by Ashia Monet
She Googles “road trip supplies” and amasses a list of materials. Using her father’s credit card and all of her cash, Blythe buys bags full of items: containers for food, first aid kids, bug and pepper spray, a sleeping bag, and more.
She drops the bags in the foyer and heads for the garage. Blythe doesn’t have a license, but her father’s been teaching her how to drive since she was fourteen. He had to—he never knew if the Erasers would show up when Blythe was alone with the twins. They always had to be prepared to run.
Their main car is still parked outside the café, but it isn’t suited for extensive driving. For long trips, the Fultons have their second car.
Blythe throws up the garage door to reveal Jamal’s old, musty minivan. He hates driving it because he thinks it’s ugly, so they only use it for emergencies or big trips. Ironically, this situation qualifies as both.
It’s a pastel yellow Volkswagen, a bloated round van that screams hippie 60’s road trip.
Blythe exhales. “Yeah,” she says to herself. “That’s ugly as shit.”
The inside is surprisingly nice; the rows of beige leather seats are spotless, with every wood surface on the armrests and the walls shined to gleaming perfection.
There’s enough space for Blythe to load up her supplies…right beside the Fourth of July firecrackers that linger from the last time the Fultons drove this thing.
And then, finally, everything is done. Blythe is ready.
Anxiety itches up her spine. Maybe she should take another day. Just to rest and think things over. She’s a sixteen-year-old magician whose powers haven’t bloomed yet, and she’s traveling—alone—into a war zone.
But if she doesn’t leave now, her fear will grow until it is too large for her to leave the house.
She just needs to bring one more thing.
Back in her room, in the top drawer of her desk, among the loose ribbons and washi tape, is a small photo album.
Blythe thumbs it open, finding a page covered in sparkling snowmen stickers.
Last Christmas, Amber wanted a family photo with everyone in silly, festive sweaters. Blythe is on the left, her curls a shorter version of the huge mane that now halos her head.
She beams at the camera, making bunny ears behind her dad’s smiling face. The twins show off their missing teeth on either side of Amber, who is the embodiment of elegance.
They are a family with caramel brown skin, dark curls, and smiles. They are normal. They are happy. They are perfect.
Blythe takes the photo and tucks it, carefully, in the front pocket of her backpack. Now it’s time to go.
Blythe’s first stop is the hospital.
She is directed to a room at the end of a hall, lit by grey, post-storm sunlight. Blythe knocks on the doorway as she creeps in.
Blythe’s never met Jamie’s mothers in person, but she has heard enough about them to tell who is who.
Both of them are white. Laura lingers by the window: tall with pin straight, white-blonde hair, looking every part of the FBI agent that she is.
By Jamie’s bedside is Kit, a redheaded artist with a checkered blouse and a pattern of freckles across her cheeks.
The two of them lock eyes with Blythe, but only Kit smiles. “Hello,” she says. “Are you Blythe?
“Yeah,” Blythe agrees, doing her best to sound polite. “I’m sorry to drop by unannounced. I just wanted to…see how Jamie was doing.”
Blythe has texted Jamie with updates on her life, but she’s more invested in the updates Jamie gives to her. Last Blythe heard, they’d had surgery for internal bleeding. They said everything went well, but anxiety still twists Blythe’s stomach.
Jamie lies beneath a thin sheet of blankets, cheek against an overstuffed pillow. Their purple hair has gone limp and stringy. Their face is pale.
The moment they catch sight of Blythe, they break into their charming smile. Suddenly, everything feels okay.
Kit twists in her seat, eyes sparkling as she drinks Blythe in. “Oh no, don’t worry about it, don’t apologize, you’re completely welcome! Jamie’s told us a lot about you; I love your hair, it’s just like Jamie described, so big!”
Blythe’s smile twitches. She didn’t know this visit would include a white woman commenting on her curl pattern like it’s an exotic animal—and not, you know, attached to her very normal, human head—but here she is.
Kit is oblivious, excitedly waving her over. “Pull up a chair, take a seat, we don’t bite!”
