Page 54 of Lost Touch
“No.”
I blinked at him. “Yes.”
Drew shot me a glowing-eyed glare and then turned his attention pointedly back to the road. His hands clenched even tighter. That steering wheel might not make it, even if he did.
“If we stop, I’ll—we can’t stop.” Shit, the steering wheelreallywouldn’t make it, because claws had sprouted from his fingertips, and he’d—yeah, he’d actually embedded them in the leather, maybe so he’d be less able to reach for me. Double shit. “I think you need to find someone to deal with me, Ash. Quickly. And stop arguing. It just makes me want to shut you up.”
Well, when he put it like that. My heart skittered and skipped a couple of beats and I scrabbled for the phone again, opening up the browser and then hesitating despite my rising panic.
I was pretty sure one of the Elvis warlocks had been near Reno, but not much else. There hadn’t been anything better in the first set of search results, and I didn’t have hours and hours to comb through the less and less relevant ones.
The sides of the car seemed to be closing in on me, claustrophobic and stifling. The air had to be saturated with alpha mating pheromones. And no doubt he could smell me, my fear. Trapped here, whizzing down the highway, hands shaking and body coated in nervous sweat, stiff legs, parched mouth, nowhere to go, no one to help us…
I leaned back in my seat, hyperventilating and dizzy.
There had to be a way.
When I entered “shaman warlock northern California” into the search bar, I didn’t have much hope left—but I knew it was the right thing to do.
One last try.
Most of the first page gave me results that were too far away, even shadier than the Elvis impersonators, or so hopelessly outdated that I didn’t think calling would be much use. They all gave me an uneasy feeling.
But the first entry on the second page looked more promising—given that my standards for “promising” had gone way down by now. The title, in a garish purple script, read “Hawthorne and Armitage Magical Services,” and they apparently had a warlock and a shaman working together to “provide any magic you can think of, and a lot you probably can’t.” They had a list, including Wards & Protection, Healing, Fairy Puke Cleaning Solutions (that one made me pause and shake my head, despite how freaked out I was), and Eliminating/Creating Zombies. Under the heading “Our Terms of Service have changed!” it read: “All fees collected up front. My freaky brother-in-law (the Armitage in the title) handles any undead, so don’t even ask for a collaboration. Don’t call before noon. Nevada residents must provide a background check.”
Well, we were coming from Idaho via Nevada, so surely that didn’t apply to us.
Most importantly, they listed their location as Laceyville, California—and when I looked at the map, I saw we could get there in an hour, give or take.
Fine. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.
And okay, not before noon…but that surely applied to actual morning hours, right? And it was an emergency.
I tapped the phone number, my finger hesitating over the send button.
Another quick peek at Drew showed me a red-faced, damp-at-the-temples, fanged-out disaster. He’d been getting heavier and heavier on the gas pedal, taking the turns at speeds I didn’t think were legal. Or smart.
I sent a text instead, considering the wording carefully before I hit send. How did I even describe Drew’s problem? Simpler would be better, I figured.
I’m in a car with an alpha werewolf who’s been cursed. We’re on our way to you. We really, really need your help.
A long minute passed.
Finally, just as I thought I might scream or start crying in frustration and terror, a message popped up.
Is this a hostage situation? We charge more for those.
What an asshole.
But that aside…was it? At this point, I could go either way on that. I threw caution, and Drew’s bank account, to the winds. Hawthorne might be an asshole, but he might also be my only hope.
Borderline. He’s about to go completely feral. If you can knock him out as soon as we get there, that might be good.
The second I sent that, my blood ran cold. Shit, what had I done? What if they killed him?
Don’t hurt him!!! It’s not his fault. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone. A warlock messed with him and made him this way.
And then I nearly bashed my head into the dashboard in frustration.
