Summoning the Night
Page 89
I hesitated. “The transmutating?”
He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “Yeah.”
“A couple of months, I guess. But only because of all that stuff he was helping me with when we first met.”
“I can’t believe he lied to me,” he said softly.
“He didn’t want you to know because he doesn’t want you to undergo the spell that allows him to do that.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re strong enough without it, and it’s caused him a lot of problems. If he had to do it all over again—if he had the choice—he wouldn’t undergo the spell. That kind of power can be a burden. You might not understand that now, but you will. Your knack isn’t going to be roses, either. With or without a spell to boost it.”
“Maybe,” he said after a few moments. “But I’d kinda like to have the horns.”
I slanted a glance his way. He was smiling. I elbowed him and he chuckled.
“All right,” Lon called from the foyer. “Get your ass out here, Motormouth.”
Jupe leapt off the sofa and raced outside.
The departing tow truck was circling the driveway when I got to the door. I trailed Lon and Jupe across the gravel to the garage—a really nice, three-car one, with a polished floor and custom cabinets lining the walls. They almost never used it because Lon parked his beat-up truck and SUV in the driveway. The sleek silver Audi we’d taken to the Hellfire caves last month sat covered on the far side—he only drove it a few times a year—and the rest of the garage was usually empty. Right now, however, a rusted-out jalopy occupied the wide space.
“What the hell is this?” Jupe said, half horrified, half intrigued.
It wasn’t the prettiest thing, and I could only imagine what Jupe was seeing: no tires, the busted-out rear window, and a spring poking through a large slit in the backseat.
“This,” Lon said proudly, “is a 1967 Pontiac GTO. A legendary muscle car. It used to be called ‘The Great One.’”
Jupe carefully treaded around the car, looking up at Lon like he was certifiable.
“The Ramones sang about it,” I offered.
Lon added, “Bruce Lee’s car in Return of the Dragon.”
The kid’s face lit up ever so slightly, then fell again. “It’s . . .” Jupe screwed up his face, trying to find the right words. “It’s dead.”
“Neglected,” Lon corrected.
Jupe squinted at his father, a dubious look on face.
“It needs to be restored,” Lon said. “But the V-8 engine is original, and it’s only got fifty thousand miles on it. Things will need to be stripped and replaced, but that’s minor.”
Jupe shuffled to the other side of the car. “It doesn’t have any wheels!”
“That’s the least of your problems.”
“It will cost a fortune to fix this thing up,” Jupe argued.
I smiled. “Lucky for you, you’re independently wealthy.”
“The savings account?”
“You wanted to save it for a car—”
“One that worked,” he said. “One that didn’t look like someone dropped it in the Pacific with a body in the trunk!”
Lon picked up a stack of books and photos from a shop table in the corner and tossed them on the rusted hood. “After it’s fixed up, it could look like this . . .”
Jupe studied the photos that Lon was spreading out for his inspection. I peeped over his shoulder. Beautiful GTOs gleamed, fully restored and sitting pretty at car collector shows. All of them had sleek, two-door bodies fronted by curvaceous hoods with chain-link grilles.
“Whoa,” Jupe said, touching a photo.
Lon pulled out a small, square card, a sample of auto paint in high-gloss, metallic red-violet. I was afraid to look at it for too long—like staring into the sun, it might do some eye damage. “The car could be any color you wanted,” Lon said. “This is Plum Mist. It’s one of the original colors.”
“No way.” Jupe picked up the paint sample and held it up to the light. “No one in La Sirena has a purple car.”
“You could. Or black, silver, or red,” Lon encouraged.
“Purple is my favorite color.” Jupe smiled, turning around to hand me the sample. “Who’s going to fix it up? When can they start?”
Lon scooted the restoration books in Jupe’s direction. “You are.”
Jupe’s jaw dropped. “What? I can’t rebuild a car.”
“Sure you can. You’re smart, good with details.”
“Good at taking apart things and putting them back together,” I added, remembering how he’d fixed the vacuum cleaner a couple of weeks ago when Mrs. Holiday sucked up one of Mr. Piggy’s tiny spines and gummed up the works.
“This is crazy! I can’t do this!” Jupe’s eyes were frantic, darting up and down the car. “I’m just a kid!”
Lon set two keys down on the hood, along with the bill of sale. “I thought you were fourteen.”
“Yeah, I don’t even know how to drive a car—how could I restore one?”
“You read these books, look up stuff online. Take a class after school. My friend Danny teaches auto shop at the high school, and he’s a member of the La Sirena GTO Association. He’ll help you with the hard stuff, locate parts for you, that kind of stuff. We’ll find someone who can reupholster the seats.”
