Page 16 of Forging Darkness

#HotStuff

I guess that’s what we’ll ask Steel when we see him. If anyone knows why Silver’s holed up there, it would be him.

“This is really happening, isn’t it?”

“You bet it is,” Sterling says.

“And not a moment too soon,” Ash adds. “This is cutting it close.”

We’re scheduled to leave for the Elders’ compound in three days. I’d been nervous Steel wouldn’t call before then—and six nights of dealing with Sterling hiding out in our room was plenty. If Steel hadn’t called, our plans would have burned to ash. Over the last several days, we’ve been weaving an intricate web of lies. Everyone’s parents think we’re headed to the compound in Egypt later this week, except Nova’s. I don’t even know what story she fed her mom and dad—she simply told us, “It’s taken care of.” For all I know, she told them the truth and has their stamp of approval.

But it wasn’t only the parents that had to be fooled—there was Sable as well. Greyson could do an eerily accurate impersonation of his father and had convinced Sable that Laurent was going to pick the three of us up and take us to their family penthouse in New York for two days before traveling to the Council’s compound. That’s our three-day window to find and help Steel without a horde of Nephilim looking for us. We even gave Sable a different address to pick us up at in New York so the Durands don’t find out we weren’t in the Middle East the whole time.

Greyson

We have our destination. You guys know what comes next.

Something settles into my gut. I want to tell myself it’s apprehension; we only have two and a half days to modify our plans and keep all the adults in the dark. If even one thing goes wrong, our plans will fold faster than a house of cards. But the truth of the matter is that it feels a lot like anticipation instead.

* * *

“I can’t believe that worked.” It’s the fifth time since crossing the Colorado border that Ash has woodenly uttered the words. I agree, but keep my mouth shut.

We barrel down I-80 at exactly sixty-five miles per hour, not a mile over or under the speed limit. Greyson has been fastidious about going the exact speed limit since we slid through the gates of Seraph Academy in our stolen vehicle and weaved our way down the mountain and onto the interstate.

“I never had a doubt,” Sterling announces from the seat beside her. Greyson and I exchange a look in the front of the car. “The White Whale wasn’t going to let us down.”

White Whale is what Sterling named the van we nicked from the academy. We were fairly confident it wasn’t going to be missed, parked as it was in the underground lot next to sixteen other white vans. It’s identical to the one Sable and Steel used to abscond with me this past fall. I overlooked that because it easily fit all five of us. Well, six if you counted Tinkle—currently shifted into a Koala, and fast asleep on the back bench seat next to Nova. His snores carry all the way up front.

“We’re just lucky Blaze and Aurora traded their assistance for the truth. There’s no way we’d have been able to keep Sable and Dad from each other if the twins didn’t run interference for us.” Greyson tips his chin in my direction. “Good idea to include them. It might also mean that their retribution for us missing Christmas this year will be lighter than what they’d already planned.”

“I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

“Yeah, you’re right. We’re going to get it either way. Now that they’ve staked their claim on you, you’ll be getting an equal portion of that torture. Buckle up.”

Shoot. I hadn’t considered that.

I check the clock on the dash for probably the thousandth time. Eleven AM. The seventy-eight hour timer until Sable tries to collect us in New York started the moment we snuck off campus. We’ve eaten up over four hours already and have another fourteen to go until we reach Pontiac. That means once we hit ground zero, we’ll only have sixty hours to find Steel, defeat Silver, and get all our butts over to New York City before Sable and the Durand parents realize we’re in the wind.

But no pressure.

The chances of us getting away with this without anyone discovering what we’ve done are slim—we all know that. But at the very least we’re hoping for the full seventy-plus hours without a contingent of angel-born breathing down our necks. Our recently adopted motto is “Ask for forgiveness, not permission.”

Sterling leans forward and grabs the back of my seat. His face appears in the space between me and Greyson. “Yo, Em. How did you snag the keys to this sweet ride anyway?”

The smile I shoot him is all teeth. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

His head tips in confusion. “Um, yeah. That’s why I asked.”

I’m not keen on letting him and everyone else know that my exit strategy—which includes stealing a ride from the academy van pool—has been mapped out for the past several months. I did a lot of poking around under the guise of not knowing the layout of the school to gather information.

Like I said, old habits die hard.

“Come on, dude. I lived on the streets for the better part of a year. My brain is hardwired for stuff like this.” I force out a light laugh, which I hope sounds convincing.

Sterling’s face is pinched in consternation, but just as he opens his mouth to speak, Greyson twists the knob on the radio and a twangy country song fills the van. Covering his ears, Sterling yells at his brother to change the station. The argument between the two lasts for at least ten minutes, until they finally agree on neutral territory . . . which ends up being a contemporary station that plays hits from the last several decades.

Sterling settles back in his seat, singing along to Britney Spears’ “Hit Me Baby One More Time.”

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