southbound by car.

wolfman

Wolf and the girl, southbound by car. Tires on asphalt rolling on and on. Past Colorado Springs, past Pueblo, past Santa Fe, past Albuquerque. Deep in the night now, and passing through Las Cruces: last city before Texas, El Paso, and the international border. City of dry flatlands in the shadow of mountains so barren and stark they look extraterrestrial; like something carved from the waterless landscape of Mars.

Started because a week's freeze set its teeth into Denver. Started because wolf was pent up because of the cold, emerging only now and then to hunt, to do violence, to shed blood. Disappeared for couple days round the time of the full. Came back quiet and sullen, kept to himself a lot. Sometimes watched a movie with her, or ate with her. Mostly stayed clear.

Then the moon waned. Cold didn't let up. Then wolf said over a rack of ribs one night:

You wanna go someplace warm?

And so they did.

--

Her stuff in the trunk. Probably a haphazard bag of haphazard clothing. Wolf can't complain. He's got the same. Duffle bag, very old. Clothing, random blue jeans and the like. That battered jacket of his. Nothing to befit his new station or wealth, except that van-der-Valk signet ring on his fifth finger. Hand draped over the wheel now. Waning moon catching on the deep-hued gem.

Wolf yawns as city lights rise out of the dark. Drive long enough through a desert and even a little town like Las Cruces feels like civilization.

"Wanna stop here tonight, or go to Mexico?"

witch

No job yet. No one waiting for her. Nothing to keep her.

He was stalking through the house and she was sitting on the floor by the coffee table, reading cards, a candle burning, laying them out flat one by one as casually as though playing solitaire and yet with the intense focus of someone playing solitaire.

She looked up and he was on his way out, grabbing a jacket he would not need, coming back with blood on his jaw. She was watching, and this time did not leap on him, hug him, kiss him.

--

Came back some other night and she was watching a movie. He laid himself out beside her, wrapped both arms around her, pulled her close, pressed his face against the back of her neck, and she looked at the dark window, with snow starting to come down some Saturday night after a couple of brilliant, teasingly sunny days.

He asked her, eating dinner the next night, if she want to go somewhere warm.

She remembered the card she'd drawn as he left:

The Sun.

--

Devon is wearing a tank top in the car. It's black. She took off her bra hours ago. She's wearing those bright blue jeans. Her sunglasses sit on top of the dash as she dozes, stares out the window, says nothing at all, listens to music.

Asks if she wants to stop. Looks at him. "Mexico," she says. "Like me to drive?"

wolfman

Wolf glances at her sidelong, quick flick of his eyes. "Nah. I'm not tired."

Couple beats of pause. Something's playing on the speakers. Radio, fuzzing into clarity as they reach the city. They've been listening to stations as they drive. Picking one up and holding it until they get too far away; going on to the next. Five, six, ten radio stations by now.

"Unless you wanna drive?"

witch

Shrug of one shoulder. "Don't much care," she says.

There's time, then. Static and music at once. Silence. The hum of the road beneath the tires.

"Where in Mexico?"

wolfman

"Don't much care," wolf echoes. Maybe doesn't even intend to. Notices, though; brings a rueful little smile to his face. "Guess we just keep driving 'til we're tired. Or see something we like. Maybe drive all the way down to Brazil. You speak the language, don't you?"

witch

"Sim, gato," she says. "Eu vou dizer as prostitutas: que se eles sequer olhar para você..."

Devon smirks. "Vou assar seus globos oculares."

She sits up, sliding around on the leather seat. Leans over, and kisses his cheek, her breasts heavy against his arm. "Eu decidi que você é meu," she murmurs, close to his scratchy-ish skin. Licks the spot where her breath it, snaps her teeth at it without biting him, and goes back to her side of the car.

"Never been to Brazil, though," she says.

wolfman

Wolf's scratchy-skinned again, all right. Seems like unless there's some sort of Event, some charity ball or auction or party or gala or something, wolf just doesn't bother to shave. Gets scratchy, gets stubbly, gets to the verge of a full-blown beard and then something rolls around and suddenly there's a hired professional up in his room, plastic sheeting on the ground, shears and razors and dark hair in a messy halo on the floor.

