Page 10

Chapter 10

Fantasia

I spent less than a day in Raleigh, North Carolina, but I can’t say I’m remotely sad to see it go.

Thankfully, Piers lets me suffer in silence during our drive to the nearest city, Charlotte. I’d kill for a shot of whiskey, a bottle of wine, a swift punch to the face- anything to distract me from the pain in my side. Every time our car hits the slightest bump on the highway, it sends a new shock through me. I grit my teeth against it, close my eyes, and will myself away from everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours.

I must manage to dissociate enough to sleep, because when Piers announces that our exit is coming up, the sound of his voice makes me jump. He glances over as I try to stretch and then wince, but I don’t acknowledge it.

The feeling of his eyes on me is almost as white hot as the pain I’m in.

“Once we get into the city, we should ditch this car and find a motel to crash in,” he says after a moment. “That means we’ll have to walk for a bit. Are you up for that?”

I resist the urge to glare at him. “Why stop at all?”

“Well I don’t know if you remember this,” Piers says sardonically, “but I stole this car from a bunch of gangsters who might have stolen it from someone else. Also, I don’t have a license, and I’m not a US citizen, and I’m armed . If we get pulled over, I’m going to big boy prison.”

“It sounds like you should go back to England,” I tell him, matching his acidic tone. “The sooner, the better.”

It’s his turn to ignore me, which is just as well.

We reach our exit and the trees on either side of us begin to thin, revealing rows of pastel townhouses, grocers, and petrol stations. I realize just how hungry I am when my stomach howls at the sight of a fast food restaurant, a place I would never deign to eat back home. Out of the corner of my eye, Piers glances over at the sound.

“Let’s stop somewhere first,” he suggests, as if it were entirely his idea. “To get some food. The last thing I ate was a bag of peanuts on that plane yesterday, and it’s way past lunchtime now.”

“Fine.”

Piers finds a sprawling parking lot in front of a grocery store, packed with cars and carts and people, and parks in the very midst of it.

“No place like right in front of you,” he comments, which I can’t help but feel is pointed.

In the same parking lot (my god, is America made entirely of parking lots and highways?) is a diner with a cheery yellow sign boasting that it’s open twenty-four hours a day. Ludicrous. We slip inside and my eyes land on the stiff red barstools first, their brushed metal legs gleaming under the fluorescent lights. The thought of perching on one with a gash in my side makes my stomach turn. I glance around and spot a booth near the window instead, shuffling toward it and easing myself onto the vinyl seat with a wince. The place smells like burnt coffee and grease. Whatever appetite I had before, I don’t even want to entertain it now.

I’ve never longed so much for breakfast served in bed by my own cook as I do now.

We both dubiously order cups of black tea from a tired looking waitress- she doesn’t specify what kind of black tea, just ‘black tea,’ the heathen- and browse the menu of sugary pancakes and fatty breakfast meats. I’m tempted to skip the food and try to subsist entirely off of whatever tea I’m about to be served, but I have a feeling Piers will make a scene if I do that. Eventually, I give up and decide to order a side of toast with jam, which I hope will taste at least a little like it does back home.

Will it be remotely filling? I’m a little too tired to care.

A large man approaches the booth, with a worn, straight face that does not invite small talk. A person after my own heart. Piers, of course, ignores his disagreeable look and flashes one of his friendliest smiles. If I didn’t know him so well, I’d think he was just being obtuse. But Piers is always the one working to improve the mood of the room, even if it makes him look like a fool.

“Hey friend!” Piers says cheerily- in a fairly impressive American accent. I’m so shocked by the sound of it, I almost fall backward off my stool. “Gorgeous day, isn’t it?”

“What’ll it be?” the man asks, ignoring Piers’s question entirely.

And I don’t care that I’m usually snapping at Piers in the very same manner. My hackles rise.

“If you’re not interested in speaking to us with basic courtesy, we’ll be happy to look for better food elsewhere,” I say.

At least, I try to say that. I get as far as “If you-” before Piers’s hand squeezes my knee under the bar, completely derailing my train of thought. His smile hasn’t even faltered.

“I’ll have the All-American breakfast,” he answers. “And she’ll have the blueberry pancakes with a side of sausage.”

My defensive feelings evaporate. “Will I?” I demand.

Piers turns his smile on me. “You love blueberries?” he asks, as if he needs to remind me. He lowers his voice. “And you should get some protein after all that blood loss.”

I do love blueberries, but it makes my cheeks more than a little warm to think he took that into consideration when ordering for me. I glare at the ceiling, unable to come up with a retort. Thankfully, the crabby man doesn’t notice this little exchange. He’s written down our order and stomped back into the kitchen already.

Instead of pushing for more conversation, Piers pulls out his phone and begins typing away at its screen. Our tea arrives, and it smells like oil and dish soap. I immediately shove it away. Instead, I look around at the mismatched posters and framed photos on the walls around me, the television screens hanging on the wall depicting several different sports games, and the various other people tucked into booths.

This place is… so very alien to me.

Even though the airport was enormous and packed, everyone was on their way to or from somewhere, too absorbed in their own worlds to bother with me. But this diner is small. I can’t escape the feeling of eyes crawling over my skin. Yet every time I look over my shoulder, no one seems to be watching me.

“It looks like there’s a flight to London leaving Charlotte airport in five hours,” Piers says, so suddenly I almost don’t understand the words. “We have plenty of time to eat up and get over there.”

