“I don’t think I can drive,” I say when we finally catch sight of Reese’s car half an hour later through the swirling gusts of sharp, icy winds. The shiny dots are back in front of my eyes as I try halfheartedly to help clean a thin layer of snow off the windshield. “Can you gemefood?” My words are slurring and I have to concentrate on standing upright as I dig the keys out of my pocket. I’m too tired to even worry very hard about the people following us, although, after the car incident, I ought to be doubly on edge.

 

Especially because I’m completely useless right now. But given our freezing journey through the woods and how he had to half-carry me and his messenger bag filled with stuff from the dugout, I can’t imagine he’s feeling too spry either.

 

After helping me get in and buckle my seat belt, Benson asks, “Do you need to throw up? You look sick.”

 

I shake my head and the motion makes me nauseous. “Need food. Starving.”

 

“I think you should magic yourself something.”

 

“Won’t help,” I argue, leaning my forehead against the window and closing my eyes. “Disappear in five minutes. Even the stuff I already ate.”

 

“Yeah, but if you keep making more for the ten minutes that it’ll take me to get you some real food, you’ll keep replenishing the food that disappears. It’s got to at least help a little,” Benson says, his eyes pleading with me not to fight him on this.

 

It takes a few seconds for the words to register and I realize it’s a rather brilliant idea. I fight it, though. The thought of actually ingesting something I made with my freaky magic makes me nauseous. More nauseous.

 

I can last; there’s gotta be some fast food here. French fries. I can stay conscious long enough for some good, salty fries. The picture in my head is so vivid I have to resist the urge to lick my lips.

 

It’s only when I feel the heat starting to seep through my jeans that I look down and see a carton of perfect french fries sitting in my lap. My hands grab for them even as my mind screams that they aren’t real, that I shouldn’t touch them. But Benson’s right—I have to eat something now. I almost burn my tongue pushing them into my mouth and try to remember to chew. In less than two minutes the carton is gone.

 

“Make more,” Benson says, and he sounds very serious now as he bumps onto the paved road and heads back toward Camden.

 

I don’t fight it this time, and soon I’m making my way through another carton of fries. They warm me up and replenish my blood sugar faster than I would have thought possible. When the second carton is gone, I take a few deep breaths before making another one. The first carton will be disintegrating soon and I realize I have no choice anymore: I have to keep eating to prevent my blood sugar from crashing again. Probably harder this time.

 

I make another batch of french fries and conjure up a big cup of hot chocolate to go with them. Steadily, but not at the frantic pace I started out at, I munch and sip as I start to feel normal again.

 

“Hamburgers or tacos?” Benson asks dubiously as he looks between two non-branded fast-food joints that look questionable at best. At least they’re open.

 

“Oh, hamburgers, please. Some kind of double with fries—real ones—and a Coke. Not the diet kind.” I stuff another handful of fries into my mouth as it starts to water at the thought of a hamburger.

 

There’s no drive-through and Benson turns to look at me sternly with his hand on the door handle. “Keep eating. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

 

“Hurry,” I say with a smile. I’m conning my body and I don’t know how long I can keep it up before it rebels.

 

A handful of fries stops midway to my mouth when I realize that the last few days have been just like when I woke up from the coma. I ate and slept almost all day long. They told me it was because my brain needed immense amounts of resources to heal. It makes me wonder just what the hell my brain is doing now, what that picture did that my body needs this much help recovering from.

 

Reese’s words about burning me out come back to me and I’m sick to my stomach again. What kind of horrible metamorphosis am I undergoing? I try to push the thoughts aside and conjure up a second hot chocolate. Nauseated or not, I have to keep eating or I’m going to be in big trouble.

 

Twelve minutes pass by the time Benson slips back into the car, and I’ve gone through five cartons of fries and both cups of hot chocolate. The smell of the burgers fills the air, and I push the magic fries off my lap and onto the floor in my hurry to reach for the two to-go bags.

 

“Watch it, Tave!” Benson gasps as fries scatter everywhere. “This is a Beemer!”

 

Such a guy. “Gone in five minutes,” I remind him. “Grease stains and all.”

 

“Well, these ones are real,” Benson says grudgingly. “So be careful.”

 

I take a second to spread some napkins on my lap before unwrapping my humongous hamburger and taking a big bite. We munch silently for a long time as I slowly feel my system start to stabilize.

 

“That was a really good idea,” I say when I get a moment to take a breath. “I’d have blacked out before we got here for sure.”

 

“And I don’t even want to think about how I’d try to explain that to some stranger who saw us on the side of the road,” Benson says grimly.

 

“No kidding,” I murmur. We eat a while longer. “Thank you.”

