“So? We’ve got plenty of sand.”
“These sands are very important,” Grandpa Smedry said. “It’s an Oculator sort of thing.”
Bastille’s expression darkened a bit at that comment. She threw her hands into the air. “Whatever,” she said. “I assume we’re late.”
“Very,” Grandpa Smedry said.
“Fine.” She stabbed a finger at me; I barely suppressed a tense jump. “You, get in my car. You can fill me in on the mission. We’ll meet you there, old man.”
“Lovely,” Grandpa Smedry said, looking relieved.
“I – “ I began.
“Must I remind you, Alcatraz,” Grandpa Smedry said, “that you shouldn’t swear? Now, we’re late! Get moving!”
I paused. “Swear?” I said. However, my confusion gave Grandpa Smedry a perfect chance to escape, and I caught sight of the man’s eyes twinkling as he jumped into his car, Quentin and Sing joining him.
“For an old man who arrives late to everything,” I noted, “he certainly is spry.”
“Come on, Smedry!” Bastille growled, climbing back into her sleek car.
I sighed, then rounded the vehicle and pulled open the passenger side door. I tossed the handle to the side as it broke off, then climbed in. Bastille rapped her knuckles on the dashboard, and the car started. Then she reached for the gear shift, throwing it into reverse.
“Uh, doesn’t the car drive itself?” I asked.
“Sometimes,” Bastille said. “It can do both – it’s a hybrid. We’re trying to get closer to things that look like real Hushlander vehicles.”
With that, the car burst into motion.
Now, I had been very frightened on several different occasions in my life. The most frightening of these involved an elevator and a mime. Perhaps the second most frightening involved a caseworker and a gun.
Bastille’s driving, however, quickly threatened to become number three.
“Aren’t you supposed to be some sort of bodyguard?” I asked, furiously working to find a seat belt. There didn’t appear to be one.
“Yeah,” Bastille said. “So?”
“So, shouldn’t you avoid killing me in a car wreck?”
Bastille frowned, spinning the wheel and taking a corner at a ridiculous speed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I sighed, settling into my seat, telling myself that the car probably had some sort of mystical device to protect its occupants. (I was wrong, of course. Both Oculator powers and silimatic technology have to do with glass, and I seriously doubt that an air bag made of – or filled with – glass would be all that effective. Amusing, perhaps, but not effective.)
“Hey,” I said. “How old are you?”
“Thirteen,” Bastille replied.
“Should you be driving, then?” I asked.
“I don’t see why not.”
“You’re too young,” I said.
“Says who?”
“Says the law.”
I could see Bastille narrow her eyes, and her hands gripped the wheel even tighter. “Maybe Librarian law,” she muttered.