Page 40 of Shifting Years (Whispering Hills #5)

My sneakers crunched against desert sand blown over asphalt near the convenience store. Nevada wind sprayed my spiral, blonde hair in various directions, with some over a heat-lamp-cooked burger in my mouth.

The doors didn't open, and I mumbled an apology muffled by the hamburger. "Comfh on."

A heavy Detroit steel door opened. Baby didn't turn on the heater, but he didn't stop me from doing it, so a win. Shakes and moans lessened while my insides warmed.

"Well, I'm sorry ," I said to the dashboard, easier to think of it as his face when behind the wheel. "I wanted to photograph Route 66 and all those roadside stops."

Satellite radio and the only modern thing inside flashed as soft, haunting female vocals sang. An electronic font spelled The Cranberries – Disappointment .

Lyrics came about someone doing something wrong and how we could be happy instead. Westley, the previous owner, said he was hard to understand, but Baby wasn't subtle with me . The volume spiked when the chorus mentioned disappointment.

"Yeah, I get it, but sometimes I want to go to my places. New Orleans was your choice, then it was my turn. Honestly, Baby, I don't know why you're all riled up. We go far more places than you ever did with—"

My car jerked to the left with a metallic thump, followed by a long scrape.

A raised white truck with giant wheels to the right and an open door scraped Baby's door again.

A six-foot-three man, thick with pudgy muscles under a white tank top, slid out.

He had a shaved head and spiderweb tattoos on his elbows.

"Hey, jerk!" My Texan accented voice was too high-pitched to be scary, but it got his attention. He spun, ready for a fight, and he smiled-frowned when he saw who screamed.

Most men won't fight a woman a third their size, but he saw a girl by herself.

I don't call myself pretty, that would be vanity, but others like my mom do.

I'm at a convenience store, but not a busy one, and it's not full daylight.

The only weapon, besides Baby, was the knife under the red and black vinyl car seats.

He thrust his hands out with the 'What are you going to do about it?' gesture.

I can't stab someone because they dented a car, although it's like someone hitting a friend.

A finely tuned engine revved on its own, followed by a gunshot-like sound. Thick exhaust and black soot sprayed the guy's wide face and tank top. It looked like those cartoons where dynamite blows up.

Baby raced from our parking spot, seats puffed around my legs and back, while the seat belts tightened. With squealing tires and burnt rubber, Baby turned, reversed before denting the white pickup truck, and crumbling his back end.

"Hey! There ain't no need to–"

Back he raced again, doing more damage with metallic groans, and finally, one more time. Guttural screams came from the man, calling me names every woman hears, including one with four letters.

I lunged forward while the yells grew distant. Leaving an accident isn't something I'd do, but I wasn't driving. In the rearview mirror past my blue-green eyes, twisted metal righted itself, and I assumed he fixed the door dent.

"Why did you ruin the man's truck like that? You could've slammed open the door and dented him back. That would've been enough."

The radio blared with hip-hop lyrics and flashed Public Enemy's Fight the Power.

"Yeah, that's not the power they're talking about."

He was in a mood tonight. Loud nineties' music played while I flipped the visor down.

A photo of two short Omegas with a tall Alpha between them looked back.

Westley was the tall 'Southern Handsome' man in black with the cowboy hat, and long dark hair hung down to his broad shoulders.

Tyler was the short blue-eyed Omega to his left with black and blond hair smiling wide, and Ryan was the smirking dark-haired guy to the right. My finger traced a triangle.

"You know what's weird?"

Justin Bieber's What do you Mean? flashed for a second, then dimmed.

"Well, I'm happy. I am! Not in an office anymore and totally over my ex. Really!" Future romance was dead since it's hard to be involved with cross-country travel. I took photographs and had followers, but it was lonely. A cute guy or girl. Someone who'd give life a rush.

Is that really it? Nice, but...

"Guess what I liked."

Red Hot Chili Peppers' Tell Me Baby flashed.

"Adventure. Remember rescuing Westley with Ryan and Tyler at my side? Fighting actual vampires?" I shivered. I almost got killed but saved a friend, and I was something more, at least for a while.

He played no song, but I think I knew his thoughts.

"No, I shouldn't do Whispering Hills. I'm on probation, and Westley doesn't need the hassle.

" I did nothing wrong except discover the paranormal.

Westley, Baby's former owner – if anyone could own a car with a void demon – vouched for me.

If I did anything wrong, his life would be in trouble.

I had a debt to pay to him and Baby for protecting me.

"I want to do right by you. I know your history. Put into a golem, escaping into a car in Maine, decades with Westley." I paused, fearing the answer. "You happy?"

No songs came, just moving back and forth between stations. Once done, announcers and one-second sound bites between static said, "I'm... as happy... as... a little... girl."

I smiled. As different as we were, at least it, no he , had a sense of humor.

"What do you want?"

Viva Las Vegas by Elvis Presley blared, and the volume increased until the speakers and metal vibrated.

Baby sped, then swerved, taking the exit.

I got out a mini Blu-ray player paused near the ending to Predator and transferred photos of desert field mice, and painted Arizona and Nevada landscapes to my blog.

