Deathless

Chapter 36: Millie

Jackson and I walk out of the concrete stairwell into the corpse-grey car park. Harsh overhead lights cut through the space, slicing shadows from concrete pillars. Jackson is twisting his head this way and that as he searches.

"What kind of car are we looking for?"

"You'll know it when you see it."

Our feet slap loudly against the ground, echoing through the cavernous room. We pass shiny BMWs and pitch-black Audi's, but Jackson barely glances at them.

"Why do we even need his car, anyway? What's wrong with yours?"

"Won't be much use where we're going."

Groaning, I follow him deeper into the car park. Jackson stops suddenly and I grunt as I walk into the hard muscle of his back. I hear a double beep and a flash of light, drawing my attention to a single parking bay deep in the back. My mouth drops, and I burst out laughing when I see it. Jackson turns and grins at me, his arm still outstretched, car keys in hand.

"You can't be serious?"

He chuckles.

"The Horsemen aren't big on subtle. You think this is bad? You should see Pestilence's plane..."

Jackson's car is ridiculous—an enormous black American beast of a car that's wider, bulkier and more powerful than any car I'd ever seen before. Next to this thing, it looks like he rides a tricycle.

A fearsome red, a knife wound red. The car is wider than the road but sleek and curving. A large silver horse proudly rears on the bonnet of the car, tiny ruby eyes glint in the faint light. Inside, the leather seats are the colour of dried blood.

"Is that...?" I stare at the rearing form of the silver horse and shiver.

"He got it a while ago, prefers his horse-power in the engine now."

I giggle and he looks over at me, his lips curling into that familiar smirk and for a moment I forget everything that's happened in the last day. I linger on his face—the gunmetal glimmer of his eyes, the fullness of his lips, the black as night strands he slicks back. My heart quivers, flutters like leaves on a branch. I look away.

"We should go," I mutter.

His smile fades, and I quickly slip into the front passenger seat of the car. The inside of the car is spacious and comfortable. From the mirror dangles a scented piece of cardboard shaped as War's sword—it smells strangely like a pumpkin-spiced latte.

Mystical, Ethereal, divine creatures... damn, they're weird.

Jackson climbs into the driver's seat, slamming the door hard. His face is back to that fixed, stony expression. He starts the engine and before I can open my mouth to ask where we're going—he hits the accelerator, the car rumbling to life. We speed through the car park, turning the cars and pillars into blurs. I gasp, sinking deep into the seat. When we leave the underground, the radio crackles to life. A cheesy rock song about driving to hell fills the car, and I roll my eyes. Jackson catches me and grins.

"That's not where we're going, is it?"

"Hope not."

"You're all crazy, you know that, right?"

He chuckles, leaning back lazily in his chair like he's not driving at racecar speeds.

"Yeah, never-ending life does that to you."

The car storms through the streets of London, Jackson uncaring at the beeps from pissed off taxi drivers as he jumps lights and takes corners like a madman.