He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “Yeah.”
“A couple of months, I guess. But only because of all that stuff he was helping me with when we first met.”
“I can’t believe he lied to me,” he said softly.
“He didn’t want you to know because he doesn’t want you to undergo the spell that allows him to do that.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re strong enough without it, and it’s caused him a lot of problems. If he had to do it all over again—if he had the choice—he wouldn’t undergo the spell. That kind of power can be a burden. You might not understand that now, but you will. Your knack isn’t going to be roses, either. With or without a spell to boost it.”
“Maybe,” he said after a few moments. “But I’d kinda like to have the horns.”
I slanted a glance his way. He was smiling. I elbowed him and he chuckled.
“All right,” Lon called from the foyer. “Get your ass out here, Motormouth.”
Jupe leapt off the sofa and raced outside.
The departing tow truck was circling the driveway when I got to the door. I trailed Lon and Jupe across the gravel to the garage—a really nice, three-car one, with a polished floor and custom cabinets lining the walls. They almost never used it because Lon parked his beat-up truck and SUV in the driveway. The sleek silver Audi we’d taken to the Hellfire caves last month sat covered on the far side—he only drove it a few times a year—and the rest of the garage was usually empty. Right now, however, a rusted-out jalopy occupied the wide space.
“What the hell is this?” Jupe said, half horrified, half intrigued.
It wasn’t the prettiest thing, and I could only imagine what Jupe was seeing: no tires, the busted-out rear window, and a spring poking through a large slit in the backseat.
“This,” Lon said proudly, “is a 1967 Pontiac GTO. A legendary muscle car. It used to be called ‘The Great One.’”
Jupe carefully treaded around the car, looking up at Lon like he was certifiable.
“The Ramones sang about it,” I offered.
Lon added, “Bruce Lee’s car in Return of the Dragon.”
The kid’s face lit up ever so slightly, then fell again. “It’s . . .” Jupe screwed up his face, trying to find the right words. “It’s dead.”
“Neglected,” Lon corrected.
Jupe squinted at his father, a dubious look on face.
“It needs to be restored,” Lon said. “But the V-8 engine is original, and it’s only got fifty thousand miles on it. Things will need to be stripped and replaced, but that’s minor.”
Jupe shuffled to the other side of the car. “It doesn’t have any wheels!”
“That’s the least of your problems.”
“It will cost a fortune to fix this thing up,” Jupe argued.
I smiled. “Lucky for you, you’re independently wealthy.”
“The savings account?”
“You wanted to save it for a car—”
“One that worked,” he said. “One that didn’t look like someone dropped it in the Pacific with a body in the trunk!”
Lon picked up a stack of books and photos from a shop table in the corner and tossed them on the rusted hood. “After it’s fixed up, it could look like this . . .”
Jupe studied the photos that Lon was spreading out for his inspection. I peeped over his shoulder. Beautiful GTOs gleamed, fully restored and sitting pretty at car collector shows. All of them had sleek, two-door bodies fronted by curvaceous hoods with chain-link grilles.
“Whoa,” Jupe said, touching a photo.
Lon pulled out a small, square card, a sample of auto paint in high-gloss, metallic red-violet. I was afraid to look at it for too long—like staring into the sun, it might do some eye damage. “The car could be any color you wanted,” Lon said. “This is Plum Mist. It’s one of the original colors.”
“No way.” Jupe picked up the paint sample and held it up to the light. “No one in La Sirena has a purple car.”
“You could. Or black, silver, or red,” Lon encouraged.
“Purple is my favorite color.” Jupe smiled, turning around to hand me the sample. “Who’s going to fix it up? When can they start?”
Lon scooted the restoration books in Jupe’s direction. “You are.”
Jupe’s jaw dropped. “What? I can’t rebuild a car.”
“Sure you can. You’re smart, good with details.”
“Good at taking apart things and putting them back together,” I added, remembering how he’d fixed the vacuum cleaner a couple of weeks ago when Mrs. Holiday sucked up one of Mr. Piggy’s tiny spines and gummed up the works.
“This is crazy! I can’t do this!” Jupe’s eyes were frantic, darting up and down the car. “I’m just a kid!”
Lon set two keys down on the hood, along with the bill of sale. “I thought you were fourteen.”
“Yeah, I don’t even know how to drive a car—how could I restore one?”
“You read these books, look up stuff online. Take a class after school. My friend Danny teaches auto shop at the high school, and he’s a member of the La Sirena GTO Association. He’ll help you with the hard stuff, locate parts for you, that kind of stuff. We’ll find someone who can reupholster the seats.”
