Free Blood Promise by Richelle Mead

Strigoi. Yet . . . at the same time, it was exactly because of memories like that that I had to destroy him. I needed to remember him as the man who’d loved me and held me in bed. I needed to remember that that man would not want to stay a monster.
     
    I wasn’t very excited when Sydney showed me the car she’d bought, particularly since I’d given her the money for it.
    “We’re going in that?” I exclaimed. “Can it even make it that far?” The trip was apparently seven hours.
    She gave me a shocked look. “Are you serious? Do you know what this is? It’s a 1972 Citroën. These things are amazing. Do you have any idea how hard it would have been to get this into the country back in the Soviet days? I can’t believe that guy actually sold it. He’s clueless.”
    I knew little about the Soviet era and even less about classic cars, but Sydney stroked the shiny red hood like she was in love. Who would have guessed? She was a car geek. Maybe it was valuable, and I just couldn’t appreciate it. I was more into sleek, brand-new sports cars. To be fair, this car didn’t have any dents or rust, and aside from an outdated look, it appeared clean and well cared for.
    “Will it run?” I asked.
    If possible, her expression grew even more incredulous. “Of course!”
    And it did. The engine sprang to life with a steady hum, and with the way it accelerated, I started to understand her fascination. She wanted to drive, and I was about to argue that it had been my money that bought it. Seeing the adoring look on her face, though, I finally decided not to come between her and the car.
    I was just glad we were leaving right away. It was already late afternoon. If the road was as dangerous as everyone claimed, we wouldn’t want to be out there while it was dark. Sydney agreed but said we could get most of the trip in before sundown and then stay overnight at a place she knew. We’d arrive at our destination in the morning.
    The farther we drove from Omsk, the more remote the terrain became. As I studied it, I began to understand Dimitri’s love of this land. It had a scrubby, barren look, true, but spring was turning the plains green, and there was something haunt ingly beautiful about seeing all this untouched wilderness. It reminded me of Montana in some ways yet had a certain quality that was all its own.
    I couldn’t help but use Sydney’s crush on the car as a means of conversation. “Do you know a lot about cars?” I asked.
    “Some,” she said. “My dad’s the Alchemist in our family, but my mom’s a mechanic.”
    “Really?” I asked, surprised. “That’s kind of . . . unusual.” Of course, I was hardly one to talk about gender roles. Considering my life was dedicated to fighting and killing, I couldn’t really claim to have a traditionally feminine job either.
    “She’s really good and taught me a lot. I wouldn’t have minded doing that for a living. Wouldn’t have minded going to college, either.” There was a bitter note in her voice. “I guess there are a lot of other things I wish I could do.”
    “Why can’t you?”
    “I had to be the next family Alchemist. My sister . . . well, she’s older, and usually it’s the oldest kid who has to do the job. But, she’s kind of . . . worthless.”
    “That’s harsh.”
    “Yeah, maybe. But she just couldn’t handle this kind of thing. When it comes to organizing her lip gloss collection, she’s unstoppable. But managing the kinds of networks and people we do? No, she’d never be able to do it. Dad said I was the only one capable of it.”
    “That’s a compliment, at least.”
    “I guess.”
    Sydney looked so sad now that I felt bad for bringing it up. “If you could go to college, what would you study?”
    “Greek and Roman architecture.”
    I decided then it was a good thing I wasn’t behind the wheel, because I probably would have driven off the road. “Seriously?”
    “You know anything about it?”
    “Um, no.”
    “It’s