Page 33 of Us in Ruins

“Are you trying to leave me?” she asked.

Van didn’t even glance in her direction. “At this moment? Yes.”

“We had a deal.”

“We still have a deal.” Van shrugged, nonchalant. “You get the Vase, and I get the treasure.”

Margot had to jog to match his fast clip. “Then where are you going?”

“To get the Vase.”

Margot grabbed his shirtsleeve, halting him. “Seriously?”

Van stared down at her. “You barely survived the Nymphaeum. You’ll just slow me down.” His tone was horrifically even. Calculated and cold. He said it like it was obvious.

Margot only dug her heels in. “No, I won’t. I swear.”

Releasing himself from her grasp, he said, “You are quite literally slowing me down as we speak.”

Van turned and yanked the handle of a mint green Fiat about the size of a sweet pea to no avail. The door didn’t budge.

Margot clicked her tongue.

He pulled again, harder this time. Both hands gripped the handle, white-knuckled, as he put all his weight behind it. Van huffed. He wiped his hands off on his pants and tried again.

“You have to click the unlock button on the key fob,” Margot said, taking pity on him. “And should you really be driving? Hasn’t your license expired?”

The Fiat beeped and lights flashed unpredictably as Van smashed every button on the fob. Finally, he clicked the right one and pulled the door open. “I don’t have one.”

“You don’t have a driver’s license?” Margot halted, a realization settling. “You stole my Vespa, and you can’t even drive?”

“I can drive fine,” he bristled.

“Your complete lack of paperwork licensing you to operate motor vehicles totally disagrees.”

“I lived in Manhattan, and a Cadillac wasn’t exactly in the budget. I just walked everywhere.” He clutched the keys tighter in his fist. “You don’t have to be a genius to drive. Trust me, I’ve seen Atlas do it countless times.”

“No way. Give me the keys,” Margot said, palm outstretched.

“You’re not coming with me.” Van closed the driver’s side door behind him.

Groaning, Margot marched to the other side and slumped into the passenger seat. The seat belt fastened with a click. “Yes. I am.”

Van wrestled with his. He pulled as much of the belt out as physically possible. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to manage to strangle himself. “What is this heinous contraption?”

His grip slipped, and the belt snapped backward.

“It’s called a seat belt,” she said. Van tried to mimic her movement but pulled too hard too fast and the seat belt seized. Margot reached around and gently guided his hand, the latch fitting into the buckle. “You wouldn’t know because they hadn’t been invented yet last time you were conscious. Which is why you shouldn’t be driving.”

Van twisted the key into the ignition. Headstrong as ever. He shifted the car into gear and leaned one hand against Margot’s headrest to look through the back window.

Except instead of reversing, the car lurched forward.

“Van!” Margot screeched.

He slammed on the brake, millimeters from ramming into the building next door.

“Hold on,” he said. “I’ve got this.”

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