13. Freddie #4
I can feel Twyla shaking against my scalp, her little panicked breaths puffing against my ear.
Below us, the sea of orange and yellow leaves is rushing up way too fast, but I can’t even tell how close the ground is because my eyes are clamped shut, streaming with hot, spicy tears that make my face feel like it’s literally on fire.
“Oh god!” I scream, the wind swallowing the sound.
Callum is shouting something behind me—a whole stream of frantic, useless words—but I can’t process a single syllable over the agony in my eyes. The cold air hits my wet cheeks like needles, only fanning the flames.
“We’re almost there!” Twyla’s voice squeaks from somewhere near my forehead, barely audible over the rush of wind. “I can see the Stardust Inn! Just land it, Freddie!”
“I can’t!” I yell back, throwing both hands up to cup my burning eyes. “I can’t see, Twy!”
A sharp zip cuts past my right ear—the sound of pine branches whipping dangerously close as we plunge down, down, down at an alarming speed.
My stomach drops straight into my sneakers.
All I can do is hunch my body forward over Jett’s carrier, bracing my back, praying that if we slam into a hundred-foot pine tree, my body takes the impact instead of his.
And then…we stop.
Not a crash-landing, bone-breaking stop, but a smooth, soft deceleration, like dropping onto a massive pile of down pillows. The stomach-flipping sensation of freefall vanishes as the wind dies down to a gentle breeze.
I crack my left eye open a millimeter, wincing as a fresh wave of tears leaks out, and blink through the blur.
Floating right in front of the handlebars is Twyla.
She’s hovering in midair, her tiny hands shoved forward, surrounded by a swirling, iridescent orb of soft violet and pale green light that completely envelopes the broom.
The magical bubble steadies us, hovering a comfortable twenty feet above the gravel parking lot of the Stardust Inn.
Since when the hell can she pull off a class-four levitation shield?
Twyla glances back over her shoulder, her tiny chin set in fierce determination as her translucent wings beat in a blur. “Hold on, you two!”
She lowers her hands an inch, and the glowing bubble drifts downward like a seed floating off a dandelion. The parking lot rises up to meet us, crunching loudly under the tail of the broom before we gently settle into the empty spot right next to a rusty Ford F-150.
The moment wood touches ground, the purple light snaps out of existence. Twyla drops onto my shoulder, panting like she just ran a marathon.
Underneath my jacket, Jett lets out three long, shuddering breaths, his tiny ribcage expanding as he finally unclaws himself from my chest. Behind me, Callum doesn’t even bother swinging his leg over the saddle properly.
He practically tumbles off the side, stumbling three steps back into the crushed gravel before doubling over, hands on his knees, heaving like he’s about to lose his lunch.
“I’m fine,” he chokes out to the dirt. “I’m totally fine. But I am confiscating every piece of dried meat in your house. You are never, ever eating jerky again.”
I blindly swing my leg off the broom, my feet hitting the ground with an unsteady thud. “It was an accident,” I croak, my eyes completely locked shut now, tears streaming down my neck and soaking right into my collar.
Twyla flits up to my eye level. “Oh, Fred,” she whispers, her little hand resting against my nose. “Your eyes…it looks really, really bad. They’re all red and swollen.”
“Feels like molten lava,” I gasp, holding my hands out like a zombie to keep from walking into a fence.
I hear the heavy crunch of boots as Callum straightens up, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
He grabs my elbow—not gently, but firm enough to keep me from tripping over the front porch steps—and steers me toward the front door of the Stardust Inn.
The smell of old carpet and pine hits me the second the door swings open.
“Can I help you folks?” a smooth voice calls out from across the lobby.
I blink through a slit of pure agony. Through the wall of tears, I can just make out a man standing behind a dark oak counter, his brilliant ebony skin glowing under the warm antique lamps.
I fan my hands wildly in front of my face, gasping for air. “Bathroom! I need the bathroom!”
Callum doesn’t even pause, stepping up to the desk while still holding onto my sleeve. “The Mayor said he called ahead for us? Winifred Rowley and Callum McKinley.”
“Ah, yes,” the man says, reaching for a brass key. “Welcome to the—”
“Bathroom!” I screech.
The man blinks, pointing a pen toward the hallway on the left. “Second door on the right.”
I break away from Callum’s grip and bolt down the hall, hearing the man faintly ask behind me, “Is she…going to be alright?”
“Honestly?” Callum’s dry, flat voice carries down the corridor. “It’s fifty-fifty. It depends on whether the pepper gets her first or I do.”
Mentally, I flip him two giant middle fingers.
I kick the bathroom door open and throw myself blindly over the porcelain sink, shoving the faucet handle straight up to cold. The second the water rushes out, I crank my head sideways and shove my entire face straight under the freezing stream, desperate to drown out the fire.