“We?” I ask, for what seems like the hundredth time since I landed in this goddamn country. “If you want me to kiss you goodbye at the gate, you’re more protein deprived than I am-”

“I’m sure Achilles will cancel your exile considering recent events,” Piers interrupts, misunderstanding entirely. It looks like he’s already ordering tickets on his phone. “And if he doesn’t, then I’ll have words for him. Regardless, you’ll be safe at Wesley Hall.”

Perhaps I really have lost more blood than I thought, because my head is spinning at all these insinuations he’s making. Not only does he expect me to go back to England with him, but he wants me to return to Wesley Hall?! That can’t happen.

And not because I don’t want it to. I miss the sad old manor I grew up in like I would miss my own lung. I haven’t been in the States for an entire day, but so far I’ve felt completely unmoored. Everything about this place is alienating to me- the weather, the smells, the cars, the noise, the people.

But how can I possibly return to the place I love when no one even wants me there? Piers is an outlier, an anomaly. My own brother, my most long term and loyal supporter, was the one who put me on the plane that took me away. If there are Ashwoods hunting me to another country to be sure I die for my sins, then how many of them will show up at the gates of Wesley Hall demanding my head once I return?

“I’m not going back,” I say, but my voice doesn’t sound loud enough to me.

Piers’s eyes come away from his phone at last. They meet mine, his brow furrowed, his deep green irises shadowed. He doesn’t look angry, just completely baffled.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

How can I make it any clearer? “I’m not going back, Piers,” I repeat, louder this time.

“You told me to go back to England… but you think you’re staying here,” he says, like I’m the one losing my mind in this moment, and not him.

I’m losing my patience. “I would’ve thought that was obvious.”

Piers blinks fast. “What the hell is your plan, Fantasia? I leave, and you’re still wounded, homeless, and hunted by multiple factions.”

“That’s my business, not yours,” I snap.

He scoffs at me- scoffs! “You’re kidding me.”

I could strangle him. Have I ever told him a joke during our entire acquaintance? “I am not,” I say stiffly. “I’ve been exiled, Piers, just in case you missed it. I am not wanted in England-”

“But you want to be in England,” Piers persists, infuriatingly. “And I want you there too.”

“Well I don’t want to be there with you!” I burst out- just in time for the grumpy man to set our food in front of us. Blueberries and whipped cream are piled on top of two pancakes, with three diminutive sausages squeezed onto the side of the plate. I’m so angry that I don’t want to eat a bite of it.

But, unfortunately, I’m also starving.

Avoiding Piers’s stare, I snatch up my fork and knife, carve out a large chunk of pancake, and stuff it into my mouth. It tastes like ash, like nothing, but I force myself to swallow through my constricting throat. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Piers hesitate before digging into his eggs and bacon and sausage and toast. There’s so much food there that I can’t fathom him eating it all, but the next thing I know, his plate is half empty, and mine is too.

Perhaps being half choked and slashed to death gave me more of an appetite than I realized.

Unfortunately, the food is settling like rocks in my stomach. The last words I said to Piers are on repeat in my head. The future he wants for me seems even more hopeless than the path Achilles set me on.

I need to get out of here. Alone. Somehow, I need to find my own way.

I don’t realize how much the wound in my side has settled until I push myself out of the booth and pain flares through my side again. I ignore it, striding with purpose toward the door. I hear Piers call after me, but I don’t stop. The light outside is blinding, but I ignore it and barrel down the sidewalk, my ears ringing with the sound of traffic and the screaming in my own mind.

Do I have any idea where I’m going? No. Am I going to get there anyway? If it’s the last thing I do.

“Fantasia!”

I shake my head, as if that will be enough to deter him. Realistically, even trying to kill him didn’t drive the man away. Piers catches up to me in seconds, cutting me off before I even make it to the corner.

“Where the hell are you trying to go?” he demands.

“That’s none of your-”

“Business, right, of course,” he interrupts with a huff. “Except it is. You wanna know why?”

“I don’t, actually-”

“Because I fucking care about you,” he snaps, losing his patience with me at last. “And Achilles might have given up on you, and you might have given up on you, but I haven’t. And honestly, I think that’s just what you like. Why else would you try to stop me from leaving earlier, hm?”

I have no argument against that, just like I didn’t when we were both facing each other in the den. Luckily, it seems Piers doesn’t expect a response. “Really, I’m just doing what you wanted. I’m staying. I’m going to make sure you’re okay.”

What if I don’t want to be okay? I think it, but I’ll never say it. “You’re wasting your time,” I tell him instead. “And mine. Just leave me alone, Piers.”

I try to get past him, but he steps in front of me again. “Fine, we won’t go back to London-”

“There is . No . We -”

“Can you listen, please?” Piers demands. I jut my chin out at him defiantly, but he goes on. “You’re hurt, and I’m tired, and we both need showers. Let me get us a room at a motel. That way we can get some rest, and we’re not trying to have this conversation on the side of the road.”

The thing about Piers is that he’s an opportunist. If you give him an inch, he’ll take the whole mile. I know that if I agree to a motel room it’ll be that much harder to get him to leave later.

But at the same time, the moment my brain catches on the idea of laying in a bed with sheets and pillows and blessed silence- my resolve crumbles to pieces.

My jaw still painfully set, I give Piers a single nod.

And just like I knew it would, his face lights up in a smile. Mile, taken.