Lackey, Mercedes - Elves on the Road 02 - Diana Tregarde 03 - Jinx High

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Jinx High by Mercedes Lackey

CHAPTER ONE

Buffie Gentry pounded the steering wheel of her brand-new Kiata, and

cursed—though what she really felt like doing was crying her eyes out

like a little kid. It couldn't have stalled. Daddy had just picked it up

today. There was nothing wrong with anything, it had a full tank of

gas—

But it had died way out here on 101st, and now it wasn't responding at

all.

And this was a spooky place to get stranded past midnight. You might

as well be in West Texas instead of less than twenty miles from

downtown Tulsa. There wasn't anything out here but cows and

cicadas, mysterious shadows, and an awful lot of dark.

Visions of the Rainy-day Rapist and the Southside Strangler kept

popping into her head, making her look over her shoulder as she tried

to get the damn car started one more time.

No luck. And now the tears did come; she sobbed in what she told

herself was frustration but felt more like fear. God, this is like the

classic slasher-movie setup, girl stuck out on a deserted road at three

a. m. —next thing I'll see is a guy in a hockey mask—

She shivered and told herself not to be stupid. There was a gas station

not a half mile behind her—it was closed, but there was a phone there.

She could call the auto club. That was why Daddy had a gold card with

them.

Resolutely—though it took every bit of courage she had—she left the

protection of the car and started the long trudge back toward the

Kerr/McGee station. But she kept seeing things out of the corner of

her eye, things that vanished when she looked straight at them, and

before long she wasn't walking, she was running.

She'd never been so grateful to see a gas station in her life.

She fumbled the last quarter out of her purse—this was one of those

phones where you couldn't use a charge card, and you had to put a

quarter into it even to call 911. She was just glad she hadn't dumped

all her change, back at the mall, when Fay Harper had sneered at her

for putting cash in the liver-transplant box. Fay had made her so

damn mad—just because she'd beaten the senior out on the Teenage

America finals, that was no reason for Fay to imply she'd gotten that

far by sleeping with one of the judges—

Well, neither of them made it to the regionals, so there.

Buffie just wished Fay hadn't said what she did, when Buffie had

retorted with the truth nobody ever said out loud.

"You should know, Fay Harper. You get everything you want by

sleeping around and passing out nose candy.”

And Fay had said something horrible, whispered it in Buffy's ear. So

horrible Buffy couldn't remember exactly what it was— just some kind

of threat.

Or promise. Because it had ended with—"And when you see what's

coming for you, remember I sent it."

Buffy shoved her coin into the slot with hands that shook so hard she

could hardly dial the number, and prayed for a quick answer.

—

"God damn it." Sharon LeeMar looked at the phone resentfully. It

would ring, now, when she'd just gotten a new coat of polish on her

nails. It was probably nothing; some drunk, like last night, wanting

the auto club to pull the car out of the ditch where he'd put it. Or some

stupid kid who'd missed her ride home from some rich-bitch party,

and wanted them to provide her with one.

Well, there was a way around that. It wasn't like she hadn't done it

before. She hit the button with her elbow. "Big A Auto Club," she said.

"Will you hold?"

And before the caller could say a word, she hit the hang-up button.

—

Buffy stared at the phone in gut-wrenching shock, unable to believe

she was hearing a dial tone. "No—" she whispered, a panic that she

knew was irrational starting to take over. "No, you can't—"

She scrabbled desperately in her purse, hoping for one more quarter.

Nothing. With a sob, she upended the whole thing on the pavement,

pawing through a tangled mess of makeup, jewellery, credit cards,

and odd bits of paper, praying for a quarter, a dime, anything—

Then she heard the sound; a kind of growl. And looked up.

And the scream died in her throat before she could utter it.

—

"What?"

Derek Kestrel half closed his lids against the wind that was drying his

eyes, and gathered breath for another bellow. "I said," Derek yelled,

trying to make himself audible over the bellow of the Trans Am's

engine and the painfully howling guitars of Motley Crew, "I can't hear

you!"

