didn’t know the neighborhood,” I said. “I thought Rose was going to be coming with you?”

“Lady sent her on a job.”

Which, if what she’d said before was accurate, meant she couldn’t say no. right. I leaned over to extend my hand through the open window. “Alice Price-Healy.”

The routewitch’s eyes widened as he took my hand and shook, respectfully. “Lady said I’d be driving friends, but didn’t say she meant dangerous friends,” he said. “I’m Darius. I serve the Queen of the Routewitches in the shadow of the Ocean Lady. I’ll get you where you’re going.”

“Good. I appreciate it.” I reclaimed my hand and straightened as Thomas stepped forward.

“Thomas Price,” he said, then at me. “Did you want . . . ?”

“No, sweetie,” I said. “You take the front.” He hadn’t been in a car in fifty years. If he wanted to ride shotgun, I wasn’t going to argue with him about it. It wasn’t like I could help the driver with directions or anything like that.