“So you’re in a borrowed Buick instead of on a mighty steed, and your pixy sidekick can short out security systems instead of spot orcs. It’s the times, Trent. Roll with it.”

Jenks was laughing at him, and though I couldn’t see Trent, I could imagine his tight mouth and red ears when he grumped, “It’s not like that.”

“It looks like it to me,” Jenks said. “Even got your band of ragtag misfits.”

In the seat behind me, Ivy shifted. For a moment, neither one said anything.

“What are you doing?” Jenks whispered. “Scrambling the Withons’ tax returns?”

I let out my held breath, almost missing Trent’s soft, “I’m claiming something. Ellasbeth has it. It’s mine.”

He wasn’t after Ellasbeth then. Thank God. And why did Trent have to prove himself? Old traditions? Apart from going into the ever-after for that elf DNA sample, he’d been coasting on his father’s legacy. Was this some way to prove to the remaining elves that he could lead them? As if the cure for the demon curse wasn’t enough?

“I can help,” Jenks said. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

The car drifted to the right, avoiding traffic by the sound of it. Reno must be close. “Why do you want to help me?” Trent asked as he settled into a new lane. “You don’t owe me anything. I’ve given Rachel nothing but trouble.”

“True,” Jenks admitted. “But working with Quen got me a church and security for my family,” he added, and I slitted my eyes to see him sitting on the dash in front of the wheel, his wings almost blue with cold and altitude. “But mostly it’s because if you get caught, Rachel won’t have you to speak for her at the coven meeting.”

There was that…

“That’s not enough to risk your life for me. I want to know why,” Trent insisted.

Jenks’s wings hummed, and I lifted an eyelid a bit. Through the windshield, gray buildings passed in the gloom. “Where are you going?” Jenks asked, his tone one of mistrust as the turn signal clicked on again. We were changing lanes, the buildings seeming to tilt as the car moved.

“Seattle.”

I bolted upright, stiff muscles complaining. “Hey! We’re going to San Francisco!”

Trent jumped, clearly shocked. But the car was in an exit-only lane. “H-how long…,” he stammered, but I was more concerned about the SEATTLE-395 THIS EXIT sign that flashed past.

“We are going to San Francisco!” I hissed, not caring if I woke everyone up. “Get the car back on the interstate!”

Trent stared. “How long have you been listening to us?”

My teeth clenched seeing the broken white line turn solid. “So help me, Trent, if you don’t get back on the interstate, I’m going to, to…hate you forever!”

Jenks’s wings hummed as he laughed. “I’d get your ass back on the interstate, cookie maker. You wouldn’t like it if Rachel hated you forever.”

“I don’t have time to stop in San Francisco,” he said stiffly. “Two hundred miles might be the difference between my making my appointment or not.”