“I’d love to but sadly I can’t stay,” Blythe says. “I have to leave for a trip today with…” The words clog in her throat. “With my family. I just wanted to say goodbye.”
Jamie’s eyebrows arch. They may be in a hospital bed, but they’re still Jamie, and they’re still quick.
“Where to?” Asks Kit. “I heard—”
“Mom,” Jamie interrupts. “Can we have a minute? Please.”
Kit looks taken aback. Over by the window, Laura stands up straight.
“We’ll go grab something from the vending machines,” she says.
Laura locks eyes with Kit with a pointed head tilt, and Kit gives Blythe one last smile before she slips out of the room.
Laura pauses in front of Blythe. She towers over Blythe in her heels, the lapels of her black blazer ironed sharp enough to cut flesh.
“I always meant to thank you for getting Jamie a job,” Laura says. “Unfortunately, we never got the chance to talk.”
“Oh, we needed the help and Jamie was a great fit. It was no problem, really.” Blythe sounds almost like Kit now. Rambling.
There is something depthless about the intensity of Laura’s eyes. “You’re not in any trouble, are you?” she asks.
Of course she would question Blythe. Jamie probably hasn’t explained much. Laura and Kit are confused, terrified for their child and what secrets they could be hiding to protect their new job and their new friend.
And here is Blythe, the girl who dragged them into this whole situation and nearly got them killed.
Laura and Kit deserve the truth. But they can’t have it—not now, not ever. Because the truth is magic, and to reveal that would be to endanger the entire Monvarian family.
Here is a concerned mother trying to protect her child, and Blythe has to look her dead in the eyes and lie, because Laura is Common, and Blythe isn’t allowed to tell her a damn thing.
“We just had an accident at the café during the storm,” The lie squeezes thick out of Blythe’s throat. “I’m so sorry about this.”
Laura lets out a long, slow breath of defeat. Her voice is tight. “Well, I’m glad everyone’s safe now. Say hi to your parents for me. And don’t hesitate to come visit.”
So many emotions swirl in Blythe’s chest—pain from the mention of her family, gratitude from the invitation, guilt from every word she’s spoken during this conversation—but all that comes out is, “Thank you.”
Amber was right when she said the world of magic was endlessly heartbreaking.
As Laura leaves, Jamie’s gaze locks on Blythe. “I told them you were a bisexual photographer and now they’re obsessed with you.”
Blythe exhales, letting the tension leave her body in a swift breath. “I can tell. Besides the whole ‘wow, you’re Black, that’s so interesting’ thing, they seem…nice.”
Color rises in Jamie’s cheeks for the first time. “I-I’ll talk to them about that.”
Blythe shakes her head as if to shake the situation away. She takes Kit’s seat at Jamie’s side, and up close she can see how bright Jamie’s eyes are, even though their body slouches into the mattress.
“How’re you feeling?” Blythe asks.
“Better. The surgery went well,” Their hand drifts to their stomach. “I’ve got some pretty badass scars. I’m thinking I’ll tell people I was bitten by a shark. Y’know, something deadly, lots of teeth.”
Blythe barks a laugh. “Also something that’ll make you seem like a badass for escaping?”
Jamie beams. “You know I love a good story.”
They press their palms into the blankets to sit up, but shivers run up their arms.
Blythe reaches forward. “Do you need—”
Jamie interrupts her. “Nope, let me keep my dignity, I’m fine.” They manage to sit up on their own, with a tiny grunt of effort. “So…what’s the plan?”
“Get to Electric City, scope the place out, see what I can find, and leave with my family.”
She says the words with a stern determination, but Jamie’s gaze wavers on her and settles, finally, over her shoulder. “You got important stuff in that backpack?”
Blythe slides it off her shoulder and plops it on the bed so Jamie can rifle through it. “I’ve got more in the van. This is just survival supplies,” She explains. “Y’know, in case I get stranded somewhere.”
Jamie slowly pulls out a shampoo bottle. “…These are hair products.”
