The Search for Juno

Chapter XVI

The first thing Clio said when Hermes drove up in a new car (this one thankfully an SUV and not a souped-up sports car, and bought with more enchanted wood chips, nonetheless) the next morning was, "I'll drive."

"No," said Angie, automatically. They were standing on the old woman's front porch, the sun already glaring despite the early hour, watching as Hermes hopped from the driver's seat and walked around the vehicle's other side. "You've lived in a forest your entire life. You really think I'm going to trust you behind the wheel of a motorized vehicle?"

"Oh, come on, Angie," Hermes started, one eyebrow raising over a dark pair of sunglasses. He leaned back against the car's passenger side, arms folded across his chest."That's sort of harsh."

"Not," Angie added, "that you are any better, considering what happened last time."

"That was your fault," Hermes fired back, pointing an accusing finger at her. "If you hadn't grabbed the wheel from me, we never would have ended up in that ditch in the first place."

"Oh, okay then, mister. So I was—what—just supposed to sit there and let us be trampled by a million angry boars? Yeah, okay, that just makes perfect sense, Hermes; you're so wise! Wonder why you're not the god of wisdom—"

Clio rested a hand on Angie's shoulder. She said mildly, "Angie, don't insult Athena."

Angie stopped, then nodded her head. "Oh, you're right. My apologies."

Hermes just stood gaping at them for a moment, then let out an exasperated breath and tore his hands through his hair. The dark strands now tousled and sticking up, he resembled something of a mad scientist, gold eyes wild with frustration. "I'm driving, no questions asked," he snapped, something in his voice uncharacteristically vitriolic. "So can we go, please?"

Angie had never seen Hermes so flustered; more often, she was the one to short-circuit first. She didn't know why, but watching the way his face got all splotchy was a bit gratifying. She turned a proud grin towards Clio, who returned it.

"Yes," Angie said, clearing the stoop in one leap. "Let us go."

The first leg of the trip they spent in near silence. For whatever reason, Hermes still seemed slightly bitter over Angie's earlier accusation, and Angie seemed to take Hermes's earlier brisk retort as justification for not apologizing. So they drove without speaking, the radio blaring between them, Clio lying on her back across the backseat and humming to herself.

Angie didn't care, really, if Hermes wanted to pout like a toddler. Sooner or later, they'd be in Portland, and sooner or later, all of this would be over, anyway. As soon as she got the gold she was going to pawn it off, make millions of dollars, move out of her awful apartment and quit her awful job and move somewhere fancy—Los Angeles, maybe, or perhaps even the East Coast somewhere. What Angie knew for sure was that she was getting the hell out of Phoenix.

She could picture it now: a big house all to herself, lots of broad windows and farm-style doors, a messy little kitchen for all her Pinterest fails and a sizable studio out back for all her metal masterpieces. She would be happy then, she thought. If only for a little while.

When they were about a hundred miles past the Nevada-Oregon border, Hermes pulled the SUV over at a dusty gas station and hopped out to fill the tank. Angie rolled the window down, tossing an arm out of it; the air was dry, stifling, smelling of gasoline and beer. It was the sort of gas station Angie could never imagine coming to alone: country music playing over the speakers, a mean look in the eye of the sixty-ish white man manning the counter. She was suddenly very conscious of her dark skin, of her curly hair that grew up instead of down.