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He didn’t use actual words to express his annoyance, but as he went to the trunk and started rifling around—I assumed for the spare tire—he kept making irritated grunting noises, like the English language didn’t have any sufficient turns of phrase to get his point across.
When he returned with the donut spare and a jack, I moved to take the tire from him, but he elbowed me out of the way a little too roughly, sending me staggering back a few steps to the guardrail.
That was the last straw.
“Hey.” I came back up to his side, where he was now crouched next to the flat, setting up the jack. He pretended not to hear me and continued working, his entire focus fixated on the car. “Dude, drop the macho act. It’s not impressing anyone.”
He was on his feet in a flash, suddenly mere inches from me, breathing hard.
Oops.
“This is not an act. This is not me trying to impress you.” His voice was low and vaguely threatening, but something deep inside my body went tight, and goose bumps erupted on my arms in spite of the sticky-hot night air. He was much, much too close to me.
“Sorry.”
Cade gave me a hard stare, and we stood there for a moment, neither daring to move an inch, sharing the same breath as we struggled to decide exactly what this standoff was meant to prove. Finally he yielded with a frustrated snort and went back to the jack.
“Hand me the tire iron.” He held out his hand.
As far as I could tell, this was the closest thing I was going to get to friendliness, so I collected the tire iron from the trunk. I was about to return to him when the fine hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.
Whatever it was I was sensing, I wasn’t the only one. Cade froze, his hands on the jack but not moving, as though he was worried any minor adjustment might make him lose what he was listening for.
“Do you feel that?” he asked, turning his attention to me. His voice was so quiet it almost carried away on the breeze before reaching my ears.
I nodded, my grip tightening on the tire iron. The sun was hanging low, dipping behind the tree line, creating a moody, cool light. Still miles off, a line of clouds had begun to build, marring the previously clear sky. They weren’t a sign of Seth’s arrival, just normal clouds, yet their presence soothed me slightly.
If something was coming for us, it would help to have a source for me to draw power from. I really didn’t want to channel lightning again so soon, not after two such intense encounters yesterday. My body wasn’t a machine. I needed rest and recuperation. If I maintained this pace, I was going to shave twenty years off my life expectancy before we reached Louisiana.
Cade was standing again, coming towards me. When he was by my side, I eased my grip on the tire iron but kept the metal bar raised. I didn’t know what was setting my inner alarm bells off, but it paid to
be vigilant.
“Manea?” Cade asked.
I shook my head, scanning the barren highway. We hadn’t seen a single car since we’d pulled over, which now that I thought about it was pretty strange, even for a road that wasn’t a massive interstate. Surely a semi would have passed by now, or at least one or two other cars, right?
“Manea’s power feels different,” I explained. “Colder.”
Not that this sensation was exactly warm and fuzzy, but it didn’t have the same cool, clammy unease the presence of Death did. That didn’t mean I wasn’t unnerved by whatever this was though. It was familiar, but not so much I could name it, like something I should know but couldn’t put my finger on.
Cade, too, was apparently struggling to make sense of it.
“I should finish changing the tire.”
I nodded, but my eyes stayed locked on the highway, waiting for something to come around the bend at any moment. A ruffle of wing beats drew my attention up, and I spotted a crow flying overhead right before it landed on the guardrail near me. Its beady black eyes trained on me, full of intelligence and maybe the tiniest bit of condescension.
Crows are smart.
But this was no normal crow.
“Badb.” Just when I thought Cade was going to be the worst omen I’d encounter on this trip. Bad luck was one thing. Badb luck was a whole other kettle of stinking, rotten fish.
The crow cocked its head, and its eyes gleamed. It stretched its wings, nipping at a feather and preening until it shone glossily in the dying light. It cawed at me, catching Cade’s notice.
He glanced at it, then did a double take before coming to his feet. Badb and Cade knew each other well. I’m pretty sure she was secretly bitter about him being bound to Ardra instead of her. Their paths were similar, and Cade would have fit well beneath Badb’s wing. Which I think she reminded him of often.
The bird made a creaky gargling sound and cawed twice.