Fay Harper shook her head, her blond shag whipping wildly about her

cheekbones. Her hair looked like spun frost under the fluorescent

street lamps, her pale skin glowed in the moonlight, and her eyes were

turned to crimson embers by the reflections from the panel lights. "I

can't hear you!" she screamed back, turning the volume up another

notch until the Trans Am's floor panels shook from the bass.

Derek sighed and gave up, leaning back into the padded headrest of

his seat. It was custom-leather upholstered, of course, in deep

burgundy to match the rest of the car; Fay Harper was never seen in

less than the very best. Nothing was going to compete with those

speakers. Nothing natural, anyway. A B-52 at full throttle, maybe.

Hanging out with Fay was hazardous to the eardrums. He wished now

he'd brought earplugs or something. First had been the concert,

front-row seats, now it was Fay's ass-kicking stereo; he was going to

be deaf before the night was over.

Then again, hanging out with Fay Harper was hazardous to a lot more

than the eardrums.

The Trans Am tore down Memorial, Fay daring anything to pull into

her path. Derek squinted against the headlights of the oncoming cars,

assessed his blood-alcohol level by how fuzzy they looked, and came

up with an answer the Parental Unit wouldn't like. It was a good thing

his dad couldn't see him now. Hell, it was a good thing his dad hadn't

seen the concert! While Derek hadn't shared anything but the bottle

Fay had brought, grass had been the mildest of the recreational

Pharmaceuticals making the rounds tonight. Funny. Dad may have

been a wild-eyed hippie back when he was Derek's age, but he didn't

know the half of what went on these days. Derek said the word

"concert,” and he could almost see nostalgic visions of Woodstock

drifting through his dad's mind in a sunshine-golden, artistically

backlit haze. The Summer of Love. Peace, pop. Like, it's a happening.

Oh, wow.

He laughed out loud, and Fay gave him a funny look, then cranked the

stereo up the last notch. His whole body throbbed and vibrated with

the song. He could feel the amplifier overheating—

Or maybe the heat he felt was the effect of her hand sliding up his leg.

There was a drunken howl from the back seat, and Sandy Foster,

football bohunk extraordinaire, leaned forward and handed them both

cold beers, after throwing his own empty through the open T-top.

"Kick ass, Fay!" he shouted, as Fay gave him a smile that dazzled in

the hellfire glow from the instrument panel, and a long, wet kiss in

exchange for the beer. She never once took her foot off the gas, but she

never swerved, and she hadn't missed a light yet.

There was a flash of headlights in the left lane as a couple of

hopped-up metal-heads in a chop-top Cougar pulled alongside. The

driver shouted something, lost in the howl of engines and the screech

of feedback. Fay tossed back her head in laughter, rapped on the horn

once, contemptuously. Then she gave them the finger, and blew the

doors off their pitiful poser-custom.

Derek wondered if his spine was going to have a close encounter with

the back seat. The speedometer was in three digits by the time his

stomach caught up with the rest of him.

Sandy howled again, and another bottle hit the pavement behind

them.

Derek looked back at the Cougar eating their dust. For a minute, the

guy on the passenger's side looked a little like his buddy Alan.

He bit his lip, and wondered what Alan was doing tonight—, then

looked at the bottle in his hand. His conscience awoke, and sanity

reared its cold, ugly head.

What in the hell am I doing here? How did I ever get mixed up with

Fay's crowd?

Sandy was screaming along with the Cr; the simpleminded lyrics of

any popular song were all he needed to cover his questions.

Yeah, but Sandy's got three answers to deal with everything he runs

up against—drink it, screw it, or tackle it. Every Bud's for him.

Jillian Mc lver, Fay's best friend, was nuzzling Sandy's neck like a

toothless vampire. The rest of them pretty much match Sandy. Jill's

got no life outside the mall. Fay's got anything she wants. I'm the

oddball here. So what the hell do they want with me?