Wolf squinches up the half his face she's kissing, nuzzling, snapping her teeth at. Grunts something as he's crowded, though it's not a complaining sort of grunt. Girl settles back in her seat, seatbelt whirring back into the spool.

"Can't speak Portuguese," he reminds her. "Never been to Brazil either. Maybe we oughta go. Sell the car for plane tickets when we wanna come back."

witch

He has tits against his body and her hot mouth near his skin. He squinches up and gets crowded but she doesn't think he minds. Not really. She flops back again. Smirks a bit, with a knowing flick of her brows, as he reminds her that he has no earthly clue what she just said.

"Mum will want me to visit family." No word about selling the car; why would she have attachment to it? Why would she care, what he does with his assets?

wolfman

Girl flops back. Wolf lets her. Car rolls on. Town's so small they're through it in a matter of minutes. Couple gas stations, a motel, a McDonald's, a NMSU campus dominating the south end. Then lights are fading behind them; they're driving toward the distant glow of El Paso, the border. Wolf reaches over across the divide and hooks his big hand under her knee; pulls her legs over the center divide one by one. Lays her calves over his lap, toes against the door.

So maybe she's right. Maybe he doesn't mind her crowding him.

"She gonna want me to visit them too?" -- as though that'll be the deciding factor.

witch

He pulls her around. She's bewildered at first, then annoyed, then bored. Wriggles around, squishing her pillow behind her back and adjusting her seatbelt straps as she leans against the door, lays her legs over his dumb lap. Scoffs at him aloud, but doesn't openly call him the weirdo she thinks he is.

"Before she's met you?" Devon says. Then scoffs again, with a tremor of genuine are you fucking kidding, she'd kill me in it.

wolfman

Wolf scoffs back: "She'd hate me, I bet."

witch

"She wouldn't," Devon says, quite certain. Quiet, though, mellow.

wolfman

"Yeah? Not even if you called her pissed off about something I did?"

witch

Devon shrugs. "Mum cares about me," she says, emphasis on the last word. "Less about you. Cares if I'm happy."

wolfman

Wolf makes some quiet sound. Half scoff, half laugh. One wrist over the wheel. Other hand over her shin, palm and fingers curved over.

"I care too." Doesn't look at her, saying it. Barely even says it. Mutters it. Moment later takes a breath, takes his hand off her leg and reaches into the back, groping around for a bottle of water or soda or something.

witch

Rafael has no idea what she said earlier. That she'll put people's eyeballs on a spit and roast them over open flame and god willing, hex the shit out of people if they so much as look at him with invitation. But that part didn't matter so much as the other part. What she's decided.

Of course she said it in another language. Of course she can't just say it. Of course he mutters it, and then reaches back somewhere.

Of course she doesn't offer to help him with anything. She has her shoes off, socks on. Black ones, glittery. She rubs her foot gently against one of his thighs, more familiar than lustful. Head cradled by pillow, watches him as he drives.

"Know you do," she murmurs, after he finds whatever he's looking for. Or doesn't. Or just: after a few moments.

wolfman

Whatever wolf was originally looking for, he ends up pulling a six-pack of coke into the front seat. Well; four out of six. Breaks one off and holds the rest out to girl in case she wants one. Drops the heap into the back again when he's done.

Pop-hiss in the humming darkness. City of Crosses far behind them now. El Paso, the Rio Grande, and Ciudad Juarez ahead. Girl tells him she already knew, which makes him feel at once exposed and comforted. At least he wasn't baring anything she hadn't already seen. But then: she sees so much.

Wolf drinks in silence. Slips the can into an empty cup holder, straightens slowly and stretchingly in the seat. Settles back, adjusts the angle a bit. Sets cruise control just a little lower, now that it's late.

