Sparrow Hill Road 2010 By Seanan(36)
The man who ran me off the road is named Bobby Cross; he's not dead, but he runs the ghostroads just like we do. They say he can cross between levels with a thought, burn rubber from the midnight to the daylight without making any of the usual stops or customary payments. They say he doesn't follow the rules of the living or the dead--and they say he eats ghosts, rips us out of the world and turns us into nothing but the distant scent of incense on the wind. That's why he ran me off the road to begin with. He was hungry, and he looked into my living heart and saw a meal that just needed preparation.
He has my scent, knows the shape of my soul and the nature of my death. I'm the ghost that got away, and he'll take me if he can. That's what the older hitchers tell me, and I believe them. I don't know who listens to the prayers of the dead--Hades or Persephone or some other screwed-up ghost god I didn't pay attention to in English class--but I pray a lot these days. O Lord who art probably not in Heaven, deliver me from men who've killed me once and would kill me again, if I gave them the chance. O Lady, hallowed be thy name, get me the hell out of here.
Please. Deliver me from evil and deliver me from darkness, and leave me on the ghostroads for a thousand years if that's what it takes to pay for my sins, but please. Deliver me from the arms of Bobby Cross.
***
The second shock of Bobby's approach comes hard on the heels of the first one, the smell of wormwood and gasoline laying itself across the lilies and ashes until it almost washes them away. My teeth snap shut, back arching in a shocked, involuntary motion that makes my tattoo burn like fire. Bobby isn't just coming, he's here, he's here, he's within a mile of us, and the power of his presence is enough to blur the lines of the accident ahead--I can't see the shape of it, can't see whether there's a way to avoid it. He's too big and too loud, and too damn strong. Right now, I can't tell the victims from the bystanders, and the fact of my failure burns.
Chris all but radiates concern as he tries to watch me and the road at the same time, only a lifetime of good driving habits keeping him from veering onto the shoulder. Poor bastard. He tried to do a favor for a pretty girl on the highway, and what does he get? Some chick having what looks like a seizure in his passenger seat. He can't know that I'm fighting my own urge to flee, to drop down to the deepest levels of the twilight and let him handle what's ahead of us alone. The coat I'm wearing gives me life, until I choose to give that life away, and for his sake--because he was kind to me--I won't let go. Not until I know what Bobby's here for.
Not until I know whether Chris can be saved.
"Rose?" It isn't the first time he's said my name, but it's the first time I've heard it, and hearing is enough to snap me back into my own head, the lure of the ghostroads fading. "Rose, are you okay? Do we need to stop?"
We need to run, run so far and fast that Bobby Cross will never find us. But I can't say that. So I swallow the words, force myself to settle in my seat, and answer, "No. I mean no, I'm not okay, and no, I don't need you to stop. Not yet. Next time there's a rest area? I think I need some water." Some water, an exorcism kit, and a priest or two would be more like it. They don't sell those at the Gas-N-Go.
"Deal," says Chris--and he sounds like he means it, like he'll go inside with me instead of promising to wait in the car and then blazing out of the parking lot the second my back is turned. He's a nice guy. That somehow makes it worse, and I find myself hoping, hoping hard, that Bobby is ahead because he, like any natural disaster, sometimes strikes without warning, and not because he's on my trail again.
The first shock is past; I'm beginning to feel my way into the accident ahead. It's a big one; eight cars, at the very least, and death enough to keep the bean sidhe and the doom-crows satiated for years. That must be why Bobby's here. An accident this large is like an all-you-can-eat buffet for him, and the menu will feature all the finest dishes. Not everyone who dies on the road leaves a ghost behind, but enough do...and enough of those ghosts are shaped by the road to make them his chosen fuel.
I take a breath, hold it until my lungs ache, and let it slowly out again, digging deeper into the accident. We're five miles out, which is good. It's between us and the next exit, which isn't. If Chris were less of a nice guy, this is where I'd say something lewd, suggest he pull off and take me into the trees to pay for my passage--but I know his type well enough to know that won't work. If I try it, he might leave me by the side of the road, which solves the question of how we're getting me away from Bobby, but leaves him undefended. He won't stand a chance if he drives alone into what's ahead. He's a part of it, my nice guy; I can smell it now. The car is filled with the scent of lilies, too strong to be nothing but a warning. Maybe I can stop Chris from dying, and maybe I can't, but if I leave him here, nothing will protect him from Bobby.