Spell of the Highlander

Page 50

“Not enough to get us out of the country, which is what I’m beginning to think we need to do,” she said gloomily.
Aye, she had the right of that.
The fact that he’d not even known she’d done something that could be traced—revealing them as clearly as an X on a map—because he’d not understood what a credit card was, meant he couldn’t possibly hope to contain their exposure.
Not here, anyway.
Her twenty-first-century world had too many variables beyond his comprehension for him to control.
Which meant he had to take her back in time.
Och, nay, not literally—not through the Ban Drochaid, the stones of the White Bridge that the Keltar guarded; even he gave credence to the legend of the Draghar, having no wish to be possessed by the thirteen evil ancients—but figuratively.
That he could do.
If he could get her deep enough into the Highlands, then he could live with her for the next nineteen days by ninth-century means. Means untraceable by modern methods. He could shelter her in caves, warm her with his body, hunt for food, and feed her with his hands. In the Old Ways, time-honored ways in which a man had once seen to the needs of his woman.
All they had to do was somehow get across an ocean. Quickly and without leaving a trace.
Would Lucan look for him there?
Certainly, once he realized he was no longer in Chicago. Lucan knew him, nigh as well as he knew Lucan.
But there, in the wilderness, Cian would have more of an advantage. Even in the ninth century, Lucan had never been an outdoorsman, eschewing physical exertion in lieu of creature comforts. Och, aye, Cian would have the edge in his hills.
“Tell me everything you know about modern travel,” he commanded. “Tell me about your airplanes, where they go, how often they go, where one may procure one, and how. Tell me in the greatest detail you can. Give me a bird’s-eye view, lass. I need ken it all, even the most minuscule facts you might deem unimportant. I’m a ninth-century man, lass. Teach me as one.”
Near noon, Jessi demanded they stop for food. She was starving. He might not need to eat, being immortal or whatever he was, but she sure did. The first time she’d ordered room service it hadn’t come. The second time, the dishes had gotten splattered by blood. Aside from a PowerBar and a bag of peanuts she’d found in her backpack, she’d had nothing else to eat in the past thirty-six hours.
Since leaving Chicago, Cian had grilled her intensively about everything from transportation to computers to accommodations to monetary transactions.
After listening for a short time, he’d told her that they dare not leave the country from O’Hare or Midway; that if Lucan had men watching for them anywhere, it would be at the two local airports.
Jessi still couldn’t quite believe that they were actually going to try to leave the country, and had no idea how he thought they were going to pull it off.
He’d told her to drive them to the next nearest airport. She didn’t know if Indianapolis really was the next nearest, but it was the only other airport she’d been able to figure out how to get to from a map.
They stopped to eat just east of Lafayette, Indiana, about forty-five minutes up I-65 from the airport.
The smell of deep-fried chicken and fries made her mouth water the moment they stepped inside Chick-fil-A. She always felt like she was doing cows a favor when she ate there; she loved those silly billboards along the highways with their EAT MOR CHIKIN cow campaign. From NEW DIET CRAZE: LOW-COW to EAT CHIKIN CUDDLE COWZ, the ads sporting black-and-white spotted cows clutching poorly penned placards promoting chicken consumption made her laugh out loud every time she drove past one.
I will procure food and we’ll dine in the car, he’d insisted. We must continue moving.
She could just imagine how he planned to “procure” food. He’d probably leave the entire restaurant standing frozen until “well after we are away from here.”
If I eat while driving, she’d disagreed, I’ll wreck. If I wreck, the mirror will probably break. Her legs were stiff, she had to pee, and she was getting grumpy. What would happen to you then?
He’d looked stricken. We’ll dine within.
She’d ordered six baskets of chicken fingers and wedges of crinkly fries, and now, perched at a brightly colored yellow-and-white table, was contently making headway into her second basket. He was halfway through his third.
“These resemble no chicken fingers I’ve ever seen, lass. And I saw a fair amount of chickens in my day. There was this wench in the stables with the most remarkable . . . well, never mind that. You must grow fowl considerably larger now. I shudder to ponder the size of their beaks.”