"Well if we end up in Brazil, you can go visit your family. I'll go hunting or something so your mom doesn't freak out. Who's down there for you, anyway?"

witch

Doesn't want one. She listens to him. Smirks a little, to herself.

"Who knows. Mum's family. I'll tell her I'm there. She'll tell me then."

wolfman

"Heh. All right."

Lapses into silence for a few miles. Roads well-paved here, not too noisy under the wheels. Wolf yawns once, ending it with a gulp of coke.

"Do you wanna go?" he asks, a little suddenly. "Because I think we're gonna need visas or something to get in."

witch

They drive. Well: he drives, and she drowses, her legs over his lap, her eyes closing. He gulps soda. His question makes her open an eye.

"So get us visas," she says mildly, and closes that eye again. "Meantime we'll find some beach. Lay out in the sun a while."

Opens her eyes, both of them this time, gleaming in the shadows. "If you change course, we can go along the coast."

wolfman

Wolf laughs under his breath. "Yeah, let me just wave my magic wand," he says, wry,

and also ironic, because: she's the witch.

Shifts, pulls his phone out. Hands it to her. "GPS me a road to the coast," he says. "Did you even bring a swimsuit?"

--

Doesn't matter, really. Girl'd probably swim naked if it suited her. Skyclad. That's what they call it.

--

Girl finds him a route to the coast. Wolf takes it. They reach the border in the dead of night. Even the northbound side is quiet; southbound side is deserted. They're the only car around when they streak across that invisible line between countries, nations, peoples, but right on the other side is one of Mexico's largest cities.

Not nice cities, Juarez and El Paso. Siamese twins linked by drug trade. Crime's high. Wolf keeps his window rolled up. Would smell wyrm if he lowered it. Would smell prey, and he's not here to hunt.

South through Juarez, then. South through the state of Chihuahua. City of Chihuahua, where they finally think to stop and find a bank. Take out money in the form of pesos. Past, southward, through a string of towns each tinier than the last. Different world out here. Not the crowded tourist Mexico of Tijuana, not the megapolis of Mexico City. Not the world-renowned beaches of Cancun, either. Rural, underdeveloped, poor, agrarian -- with surprising pockets of wealth here and there.

Closer to dawn than midnight when wolf pulls off the highway. Little roadside motel. Ten rooms at best. Two-story structure on a dirt lot. Wolf doesn't speak Spanish and maybe girl doesn't either, but they have money and they're tired travellers. They get a room. Key's still a key, metal on a keychain. Room's small and the window-mounted HVAC is loud. Bed is squeaky. Shower is standing-room-only. Wolf brushes his teeth and takes a shower, peels off his clothes, takes up the majority of the bed when he flops down. Moves aside only when the girl squeezes in; makes room for her.

Wolf sets the alarm for ten minutes before checkout time. Sleeps.

witch

"Best kind of magic wand in the world is a leather rectangle, filled with little slivers of plastic," she mutters, leaning back, sighing: "Green, gold, platinum," yawning: "Black."

He hands her his phone. Puts it on her belly. She wrinkles her nose. Taps something on the screen, half-blind. Talks to the phone instead of looking at it, peers through slitted eyes to find the route. Hands it back to him and slides her legs off his lap and curls up, more comfortably, snuggling her pillow.

While he drives her through the border. Through cities smelling of the Wyrm. Through places he would like to crawl out into and savage, if he could. But she's there, and he's not here to hunt. She dozes, lazily. Stirs when he draws up to a bank. She smirks as he trades money. She wears sunglasses, refuses to put a bra back on. They head for the coast.

Devon wakes up a bit. She drinks from tiny bottles snagged at some store. She takes off her pants and sits around the car in leopard-print panties and that tank top, turning up the music. He tells her, eventually, that he's tired. She asks him if he wants to pull over. Or her to drive.

Asks, too, thoughtfully:

get a room?

And damned if it doesn't sound like she's offering something when she says that, but she isn't.

