The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [96]
Holding a donut in his mouth, Travis moved to the window and peered out a narrow gap between plaid curtains. He bit off half the donut, swallowed. “They may be big, but I bet they’re slow. I say we can outrun them.”
“And then what?”
“I don’t know.” Travis ran a hand over his freshly shaved head. “Aren’t you getting tired of waiting here? We could just find Beltan ourselves.”
Grace looked up at him, and he winced.
“You know, I think that evil eye of yours actually works.”
“I am a witch. Then again, what you’re feeling might have something to do with the fact that that’s your fourth donut in the last half hour.”
He slumped against the wall and tossed the donut into the wastebasket. “I know, Grace. I know we can’t go out. It’s just that he … I mean, they could be doing anything to him.”
Grace set down the crossword puzzle book. It was more than mere boredom eating at him, at both of them. “I’m worried about him, too, Travis. No, not worried—terrified. But the Seekers have resources far beyond our means. And as long as Duratek is looking for us, and as long as the police are looking for me, it’s not safe to go out there.”
“Maybe it’s not safe for us to look for him, Grace.” He turned his gray eyes on her—that unsettling seriousness again. “But what if it’s right? Both of us have … abilities that the Seekers don’t.”
Grace hugged her knees to her chest. It was true. They both had learned so much since they had last set foot on Earth. But this wasn’t Eldh, and while there were still a few shreds of magic left on this world, as far as Grace could tell they were exactly that: a thin, polluted trickle that had once been a great, primeval river. Magic was not going to help them, not here.
“I’m going to get some ice,” she said, grabbing a cracked plastic bucket from the nightstand. “We could both use a drink.”
Travis nodded. “I’ll get the bottle.”
Grace stepped onto the second-floor walkway, and the door of dented, orange-painted steel closed behind her with a heavy chunk. No wonder fugitives always picked motels to hide in. Metal doors.
The day had surrendered. Thick, purple air settled over the cars in the parking lot below. Above, fluorescent lights flickered spastically, filling the air with a sick light and a humming drone. A few late, lazy flies spiraled toward the glow. Somewhere out of sight children laughed, splashing in chlorine-rich water, while a woman called out in the wordless, angry, universal tongue of mothers. Motel twilight.
Bucket in hand, Grace moved along the walkway. At once she felt attention upon her, and she didn’t need to look back to know one of the Seeker operatives watched her through the tinted glass of the black sedan in the parking lot. Stewart—he usually staked out the front of the motel. Right then he was probably soiling his expensive, too-tight Armani suit and talking hotly on the radio to Erics stationed on the other side of the motel. Grace knew she wasn’t supposed to leave the room. But she was only going to the ice machine. Besides, the boys needed a little excitement once in a while.
She rounded a corner and found the ice machine lurking in a dim alcove, gurgling and rattling like an old man in a rusted iron lung. Grace positioned the bucket and pushed the lever. After several minutes and an inordinate amount of raucous groaning, the bucket had collected exactly six milky ice cubes. Good enough. Gripping the bucket to her chest, Grace headed back along the walkway.
The sounds of splashing had ceased. The pool was closed, the mother victorious, the children