He glanced over at Fay; she smiled and licked her lips, and her hand

reached the Promised Land. Questions began to seem pretty

immaterial…

However, Fay's luck with the lights ran out at just that moment. She

pulled her hand away as the light changed from yellow to red. She

might have tried to run it—but there was a little something bearing

down on the intersection.

Derek wasn't so gone that he couldn't see the semi—and his reactions

weren't too blown to grab for the "aw-shit" bar on the door as Fay

cursed, locked all four wheels, and put the Trans Am into a sideways

drift, stopping just short of the intersection.

And as the front swung around, the headlights glared right into the

eyes of the metal-brains still trying to race them. They didn't see the

semi, or the red light—and if their music was as loud as Fay's, they

couldn't hear the air horn blasting at them, either. They headed

straight into the free-fire zone.

The Cougar flagged against the side of the semi's cab in a slow motion

shower of glass and plastic, fibreglass pelting down like

candy-apple-red hail—the impact inaudible over the hellish guitar.

Fay wasn't fazed in the least. She bared her teeth, mouthed

something, and down-shifted; gunned the car, and fled the scene in a

cloud of tire smoke.

Smiling.

Jill and Sandy were in a heap somewhere on the floorboard, mingling

with what was left of the cold case Fay had brought to finish off the

concert.

All that Derek could think of for the first, shell-shocked minutes,

was—Sandy's probably enjoying the hell out of himself.

Derek pried his fingers off the bar, one at a time. Fay's hands were on

the wheel and the shifter, giving him a moment of thought unclouded

by raging hormones.

He looked back at the wreck, and in a break between songs yelled,

"What about them? Aren't you gonna—"

"They weren't fast enough, " Fay shouted back, interrupting him.

"They got what they were asking for. They weren't good enough, and

they weren't fast enough.”

She gave him a long, sideways look, measuring him against some

unknown standard. Her eyes narrowed, and she licked her lips, the

barest hint of her tongue showing between them. "So how about it,

Derek? Are you fast enough?"

Shit. He looked back at the wreck; Fay shoved the stick up into fifth

and slid her hand over to his leg. Again.

Christ. She's crazy! I think that wreck made her horny! Or—

hornier— Derek suppressed a wince.

"Fay!"

Jillian Mclver had a voice like a ripsaw, but the harsh whine was

music to Derek's ears about now. Fay pulled her hand away. "What?"

she snarled over her shoulder. "What the hell were you doing?" Jill's

dishevelled head rose over the seat back, her dark curls falling over

one eye; her lower lip was swollen and cut a little, and she sucked at it

petulantly. Derek watched as Sandy's hand came up and made a grab

for her, and she elbowed him away. "I about broke my neck, Fay, " she

complained, raking her hair out of her eyes with talon like fingernails.

"An' I cut my lip. It's gonna be a mess for a week. What do you think

you're doing, anyway?"

My God. The guys in that Cougar could be dead, and all she's

worried about is her lip!

"Livin' life in the fast lane, girl, " Fay replied with poisonous

sweetness. " 'Smaller? Can't you take the pace?"

"But my lip—"

"Sandy'll kiss it, and make it all better, " Fay cooed. "Won't you,

honey?"

"You bet, " Sandy said thickly, from somewhere below the level of the

seat back, and Jill vanished in the direction of his voice with a muffled

yelp.

Derek hunched his shoulders and tried to become part of the

upholstery. Yeah. Life in the fast lane. And me a Yugo. Neep, neep.

Oh well; the wreck wasn't that bad. At least those guys walked away

from it.

Fay had just hit a bad stretch of road on the winding back way into

Jenks, and she needed to keep one hand on the shifter, one on the

wheel, and both eyes in front of her. Fay was a foot-lo-the-wall driver,

but she wasn't suicidal. Even this late at night, you never knew when

some drunk cowboy was going to pull out in front of you from one of

the kicker bars around here.

