DEATHWISH

Chapter 9

19c -- 7:30 am -- March 6th -- 2235 -- Location: 7 miles past New Haven

Rain drummed steadily against the car windows, water beading and sliding down the glass in uneven trails as the vehicle bumped and jolted over potholes. Anya sat in the front passenger seat, her lap occupied by Tyson, who playfully sprawled on his back, batting at her flailing hands with wide, playful swipes. His mouth hung open, making strange guttural noises, like some demonic creature gargling swamp water in the dead of night.

In the backseat, Eloise sulked on the far left, stewing in her frustration after losing the front seat race. She distracted herself by silently counting the signs and distant buildings the car sped past, trying to ignore her growing anger. Grayson, meanwhile, sat on the far right, leaning into the door. He hadn't said a word since they got into the car, seemingly lost in his own world, earbuds jammed in, drowning out reality with song after song. His eyes were shut tight, almost as if he were asleep, but every now and then, his legs twitched or his fingers tapped a rhythm against his knee. Occasionally, he'd wipe at his face in a restless boredom, the faint sound of music leaking from his earbuds. How he hadn't gone deaf, Eloise couldn't understand.

Jalen, the only one with a valid driver's license, sat behind the wheel. Both Anya and Eloise could technically drive, but with their licenses being more than 200 years expired, they weren't exactly thrilled about taking the reins.

The car was Jalen's—a second-hand Virodyn Spectra he'd bought a few years back after hacking into a corporate account and skimming just enough to splurge on himself and his family. It was flashy, too noticeable for his usual low-profile existence, so he kept it stashed away in a rented garage, more terrified of it being stolen than proud of owning it.

The car was packed to the brim. The trunk and front boot were crammed with Jalen's personal belongings for the trip, a single bag of Grayson's, and, much to his annoyance, a cat litter tray wedged in for Tyson.

Jalen could admit to himself that this whole situation felt insane. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like an endless series of errors and glitches. Taking a job from a member of the Serrano family was a death wish on its own, let alone planning to kill not one, but two of them. He hated it. He had gone to Grayson's apartment to warn him, even after quitting—or, more accurately, being fired from his position with Grayson. But when he heard that a group of dangerous people, including Cassandra Serrano herself, were looking for Grayson, he couldn't just sit back and do nothing. He had expected trouble—just not this level of madness.

Eloise herself was far from calm as well. Anger simmered beneath the surface. That moment Cassandra left she might have tried to slap Grayson a few more times—maybe harder than before. He had ruined her life. Killed her country's prince. Destroyed her business. And after a failed attempt at ending her misery, he had dragged her through time, leaving her with no chance of going back, to live HER life. No chance of seeing her parents or siblings again—though, admittedly, she didn't mind missing out on her siblings.

And now, Grayson was dragging her into something worse, expecting her to help with the attempted murder of two people. Her mind replaying that moment she slapped him across the face, she imagined her hands itching for a weapon, tempted to grab his gun and shoot him herself, or perhaps reach for one of the kitchen knives that weren't duller than his wit and plunge it into him. Yet even in her imagination Grayson's infuriating laugh echoed in her mind. He always seemed to move just enough to avoid her grasping hands and fists, his smug face daring her to strike again.

21c -- 11:13 am --

They drove for hours, the morning rain eventually giving way to a bright, glaring sun. They could've kept going, driven well into the night, but Grayson—finally breaking his silence—insisted they stop at the next rest point or motel to charge his earbuds. He seemed like an addict in desperate need of a fix, growing twitchy the moment the music stopped, forced to endure what he called "mindless noise and blaring voices that couldn't hold a note if they were in school learning history."