Blythe doesn’t blink. “If my curls fail, I fail.”
“You’re getting better at one-liners.”
“I learn from the best.”
Jamie gives a satisfied chuckle as they close the bag, letting Blythe hike it back onto her shoulders, but the uncertainty in their gaze hasn’t faded.
“I actually do have important stuff in the car,” Blythe promises. “I swear.”
“I know. You know what you’re doing,” Jamie says, but their face has gone hard and serious. “I would never say that you didn’t. I just…”
Their long fingers pick at a stray thread in the knitted blanket resting heavy across their legs. “While I’ve been here I’ve just…had a lot to think about. About you, and the war, and everything going on out there, and I…I came up with an idea. But I don’t know if you’ll like it.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Jamie doesn’t, not immediately. They watch the careful movements of their fingers as if the courage to speak lies within the yarn of the blanket.
When they do speak, their words are soft. “I think you should find the other Guardians and get their help.”
Out of all the things Blythe expected Jamie to say, that was certainly last on the list. Blythe doesn’t even know the Guardians. Why would she waste time trying to find them?
And why would they help her, how would she convince them? The whole idea is illogical, requires too much time, too many resources, and is just generally impossible.
But Blythe can’t say that. Not to Jamie’s face. Not after Jamie worked up the courage to even say those words. The whole reason they’re in this hospital is because they were selfless enough to try and save Blythe and her family. Blythe can’t be that ungrateful.
“I…I don’t think that would help, Jamie,” she says. “But I’ll—”
Jamie sits up straighter. “No, listen.” Their jaw is set. “I know you don’t believe me, but I’m pretty sure they could help you.”
“Jamie—”
They speak over her, the sharp gaze of their unblinking blue eyes spearing into hers. “You’re going to this city by yourself, in the middle of a magician war, to fight a guy who kicked our asses and put me in here. I don’t want you to get hurt. You’re gonna need someone to watch your back. And it can’t be me, so it needs to be somebody.”
They freeze as if their words are as much of a surprise to themselves as they are to Blythe.
So that’s what this is about. It has nothing to do with the Guardians, not really. They just want Blythe to be safe.
“I just…I just want you to consider it? Okay?” they ask. “I wanna know that someone’s looking out for you.”
“Okay,” Blythe relents. “I’ll think about it. I promise.”
And she will. For Jamie, this wonderful person who has risked their life for her and her family, who has been there for her even when she kept pushing them away. This person she definitely does not deserve.
Jamie reaches out and takes Blythe’s hand into theirs; their palms are soft, but their grip is strong.
“I don’t want to scare you,” they say. “You’re gonna find them either way. I just want you to be safe while you do it.”
But Blythe must be wearing her anxiety on her face because Jamie leans toward her.
“Hey,” they say. “Look at me. You got mind controlled into walking to the edge of your roof and you survived. A man broke into your café and attacked your whole family and you survived. Hell, you spent your whole life on the road, constantly moving, never staying anywhere long enough to call it home, and you still survived.”
They squeeze Blythe’s hand as if they could transfer their own will straight into her veins. “You come from an amazing family, Blythe. They’re strong. And so are you. They believe in you, and they know you haven’t given up on them, and they believe, with every fiber of their heart and being, that you’re coming to save them. You’re going get in that van and you’re going to drive. Drive until you find your family again. Drive until you that find fucker from the Trident Republic and give. Him. Hell.” Jamie’s eyes blaze. “Drive until you light Electric City the fuck up.”
Five
Blythe opens the GPS on her phone, props it on the dashboard, and revs the car engine. Washington to Nevada shouldn’t be a long journey.
She avoids highways because something about the nonstop adrenaline gives her heart attacks. But she has no problem challenging common speed limits while hour-long playlists blast musical numbers. The wind is playing through her hair and her hands are drumming against the steering wheel.
She stops only when the growling in her stomach becomes unbearable. Even then, she grabs lunch from a fast foot joint, eating in the parking lot with her feet crossed on the dashboard.