Trees and bushes blurred past, sparked with the occasional flickers of

fire that were animal eyes staring, mesmerized by their speeding

headlights. Derek blinked.

So Fay caused a bumper-bender. Big deal.

As he watched the shadows blur past, The memory slowly faded from

his mind. All he was thinking about was the speed, the night, and Fay.

Seems like there was something I should remember… Aw, hell.

Forget it. It's a damn good thing I'm not the one driving, he thought

muzzily. This road's right out of Grapes of Wrath. God only knows

why Fay's using it. Your county taxes at work. What was it Alan

said? The difference between Chicago and Tulsa County is that

Chicago politicians steal the money after the roadwork's paid for?

Yeah. Then Dad laughed and said that was why we live in Jenks.

Good ol' Jenks, Oklahoma. All the benefits of Tulsa, none of the

drawbacks.

Twenty years ago, Jenks had been Hicksville, and Tulsa wouldn't give

the residents of Jenks the time of day—now it was the bedroom

community that Tulsa would love to incorporate, and Jenks wasn't

having any part of the idea.

Now Jenks was the haven for some of the area's wealthiest

professionals—doctors, lawyers, top management—who didn't want to

give up their well-maintained roads or their autonomously funded

school district, thank you. Jenks money stayed in Jenks. Because of

that money, the Jenks schools were as good as the private academies

over in Tulsa, and a far cry from the Tulsa public school system. That

was a big selling point; yuppie parents believed in expensive

education. From computers in the classroom to Olympic pools, what

Jenks High didn't have wasn't worth having.

And a mere fifteen minutes up the interstate from your job. Shit, I

sound like a real-estate ad.

A yuppie paradise. Every acquisitive dream come true, and no slums

to mar the landscaping; no low-income housing, no porno rows, no

bag ladies, no "undesirables.”

It harbored those who lived a sheltered, pampered life. The kids who

went to Jenks were used to living their parents' fine life-style to the

hilt, used to the goodies that came without asking.

Like Fay, Sandy, Jill. More money than they knew what to do with,

and parents too busy clawing their way to the top to pay too much

attention to what their kids did with that money. They'd had expert

nannies as babies—the finest shrinks money could buy to get them

through their early teens—and once they reached sixteen or

seventeen, most Jenks parents figured their kids could take care of

themselves. Sort of the ultimate latchkey children. So long as they

didn't bring the law down on them, so long as they kept their grades

up and looked like they were straight, everything was cool.

Parents seemed to rely a lot on appearances in Jenks.

In Fay's case, there were no parents at all. Daddy was long gone to

wherever dead oilmen went; Mummy was sucking up tranks in the

loony bin at Vinita. All Fay had was some guy in a bank making

Mummy and Daddy's trust-fund dollars produce baby trust-fund

dollars, and a "guardian" who spent all her time watching the soaps,

making herself invisible whenever Fay wanted to party.

Derek felt more than a twinge of guilt about that. Dad knew Aunt

Emily existed—and assumed she was keeping an eye on the

proceedings every time Derek was over at Fay's. Tonight was no

exception; he'd said something about it being nice that this aunt didn't

mind hanging out with the kids.

When all the time Aunt Emily was not only letting them do damn near

anything they pleased short of burning me place down, she was the

one who'd bought the booze.

It's a good thing Mom's in Japan. She's got radar, I swear she does,

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ScannedandinitiallyproofedbyunknownpersonConvertedtohtml,reproofandreformattedbyHighroller.JinxHighbyMercedesLackeyCHAPTERONEBuffieGentrypoundedthesteeringwheelofherbrand-newKiata,andcursed—thoughwhatshereallyfeltlikedoingwascryinghereyesoutlikealittlekid.Itcouldn'thavestalled.Daddyhadjustpickeditup...

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Lackey, Mercedes - Elves on the Road 02 - Diana Tregarde 03 - Jinx High

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