Lover At Last(57)

A sound like a car backfiring got his attention in a bad way—but what was worse?

The sudden silence that followed.

No engine clatter. Just the wind whistling into the cockpit.

Okay, now they were really in trouble.

For a split second, he thought about dematerializing out. He was strong enough, aware enough—but he wasn’t leaving Z—

A strong hand landed on his shoulder, scaring the balls off him.

Z had dragged himself forward, and going by the expression on his face, he was having trouble staying on his feet—and not just because of the bucking and weaving.

The Brother spoke up, his deep voice cutting through the din. “Time for you to go.”

“Fuck that,” Qhuinn hollered back. Reaching forward, he went to try the ignition. Couldn’t hurt, right?

“Don’t make me throw you out.”

“Try it.”

“Qhuinn—”

The engine kicked back on, and the din reintensified. All good news. The trouble was, if the bastard’d gone out once, it was going to go out again.

Qhuinn shoved his hand into his jacket. As he snagged his cell phone, he thought of everyone they were both leaving behind—and he passed the thing to the Brother.

If there was a hierarchy in the reach-out-and-touch order, Z was at the top of the list. He had a shellan and a daughter—and if anyone was going to make a call, it was him.

“What’s this for?” Zsadist said darkly.

“You can figure it out.”

“And you can leave—”

“Not leaving—gotta fly this deathtrap until we hit something.”

There was some further arguing at that point, but he wasn’t moving from the driver’s seat, and as strong as the Brother was under normal circumstances, Z wasn’t in any condition to muscle around so much as a loaf of bread. And the convo didn’t last long. After the talk dried up, Z disappeared, no doubt ducking back into the rear so he could make that last contact with those he loved.

Smart move.

Left to his own devices, Qhuinn closed his eyes and threw a prayer up to anyone who might hear the thing. And then he pictured Blay’s face—

“Here.”

He flipped open his lids. His cell phone was right in front of his face, held in place by Z’s sturdy grip. And the GPS map was up and rolling, the little blinking arrow showing him exactly where they were.

“Another three miles,” the Brother yelled over the roaring noise. “That’s all we need—”

There was a boom and a fizzle—and then another round of that god-awful quiet. Cursing, Qhuinn focused hard on the little screen all the while hoping things would restart on their own. More north, obviously—but farther east. A lot farther. His guesstimate had been good, but hardly spot-on.

Without the phone? They’d be fucked.

Well, that and the whole no-engine thing.

Checking the precise location, he made some calculations in his head, and steered them to the right, trying to get that pointed indicator on the map heading exactly to their mountain. Then it was time to try to jump-start the engine again.

They were losing altitude. Not in that movie-spiral way, where there was a close-up on the altimeter and the thing was spinning fast as you wished the propeller was. But slowly, inexorably they were drifting down…and if they lost enough forward momentum, which was what that unreliable sewing machine under the hood was supposed to provide, they were going to drop out of the sky like a stone.

Working the ignition over and over again, he muttered, “Come on, come on, come on….”

It was hard to keep the nose up with only one hand—and just as he was going to have to devote all of his attention to fighting with the steering wheel, Z’s arm shot forward, kicked his hand out of the way, and took over trying to restart the engine.

For a split second, Qhuinn had an absurdly clear snapshot of the slave band peeking out from the cuff of the Brother’s leather jacket—and then it was all business.

God, his shoulders were on fire from pulling back on the wheel shaft.

And to think he was dying to hear that racket from the—

All at once, the engine coughed back to life, and the change in their altitude was immediate. The instant those spark plugs and pistons started roaring again, the numbers began going up.

Keeping the throttle fully engaged, he checked the fuel gauge. On E. Maybe they were just out of gas, and it wasn’t a mechanical issue?

Talk about splitting hairs.

“Just a little farther, baby—just a little more, come on, baby girl, you can do it….”

As an endless stream of murmured encouragement left his lips, the impotent words were drowned out by the only thing that mattered—but come on, like the Cessna spoke English…?