 

“It’s just food,” he replies with a grin.

 

“No, seriously.” I turn to face him fully. “Thank you for everything. Not freaking out, believing me even when I sound crazy; everything, Benson.”

 

“You’re welcome, I guess,” he says, and I can’t help but notice there’s a smear of mustard just above his lip.

 

I smile and reach a finger out to wipe it off. “You missed a spot,” I whisper when his eyes darken—no, deepen—pinning me to my seat in a flutter of nerves and delight. He reaches for my hand and lifts my fingers to his lips, kissing each one briefly.

 

“Thank you,” he whispers, with an intensity I don’t understand, but revel in. I hide my sappy grin behind my sandwich and we both finish our meal in silence.

 

When my food is gone and I’m so full I’m just on this side of being uncomfortable, I wipe the oil off my hands and reach for Quinn’s journal while Benson finishes.

 

“Listen to this,” I say, pointing to a short passage. “Of the brotherhoods trust ye the Curatoria but tenuously, and the Reduciata not at all. Give none of them your secrets. Above all, tell the Reduciata nothing of Rebecca. If you know her whereabouts, deceive them.” I think about Elizabeth blurting out that name—Reduciata. “Who do you think the Reduciata are?”

 

“No clue,” he says around a big bite.

 

“Must be someone bad,” I say, flipping another page. “Reese and Elizabeth were worried Quinn was a . . . Reduciate? That must be what they call their members.” I point at that paragraph. “I have a feeling he wasn’t.”

 

“Sounds like this Rebecca chick was in some serious trouble,” Benson says, peering over my shoulder.

 

“Quinn too. It’s got such old-fashioned wording—I’m going to have to read it carefully—but he talks about storing the gold to brace against disaster, and here, running to ground like a hare in the hunt.” I pause as a sinking feeling hits my heart. “Sounds like us, doesn’t it?”

 

“Sadly.”

 

“He says not to trust the Curatoria, but from what I can tell, it’s the Reduciata they’re always running from.” I pause, mulling the name over in my head. “Reduciata; it sounds kinda like Illuminati. Maybe they’re both secret societies trying to . . . I don’t know, run the government?”

 

“Wasn’t much of a government back then,” Benson says. “Or at least not much of a United States. Not yet.”

 

“True. But I don’t think they were just based in the United States. Look.” I tilt the book toward him. “You can see a drawing of a pyramid here, and the ankh symbol is from ancient Egypt.” I read that section, trying to make sense of Quinn’s old-fashioned prose. “It looks like the Reduciata and the Curatoria were behind all of the pharaohs of ancient Egypt—fighting to be the one in true control. It says the pyramids were built to hoard their belongings, kinda like Rebecca and Quinn’s dugout.”

 

“That sounds a little far-fetched. People took their myths pretty seriously back then, though.”

 

“Well, that is what they did with the pyramids, right? Filled them full of the pharaohs’ belongings? They would even bury servants alive in there.”

 

“Yeah, but . . . the pyramids, really?”

 

My fingers hesitate at the bottom of the page. “The pyramids. Benson, the pyramids are triangles. Triangles that face all four directions.”

 

“I’m . . . not following,” Benson says, sounding almost wary.

 

“The Curatoria and the Reduciata have symbols; doesn’t it seem like the Earthbound would too? It’s got to be the triangle. That’s why Reese said the triangle changed everything. Think about it. If you were an ancient Egyptian and you saw someone do the things I can do, what would you do?”

 

“Stone him?” Benson suggests.

 

I smack his shoulder. “Or make him your leader. In fact,” I add on, grinning as the idea occurs to me, “you might decide your pharaohs are gods. Even though they really aren’t,” I tack on quickly. “I think it makes total sense.”

 

This time Benson nods. “I can see that. Does he say anything else in there?”

 

“It’s hard to make it out,” I say, not bothering to hide my disappointment. “I’ve only figured out that one bit about the two groups.” I chuckle morosely. “I’m just making the rest of this stuff up.”

 

“And you’re sure Quinn didn’t die in that cabin?” Benson asks as he crumples up our trash.

 

“No. They were supposed too,” I say, wrenching my attention away from the journal—what little there is of it. “But . . . they escaped.” An ache starts as I try to think about that, but it’s not so overwhelming now that I’ve eaten.

 

“How do you know?”

 

“It’s like remembering a movie you watched a long time ago. You remember the basics, but not all the details. And the more I try to remember, the harder it is.”

 

“Maybe Quinn is trying to speak through you and that painting was, like, some kind of supernatural gateway.”

 

I raise my eyebrow at him. “He picked some random, totally broken teenage girl to communicate through?”