--

Puts her pants back on, and a bra. They drag their little bags inside and get that motel room. She takes a piss and brushes her teeth. Says she'll shower in the morning. So she's in bed when he gets out of that shower. She's lying there, naked but for those leopard-print panties with their hot-pink trim and the little bow on the front. She has her own alarm on her own phone. She rolls a bit, not much, when he flops down. Comes back to him, both of them making the mattress squeak.

She feels fucking wet, briefly, to feel him getting in bed with her. Stuff like that. Still gets her. Still makes her want him. Doesn't reach for his cock, though. Doesn't open her mouth gaspingly, sweetly to his. Just flops her arm over his chest, sighing somewhat, and snuggles up.

Her alarm goes off thirty minutes before checkout.

--

A shower for her. No makeup; twists her hair up in a bun. Drinks shitty coffee and wears her Sid and Nancy shirt with the same bright blue jeans from yesterday, the same sneakers, different panties and bra and socks, same big sunglasses on her face. Says, on their way out, that she'll drive for now. Tells him to keep an eye out for breakfast.

wolfman

Morning and the wolf sleeps while girl showers, dresses, doesn't put on makeup and puts on sunglasses instead. Wolf gets up, yawning and scratching an ass-cheek, while girl says she'll drive and oh keep an eye out for breakfast. Wolf throws on last night's jeans, tucks corner of last night's shirt into his back pocket and leaves the rest flapping against the back of his knee. Pulls his jacket on over bare skin and yawns his way out to the car, where he digs a fresh shirt out of his bag and pulls it on in the dirt parking lot while innkeeper's teenager daughter gawks from a window.

Wolf finds sunglasses somewhere too. By morning they can see the land they've travelled through. Not unlike New Mexico, in many ways: dry and steep, the great desert mountains down the spine of the western landmass -- distant cousins of those mountains that loom over Denver. Farther south, these mountains plateau into the high center of Mexico. To either side, lusher, greener valleys before the sea.

Cold here still. Colder than New Mexico even. But so sunny and bright, so brilliant that the two of them wear sunglasses, wear t-shirts, turn on the heat and roll up the windows as they turn east.

Breakfast at some roadside diner. No such thing as a breakfast burrito here. Wolf broods over the hot entrees under the heat lamps, ends up getting some spicy, meaty stew; rice and beans and corn on the side. Girl gets what she gets. They share a pitcher of watermelon juice, pay with money that takes them time to recognize and count out. Back on the road after that. Into Durango, and then Nuevo Leon; through Monterrey. They've been in Mexico for the better part of a day, and yet here the northern border is again close; a hundred miles or less. As though fleeing Texas, America, home, they turn south. Ride the eastern edge of those mountains south, along the flat coastal plain, closer and closer to an ocean they can almost taste in the air.

Warm now. Humid, subtropical-approaching-tropical. Heavy grey clouds over a warm ocean, as though to remind that the hurricane season is only just over. Late night when they finally reach the coast. See the ocean as a black expanse interrupted by lines of grey foam. Follow the shoreline, through tiny fishing villages living a century in the past, past little tourist dives no one outside of a hundred mile radius even knows about. This time the wolf drives all night. Says he slept plenty in the afternoon, which he said. Says he's not tired.

Dawn's starting to brighten the eastern ocean when the car stops. Tiny little sunbaked town called Tamiahua. Flat-roofed houses, most just a single story, painted in shades of pastel that would be absurd anywhere else. Surrounded by estuaries and lagoons, barrier islands before the Gulf. Locals just starting to wake up when the two of them start asking around for lodging. Someplace they can rent for a few days, maybe a week. Someplace they can see the sea.

Takes a while but they work it out. Money changes hands and they're directed east again. A tiny ferry takes them across an estuary. They drive down a singular dirt road lined by straggly, windcarved salt-air pines. Clouds are gone by then. Sun has risen. Day is bright.

Small cluster of pastel-hued cabins at the end of the road. Straw hut with a barbecue grill under it too. Ocean a stone's throw away, limitless, aquamarine blue. Sand as white as the foam.

wolfman

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