Page 37 of Road Trip with a Vampire
“Maybe I should handle all the driving on this trip,” I offered. Dying in an avoidable car crash because of an amnesiac vampire seemed like it would be awfully annoying.
“No,” Peter said. “It wouldn’t be fair to you.”
“But—”
“I also won’t get to listen to good music if you do all the driving.”
I couldn’t tell whether Peter was joking or not but decided to take him seriously. “I’ll make a deal with you,” I said. “We’ll split the music selections fifty-fifty if you promise to never try to drive my car again.”
“Zelda.” He turned to look at me. “Please. Let me try.”
This was important to him, I realized.
“Okay,” I reluctantly agreed, trying to convince myself this wouldn’t turn out to be a big mistake. “Just be careful.”
“I always am,” he said.
Before I could ask whether he’d said that because he’d just remembered something about how he used to be, he inched the car forward—and he was driving.
Nine
A wooden sign with large block lettering, circa 1922, on which has been tacked a faded sepia-toned photograph of a woman with long, flowing curls. Found in the basement of the Secret Omaha Vampyric Society upon the latter’s discovery by the Official Omaha Vampyric Society on August 24, 1982.
Grizelda the Terrible
No Admittance Under Any Circumstances!!!
To my relief, Peter pickedup driving surprisingly quickly. After a few false starts, he merged onto the frontage road only slightly slower than the speed of traffic.
By the time we got to Interstate 80, you’d never have guessed he’d been so nervous about driving less than twenty minutes earlier.
His taste in music, though, was appalling.
“I want to renegotiate our terms,” I moaned about three minutes into Peter’s first musical pick. “Morrissey? Seriously?”
“What’s wrong with Morrissey?” Peter asked, all innocence. Of course he would pick music that was the exact opposite of the Spice Girls in every way. He was fighting a smile, though.
Maybe he was only doing this to get under my skin.
“I’ve solved the mystery of your identity,” I announced. “You were an emo teenager in the 1980s.”
His lips twitched. “Perhaps,” he said. “Don’t you think his voice is lovely?”
“Sure,” I admitted. “But his lyrics deal with death and existential angst. Bit of a downer.”
“I suppose you’re right,” he mused. “But I like it.”
The landscape changed dramatically the minute we crossed into Nevada. Pine forests gave way to high desert plateaus so abruptly I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened here millennia ago to create such a stark and immediate change in the land.
Traffic was sparse once we made it east of Reno. Whatever residual anxiety Peter had had about driving seemed to melt away once we had the freeway to ourselves. Using more magic at that rest stop than I typically did in a day had me feeling relaxed, and I closed my eyes, letting the vibrations of the car lull me into something close to sleep.
When I opened my eyes again it was dark outside, and the car had stopped moving. Peter was frowning beside me, his gaze going back and forth between the journal open on his lap and the building in front of us.
“We’re here,” he said, sounding more resigned than pleased.
I looked up at the building, and my mouth fell open.
“Big Earl’s Singing Chicken Emporium: The Second-LargestCollection of Singing Animatronic Chickens in the World,” I read off the sign mounted on the restaurant’s roof. Though from the look of disbelief on Peter’s face, it was clear he’d already read it.