 

“Not random,” Benson insists. “Another Earthbound. Like him. Maybe that’s the only way it works.”

 

I consider that and it makes a horrible sense. I admit, I don’t want to be an Earthbound—whatever that really means. I don’t want to be special. But if Quinn chose me, there must be something I can do for him. “I think we need to go to the house, Quinn’s house, the one from the newspaper article.”

 

“Problem. We don’t know where—”

 

“I do,” I whisper, realization dawning, “I know where it is.”

 

Benson peers at the clock on the dash, his skepticism unconcealed. “It’s too late to go now, and honestly, I don’t think you’re in any condition to do anything.”

 

I nod wearily. “Tomorrow, maybe?”

 

His brow furrows in concentration. “If you want.”

 

A contented drowsiness is starting to overtake me. “I do. I have to— to figure this out.”

 

“I know,” Benson says with a loud sigh, and it strikes me as an odd answer, but he’s probably exhausted too.

 

“We should find a place to sleep; I’m going to pass out soon.”

 

A smile crosses his face now. “Your wish is my command.” He checks the rearview, then pulls out. “Go to sleep,” he says as he scans the sparse traffic. “It’ll take about twenty minutes.”

 

“Where are we going?”

 

“Just sleep. It’s a surprise.”

 

I feel like I’ve scarcely closed my eyes before Benson is nudging me. “We’re here.”

 

I don’t understand why he’s waking me up just to let me know it’s

 

time to sleep until my fatigue-heavy eyes catch the light. I’ve never been so happy to see a simple Holiday Inn. “Are we staying here?” I ask, practically pushing my nose up against the window.

 

“No,” Benson says. “I just drove you here to tempt you with a real shower. We can leave now.”

 

This time, his shoulder gets a punch, but my brain has a death grip on the words real shower.

 

I grab my backpack—feeling a little guilty that I’m the only one who has a clean change of clothes—and scan the items in the trunk, trying to decide what’s most important. “The journals,” I finally decide. “I need to bring them in. I have to read them.” My brain is still fuzzy, and that’s as far as I get before Benson scoops them up.

 

“Let’s just get inside. I don’t want anyone to see you.”

 

“It’ll be fine,” I say, as though the words would make it so. “Where are we?”

 

“Freeport. It’s about sixty miles from Camden, but it’s a town we haven’t been to yet. I’m trying to keep us safe,” he finishes in a mumble.

 

“You’re doing great,” I say, glad he’s being careful. Whoever’s following us is smart and persistent, and as much as I generally admire both those qualities, I like them much less when they’re working to make me . . . dead. As we cross the parking lot, I step a little closer to Benson, letting my shoulder brush his. “You’re my Superman.” I reach up and tap his glasses. “Specs and all.”

 

“I’m no hero,” he says softly.

 

Feeling bold, I reach down and slip my hand into his instead, entwining our fingers. “You’re my hero.”

 

He squeezes my hand and unlocks the door, and I try not to feel fluttery about the fact that I’m going into a hotel room. Alone. With Benson.

 

“Why don’t you go ahead and shower,” Benson says, hovering in the doorway, probably having just come to the same realization I did. “I need to go sell some more of this gold.”

 

“Now?” I ask, the panic of him leaving way worse than the similar panic of him staying.

 

“I’d rather go at night when the car is less likely to be recognized,” he says, looking down at the carpet. “I saw a pawnshop on the way into town—had one of those ‘we buy gold’ signs. If I get it done tonight, tomorrow we can just take off.”

 

His shyness is oddly emboldening, and I step forward and rest my hands on his hips. “I wish we could just take off now.”

 

“Me too,” he says, barely loud enough to hear. He hesitates and then draws his head a little closer to mine. “Are sure you’ll be okay on your own for an hour or so?” he whispers.

 

What does okay mean, really? It’s not the same definition I had yesterday, or last week, or last month. For the moment, “okay” means I’m alive. “Sure,” I say, but I know I can’t sound very convincing.

 

Benson tugs me closer. Our foreheads touch, and for a while I think that’s all he’s going to do. Then he traces one finger down my jawbone and lifts my chin. The kiss is barely more than a brush of his lips, but it’s like liquid comfort pouring into my belly and spreading through my limbs.

 

“Take a shower. And it’s okay if you go to sleep—I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

 

I nod, knowing I’ll never be able to sleep until he’s back and I’m sure he’s safe. “Be careful.”

 

“Don’t open the door for anyone,” he warns, even though he knows I don’t need it.

 

“Only you,” I promise, holding eye contact until the door closes between us. “Only you,” I repeat, setting the whispered words free.