Free Roadkill by Rob Thurman Page A

big brown and maroon monstrosity was slightly better than his last car, which had bit the dust six months ago.
    I was still surprised my brother let me drive his latest shitmobile. This one was a Cadillac Eldorado convertible back from the days when they were apparently made to double as tanks in case war broke out on the Jersey turnpike. He was possessive of each and every one of his massive, beat-up babies, although he’d yet to clue me in on why he kept his weapons, his clothes, his routine, his bedroom, his life immaculate, but the cars—they were the opposite. When I asked, he always said with a faint trace of condescension, “One day you’ll understand, Grasshopper.”
    There were many one day s. I just chalked up the car one with the others and was grateful I actually made it in the big-boy seat. Granted, my window didn’t roll down and the air conditioner . . . There was no air conditioner. I sat and sweltered in the heat, which had climbed since morning. “Jesus”—I mopped sweat from my face—“let me break the window. Come on, Nik, I’m begging you.”
    “And won’t that be refreshing when January arrives?” He gave the rearview mirror an annoyed look at the bright red cubes that swung back and forth as I swatted them his way. “And what did I tell you about the fuzzy dice?”
    “Hey, they’re from Goodfellow. You’ll take it up with him. Besides, if you drive a car that looks like fuzzy dice were in the option package, you’re going to get fuzzy dice.” I slammed the heel of my hand against the radio to shut it off. It stayed on. It always did. “Who the hell is Air Supply and why do they hate me so much?”
    “Did you tell him what you learned from the revenant? And it’s a band from the seventies.”
    Music before we were born and an evil that made revenants look like fuzzy puppies fighting over a chew toy. “How do you know that? You couldn’t possibly listen to that crap.”
    “Because I know everything,” he said as if it were the most simple of conclusions. And with Niko, yeah, it was. “And Robin?” he said, pushing.
    “I told him. Better safe than sorry when dealing with the Kin.” I trusted Robin with my life and he’d come through every time. That kind of trust was a huge step for me, and Goodfellow had never made me doubt he deserved it . . . at least not since the first time he’d saved Nik and me. Trust didn’t have anything to do with why I almost hadn’t told him, changing my mind only at the last minute. The reason was simple enough: I just hadn’t wanted to talk about it. I had thinking to do. I also didn’t want to do that. Not yet. My Zen, one-with-the-universe, happy-frigging-lucky mood had disappeared in that hangar—no getting it back, but it didn’t mean I wanted to dwell on it.
    It was hard to lose something that was almost impossible to find to begin with.
    But I had told him all the same. The revenant had said the Kin had found out about Delilah and me, all of the Kin—not just her former screw du jour that I’d neutered in the park. “I didn’t have to tell you though, did I?” I asked Nik.
    And I hadn’t. I’d walked into the apartment and he’d seen it, what I’d learned, behind my blank eyes and blanker face. He’d known, because he could read me like a book. He had asked what the revenant had said the Kin were going to do about it, though. But, that, the revenant hadn’t known. It was easy enough to guess. They’d either kill Delilah or give Delilah the opportunity to redeem herself by killing me. Simple. To the point. The Kin weren’t much on Machiavellian-style schemes. Hump it, eat it, or kill it—that was good enough for them.
    Niko didn’t dwell on it after the short discussion, which was what I needed. He let me drive the car too, which I’d thought I’d needed, but now I was wishing for his side with the window that worked. Cooking in a sauna was a distraction, but not the most entertaining one. I’d switched to short