Derek Landy - Demon Road

“So I shouldn’t give you the money?”

“No, you should,” he said. “I’m just pointing out the corner you’ve been backed into. Trust me or not trust me, you’re going to give me the money because you don’t have a choice.”

“I’m confused,” said Amber. “Is this a life lesson I should be making a note of?”

“Something like that.”

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what that lesson is, are you?”

“You’ll never learn it if I just tell you,” Milo said. “Ready to go?”

“Uh yeah, OK,” she said. “Should we say goodbye to Edgar?”

He frowned. “Why?”

“Because that’s what people do. They say hello, how are you, goodbye, and they say thanks for your help.”

“Edgar doesn’t need any of that.” Milo folded the map, and Amber watched how it shrank into a neat little packet. She’d never have been able to do that so cleanly.

It had stopped raining. They got into the SUV, and she passed him a money roll. He flicked through it, counting the five thousand, and nodded. She lay across the back seat, the blanket over her once again. Milo turned on the headlights and they got back on the turnpike. The roads were still quiet.

It was warm under the blanket. Amber yawned, closed her eyes. She wasn’t going to sleep. Sleep meant bad dreams. Sleep meant monsters. But when she opened her eyes and sat up they were pulling up outside a dark house somewhere in outer suburbia, the sky only just beginning to lighten, birdsong threading the pale air.

“Grab your stuff,” Milo said.

They got out and took their bags from the back. Amber stood holding hers while she watched Milo go round to the passenger side. He opened up the glove compartment, took out a gun, and clipped the holster on to his belt. Then he closed the door, pressed the fob, and the SUV beeped and locked.

“Are you a cop, or something?” she asked.

“No,” he said.

He walked into the darkness between two houses. He didn’t tell her to follow him or to stay, so she hoisted her bag over her shoulder and she followed. They came to the side door of a garage. Milo took out his wallet, searched inside it for a moment, and came out with a key. He opened the door and went inside. Amber waited a few seconds, then followed.

He shut the door after her, and locked it. Amber stood in complete darkness. The window had been boarded up. Milo moved around her.

“Is there a light in here?” she asked.

“No,” he answered.

She dug into her shorts, came out with the matchbook that Edgar had given her. She struck one and light flared.

A long table against one wall contained all manner of tools and engine parts. She could suddenly smell oil, like the curiously sweet aroma had been holding itself back until she could see what she was smelling. A car covered by a tarp took up most of the space in the garage.

“You took his matches, huh?” Milo said, putting his bag on the table.

“Oh. Uh yeah. I forgot to give them back. I didn’t think it’d be a big deal.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Milo said. “I took the powder flask.”

Her eyes widened. “He paid a lot of money for that. Isn’t he going to be mad when he finds out?”

“Don’t see why he would be,” said Milo, moving to the tarp. “It works for you and you’re going to need it again, with any luck. Why would he be mad about that?”

“Because it’s not mine.”

“Edgar doesn’t care about things like ownership. He doesn’t even own the condo he’s living in.”

“He’s renting it?”

“He’s stolen it.”

Amber frowned. “How can you steal a condo?”

“By pretending to be the son of the elderly owner so that you can ship her off to a home for the infirm.”

She gaped. “That’s horrible!”

“Not really,” said Milo. “The owner used to be a nurse who mistreated her patients. Edgar made sure everyone in the home knew about it, too.”

“Oh,” said Amber. “Well, I guess that’s okay, then.”

Milo pulled back the tarp, revealing a black car, an old one, the kind Amber had seen in movies, with a long hood and a sloping back.

“Nice,” she said.

He looked at her sharply. “Nice?”

She hesitated. “It’s pretty. What is it?”

“It’s a 1970 Dodge Charger, and it is a she .”

“Right,” said Amber. “She’s very nice, then.”

Milo walked round the car, looking at it lovingly.

“The reason we can only travel eight hours a day,” said Amber, “is it because your car will fall apart if we go longer?”

“You see any rust?” Milo asked, not rising to the bait. “Storing an old car in this humidity is not generally a good idea, not for any length of time, let alone twelve years. But she’s different. She is pristine. Under the hood there she’s got the 440 Six Pack, three two-barrel carburettors and 390 horses. She’s a beast.”

“Yeah. Words. Cool.”

His hand hovered over the roof, like he was unsure as to whether or not he should actually touch it. Then he did, and his eyes closed and Amber wondered if she should leave him to it.

“You, uh, really love this car, huh?”

“She was my life,” he said softly.

“Yeah. This is getting weird.”

He opened the door, paused, and slid in. Sitting behind the wheel, his face in shadow, he looked for a moment like just another part of the car. She heard the keys jangle and she backed away from the hood. If the car really hadn’t been started in twelve years, she doubted anything was going to happen, but she didn’t want to be standing there if it suddenly blew up.

And yet, when Milo turned the key in the ignition, the garage reverberated with a deep and throaty growl that rose through the soles of Amber’s feet and quickened her pulse. It was impressive, she had to admit that.

Milo flicked the headlights on and they shone blood-red for a moment, before fading to a strong yellow.

“Cool,” she whispered, and this time she meant it.

THEY STUCK TO RESIDENTIAL roads as much as they could on their way out of Florida, staying off the expressway and I-95. Like she’d done in the SUV, Amber had to lie on the back seat, covered. She closed her eyes, but didn’t sleep – not at first. Instead, she listened to the Charger. It creaked when it turned. It seemed heavy . There was no confusing it with its modern counterparts, cars that acted as cocoons against the world around them. To ride in a modern car was to ride in a deprivation tank – to ride in the Charger was to ride in a streamlined behemoth of black metal. A beast , as Milo called it.

Amber examined her hand, tried to remember what her claws had looked like. She was a beast, too, of course. A monster. Not a monster like her parents, though. They were predators – heartless and lethal. No, Amber was the prey, all innocence and vulnerability – except when she had her claws out.

The way she had punched that boy – Brandon, his name was Brandon – hadn’t been weak. She probably would have killed him if she’d hit him any harder. She wondered if she could have hit him harder. She wondered how strong she was. She wondered what she looked like. Imelda was more beautiful as a demon than as a person. Her parents, too, had been taller and stronger and more beautiful. Amber wondered if the transformation would have the same effect on her, and found herself wondering what she’d look like taller, and slimmer, and prettier. She hoped her eyes didn’t change, though. She liked her eyes.