She is humming along to the radio as she races out of town and enters the depths of the forest. These roads aren’t unfamiliar; her family would to drive this way to go camping. But the GPS takes Blythe on a slightly different route, one surrounded by twisted trees against a horribly grey sky.
The farther she drives, the more she lowers the volume on the radio. The air is getting colder and her legs are starting to cramp. The GPS wavers as night falls; the blue dot that represents her wobbles all over the map.
Her headlights beam white cones of light onto the dirt road, as if they are the only light left in the world. Blythe’s supposed to continue straight for the next half mile, which would be fine if the tires weren’t catching.
“Please don’t get stuck,” Blythe whispers. “Please don’t get stuck, please don’t get stuck, please don’t—”
The van lurches and splashes into a patch of mud. The tires whirl. But they don’t push forward.
Blythe groans, letting her forehead drop against the wheel. She’s fucking stuck.
Her sneakers slosh in the mud when she jumps out, squatting down to find the tires downing in mud. The van is too heavy to push. She’ll have to get on her hands and knees to clear the sludge out.
“Unbelievable,” Blythe mutters.
She kneels, her weight sinking into a pool of freezing dirt. The muck is cold and wet in her hands as she claws through it. She did not imagine her first day going like this.
She’s mostly done digging when the hum of an approaching motorcycle reaches her. No, not one motorcycle. Several. And, somehow, they sound as if they are coming from the forest itself.
Blythe curses under her breath. These bikers could be harmless, but what kind of harmless bikers ride through the woods?
She brushes the mud from her clothes, scrambling back into the van to shut off her headlights. Hopefully, they won’t notice her.
In the rearview mirror, Blythe notices light echoing through the trees. The buzzing hive of engines grows into a thundering mass of growls—and a hoarde of motorcycles explode onto the dirt path.
“Shit!” One of the riders screams. “There’s mud everywhere!”
“Don’t be a baby, Twin,” says a man. “It ain’t gonna kill ya.”
They’re a group of eight men in black jackets on bla
ck motorcycles with black boots and black jeans. They can’t be older than twenty, but the youngest looks to be the aforementioned “Twin”: a skinny white boy with blonde hair slicked up straight.
“I have a name,” Twin snaps.
“Yeah, well, I can’t tell you apart well enough to care,” says an ambiguously tan young man with shaggy, honey brown hair. “So you’re both Twin.”
“Eh, Rocco, what about the shards?” another man asks.
“Shit man, I don’t fucking know,” the ambiguously tan one, Rocco, seems to be the leader. The others watch him as if his words have enough weight to sway their lives. But, despite the squint of his eyes and the hard set of his jaw, he can’t be much older than twenty.
“Whiteclaw’s gonna kill us,” Twin laments.
“Not if Whiteclaw doesn’t know,” Rocco counters.
“But we weren’t supposed to fucking drop it!” Twin yells. “Evangeline’s gonna kill us if we deliver it to her like this! They explicitly said they’re fucked without this thing and we dropped it like a hackey-sack—”
“Hey! Shut the fuck up!” Rocco barks. “What are you doing, providing exposition!? Do we look like we’re performing for a live studio audience or some shit? We were all there, we know what happened!”
Blythe chews the inside of her lip. Whoever Evangeline and Whiteclaw are, they’re probably dangerous people to screw over. And if this gang just messed up, the last thing they’ll want is a random teenage girl knowing they messed up.
Maybe if she stays very, very quiet, they will (somehow) fail to notice the huge yellow van stuck (less than a mile) down the road.
“Now just lay ‘em out flat,” Rocco barks. “If we put it back together it should work fine. Just make sure we got all the pieces, ‘cuz if we miss one, the whole thing’s fucking shot.”
He snatches a drawstring bag from his back and turns it upside down, dumping a pile of bronze shards onto the street. And then he picks one up.
The moment his fingers touch the shard, a sharp ringing hits Blythe’s head like a bullet. The nails-on-a-chalkboard shriek scratches through her brain.