I'd never text and drive, but I wasn't driving.

My laptop stayed down low, just in case.

Telling the police a disembodied spirit controlled a classic car wasn't believable.

Disbelief helped hide the paranormal, but I think it didn't work human on human.

Not that I should worry. Baby had an instinctual understanding of when to race or obey the speed limit.

I picked a few photos of us under the desert sun against a rocky orange and yellow plateau. Behind an orange-tinted road under a setting sun. Then I added his name as a hashtag.

I flipped the laptop over and aimed the photo at the dashboard.

Happy 'doot doot' circus music played.

"I think more people are asking about you ." I smiled since there was no jealousy. I've never been a car girl, but Baby's an Americana classic. Red, white, and chrome and thanks to his magic, always in new gleaming condition as if freshly washed and waxed.

I settled into the vinyl seats, not sleeping but in a zoned-out daydream, staring at the distant beam from the Luxor's pyramid-shaped casino.

"Reminds me of the trips when I was a little girl." I used to look out over the horizon when my parents were together and imagine zooming over the rocks, trees, and houses like Supergirl.

I rolled down the window while the heat turned off. My left hand sliced through the cold, dark desert air, adding to the flying illusion.

"You ever think about flying, Baby?"

He played no music, and I hoped it wasn't a sore point.

Westley said he was from a black void and had little more to offer.

Baby was intelligence without form. I suppose a car gave it an outside existence and mobility, but how would I feel if I were stuck in something?

Was this an upgrade, or did he see me and wish for more?

In the darkened distance, something howled long with a mournful musical cry.

Goosebumps appeared, and it wasn't from the outside cold.

Baby's headlights flickered, and brakes screeched against nighttime asphalt.

He didn't mold the seats around me, but at least I had my seat belt – and a light red welt across my chest.

We stayed parked in the silent darkness with nothing but the dusty desert smell. We were on a highway with lots of twisty turns. A semi-truck, drunk tourist, or anyone might whip around the corner and kill us, themselves, or everyone.

"Baby?"

A softer howl came as if crying, and I'm sure it's from a wolf.

My heart raced. I'm friends with three shifters, but I was miles away from The South. Shifters were all over, but I heard they didn't like cities.

Desert wolves, maybe?

Baby peeled out, just as a semi-truck flashed bright headlights with a short strobe effect. We left the highway and raced over the brown landscape, throwing large sand plumes behind us.

"Not again," I screamed.

The seat belt tightened around me while the vinyl squeezed my legs and waist. A fifty-seven apple-red Chevy isn't made for going over the Mojave at eighty miles per hour, but he did.

Rocks slammed against the chrome bumper, and windows splintered into spiderweb patterns before slowly repairing themselves with ice-cracking sounds.

Over the next five minutes, the experience repeated as my breasts bounced up and down from the jolts.

Ouch.

Then nothing. The radio burst into static, and the headlights flickered into blackness. Baby's engine died down with a slow whirl, and I sat under a full moon.

"Baby?" My fingernails clicked against his red and chrome dashboard, then my palm. "Come on! It ain't funny."

I screamed his name while my Texan accent thickened but got nothing but silence. Even when the radio wasn't on, or he didn't drive, there was a sense of him around. Now it was like background noise turned off.

I called out a few more times and pounded the cold metal door outside, figuring it was close to slapping someone awake.

There's a line between patience and doing nothing. After a few more minutes of begging, I grabbed the hidden hunting knife, pepper spray, and a flathead screwdriver. Fingers wrapped around the handle tightly. I stepped out, and my sneakers scrunched dry, cracked ground.

The desert chill washed over my pale skin, bringing goosebumps, and the trunk's metal was instantly cold against my fingertips.

The back raised, and I dug through a suitcase with pastel tank tops and found my headband with a flashlight.

I used it so I could take photos easier.

Now it let me pan around seeing rocks, flat desert, and the occasional low to the ground cactus.

I opened the hood, looking for anything torn or open.

Baby might have hit something which damaged him so fast, even he couldn't fix it.

A heated metal smell hung in the nighttime chill, but nothing else.

I never had to fill him up with gas or oil, but there were no overpowering smells like from a burst pipe.

Thorny red and green vines were stuck to his tires and frame but otherwise fine, except for the not moving part.

My voice quivered. "What's wrong with you?" I held my phone up and got a NO CONNECTION message. Rotating it around and touching metal did nothing to boost the signal.

Neck hairs prickled like when I'm walking along a dark street, or a creep's checking me out in a bar. It made sense there, but not in the middle of the desert.

Or does it?

My left hand gripped the flathead screwdriver, and I did the same with the hunting knife in my right. I spun, hoping the headlamp would blind any attackers.

Near the ground, yellow eyes from a brown and black wolf flashed with reflective light. It whined then fell against its side, panting heavily. Around the front paws, someone had tied familiar vines around it.

Hunter's trap?

No, that wasn't it. They were too tight and woven in and out as if sewn together.

It growled at me once, baring long white teeth, then stopped as I held my hand out.

"Oh, geez. Who did this to you?"