Sparrow Hill Road 2010 By Seanan(53)

I've managed to walk halfway to the school when a car pulls up next to me, blinker flashing the brief staccato rhythm that means, in the secret language of the road, "You've got a ride." I stop where I am, turning toward the car, a battered old Toyota in that shade of middle-class brown that hides the rust better than just about anything else. The passenger-side window creaks down, revealing a teenage girl with hair almost exactly the color of her car's paint job. I don't get many rides from girls. Something about me says "there but for the grace of God," and they keep their distance.

She has red and yellow ribbons in her hair—the Buckley High School colors—and flecks of coppery rust in the brown of her eyes. "Get in," she says, with a small lift of her chin. It's more command than request, and I find myself obeying without stopping to think about it. "I'll fill you in on the way."

Prom night isn't like Halloween, when the dead live again, but it's something similar for me, anniversary of my death, pagan ritual in school colors. I can feel solidity falling into my bones like night falling on the forest, turning me physical from the inside out. I slide into the seat, almost taking comfort in the way my feet dip just below the floorboard—still dead, still free, at least for the moment. It's too late to run away, but it's too soon for the music to start. "Thanks for the ride," I say, old ritual, new target.

"I was going your way," she replies, with ritual calm, and I realize that I never told her which way I was going. She hits the accelerator, eyes on the road as she adds, "There's a wrap for you in the back. I looked through some of the old yearbooks to make sure I had the right color." I hesitate, and she sighs, heavily. "It's just a damn coat, okay? You need it if you don't intend to go walking through any walls in the next few hours. I feel more comfortable when I know my passengers are actually gaining some small measure of protection from their seatbelts."

"I—wait—what?"

"Although I guess if you're dead already, the seatbelt thing is sort of moot." She stops at the light on Pierce and Robinson—there wasn't a light there when I was alive, just one more sign of how the town has changed—before turning to look at me. "I'd feel better if you were corporeal in my car, okay? And since I'm the driver, I get to choose the radio station and dictate the physical state of passengers."

The look in her eyes finally snaps into focus. I can't stop myself from frowning as I ask, "You're a routewitch, aren't you? What are you doing in Buckley?" What are you doing here, on the night of the prom, the one night when I can't cross the city limits? Why did you pick me up?

What's going on here?

"I was born here," she replies, attention going back to the road. "My grandfather was from Buckley, and when my dad died, Mom decided she'd come here to be close to his side of the family. Her side's nothing to write home about."

"Oh." Even routewitches have to come from somewhere, I guess. I've just never given much thought to where they belong when they aren't running the roads or going home to the arms of the Ocean Lady. I lean over the seat, looking into the back. A wispy strip of pale green silk lies puddled on the upholstery. That familiar jolt of solidity races up my fingers as I reach over and pick up the wrap, noting the thin lines of silver running through the fabric. It's beautiful, delicate, and a perfect complement to the prom gown I'll wind up wearing before the night is over.

I settle back into my seat, feeling gravity settle over me like a shroud as I wind the wrap loosely around my shoulders. I fasten the seatbelt before looking toward the routewitch behind the wheel. Her eyes are still locked on the street beyond the windscreen. I clear my throat, and say, "Um, thanks. For the coat. And the ride. My name's Rose."

She actually laughs at that, the sound easy and clear and eerily familiar. "Oh, I know. You're Rose Marshall. You're here because this is the anniversary of your death, and whenever you're near Buckley during prom season, you wind up crashing the party."

"How did you—"

"You're here tonight, specifically, because I begged the road to send you. All the signs and portents have been crazy since the start of the school year. Old lady Martin's cat had a whole litter of kittens with no eyes, and somehow, all the scripts for the senior play got replaced with MacBeth. Something bad's coming. I wanted at least a little supernatural muscle on our side when things went south."

I blink. "What makes you think I can do anything to help?"

"It's prom night, in Buckley, and you're a Marshall. Marshalls always come back to Buckley when they're needed. It's what makes us better than the Healys."