Wickerman Cove

Part 20: Box of Delights

They came within a hair of renting a car. Even Penny was worried about parking the hearse in a public lot after their encounter with the Church of the Eye, but finally it was decided for them: the only rental company in town needed a US address. Steph had her whole world's belongings in three large kit bags, and Penny's address was somewhere in England.

Besides, as conspicuous as it was, the modified hearse made short work of the country roads. They were nice to drive along in the daylight, and Steph's demons were starting to fade. Relative normality at the hotel, a little food, and a quiet drive had gone a long way to fending off the oncoming bleakness of her future. That was the other thing about the hearse: she loved driving it.

The only crimp was the weird itch at the back of her mind. One of the supposed benefits of being in a vehicle was having a more or less 360 degree view, but despite the fact that there seemed to be no-one else on the country road, she couldn't shake the feeling they were being watched.

"Penny?" Steph asked, checking the mirrors for the hundredth time. "This might sound a little crazy, but... can you look around and just make sure we're not being followed? I can't see anything, but I keep getting this feeling."

Penny signalled her agreement with a pat on the arm and got a makeup mirror out of the glovebox. She lounged in her seat and angled it this way and that as she made a show of checking her eyeliner and lips.

She also had to fend off Renard, who immediately decided that there was nothing more beautiful and fascinating than his own reflection.

Steph risked a sidelong glance as they came onto a long, straight stretch of road. Penny shook her head.

Nothing, Penny signed. I feel it too.

"I hope you're not just saying that to humour me," Steph said, getting punched in the thigh for her trouble. "Okay, okay, I believe you. Stay close to me when we get out of the car."

Penny fiddled with her phone. It spoke with a woman's voice – a stereotype of the upper class English, although the syntax was a mess.

"I HOPE the-gun WORKS this... time," the computerised voice said.

Steph laughed humourlessly. "If it doesn't, that'll be God's answer to the question of what I'm good for. Seriously, I checked it when I loaded the magazine. It's new from the store, just like the sheriff said. I serviced it and it's good to go."

"Good," the computerised voice said.

"That voice," Steph said, slowing for a sign half hidden by the trees. "That's really creepy. Let's only use it if we have to, okay?"

Penny's phone chirped as they reached the parking lot. They were far enough from civilisation that it felt unlikely the church weirdos would find them here. The lot was shielded from the road by a stand of trees, with an empty attendant's hut and a jar with a sign that said 'three hours equals three dollars.' Penny wrote their registration on a clipboard that had been drench and dried out so many times that any ink on it was but a memory.

"Okay," Steph said, unconvinced that she had the right shoes for an hour trek through the woods. "You ready for this? You might want to, I don't know, maybe change before we head into the forest?"

In answer, Penny lifted her skirts to reveal striped tights and a pair of incredibly practical black leather boots.

"Okay," Steph said, secure in the knowledge that her own fabric topped running shoes would be soaked within a minute. "I'm still concerned about the ten feet of lace you're wearing."

Penny shrugged cheerfully. It'll give me more of a Wuthering Heights look, she signed.

Steph led the way, the Sig's reassuring – and almost certainly functional – weight in the concealed holster under her arm. She had 24 rounds, and more experience than anyone in these woods except maybe Russian dude, and her weapon was more reliable. If he even still had one. The sheriff's pistol had vanished into the sea – a nobler burial than it deserved.