“Mr. Stefanoff,” Landon said to him. “Your services and conduct during these events are greatly appreciated. Once the magic is down, a car will come to retrieve you.”

The familiar roar of an enchanted engine rocked through the plain. A silver Land Rover slid from behind the distant trees, heading for us. Curran and I began walking toward it. Landon caught up.

“You’ve used Kalina’s name,” Landon said. “For your sake, I hope you’re the real thing.”

17

LANDON DROVE. I rode in the front passenger seat, and Curran took the back. If things went sour, I’d get Landon’s attention and Curran would rip out his throat.

The sun had risen, setting the snow aglow. The ruins of another gas station slid past us, iced by the winter. Heat swirled inside the Land Rover. I had shrugged off my jacket before I got in and I rode in comfort, with Sarrat in her sheath across my lap. This would be my special present for my father. If I got a shot at him.

Thinking about our impending meeting set my teeth on edge. The pressure was almost too much. I wanted Landon to stop the car so I could run in circles through the snow as fast as I could just to burn some energy off. I settled for stroking Sarrat’s sheath.

I couldn’t win against my father. I knew it now. The problem was, I had no idea what choice that left me.

“Has he claimed Atlanta?” I asked.

“No,” Landon said.

So the claiming hadn’t come to pass. That meant I still had to somehow prevent it.

An old sign slid by. I-80 East.

Landon glanced at me. His smart eyes lingered on my face.

“Are you Apache?” Curran asked from the backseat.

“Navajo,” Landon said.

“I thought the tribes discouraged necromancy,” Curran said.

“They do. They didn’t like what I was doing, so I found someone who does.”

As Hugh once put it, that was my father’s greatest power. Outcasts and misfits flocked to him. He found a perfect place for each one and inspired them to greatness. Except his kind of greatness resulted in death, misery, and tyranny.

Landon was looking at me. If he kept staring, I would have to do a trick or something. “Yes?”

“You’re not what I expected,” he said.

“Who did you expect?” I asked.

“Someone with more . . . presence. You seem ordinary.”

“I’m sorry, was I supposed to arrive in a black SUV, wear a two-thousand-dollar pantsuit, and set my sword on fire for the encore?”