Behind me, Gordon snapped out of his dozing. “What’s going on?” I asked, rubbing at the spot on my chest where the belt had cut in. In front of me, Mr. Lexington was busy offering calming words to Astor, who wasn’t hearing any of it. He gripped his bright-green Slurpee cup in tight fingers, his eyes wide and everywhere at once. “They’re coming, they’re coming, the British are coming,” Astor chanted. He sat bent forward leaning toward the window and his rounded side mirror. I moved to see what had his attention and, in the darkness, caught sight of a pair of bright white headlights close on our tail. Too close. “Who is it?” I asked, the last traces of sleep evaporating as I remembered the large black wolf as he’d stood over me with his jaw open. “I don’t know,” Mr. Lexington said, his eyes darting from the curvy state route we were following to the rearview and back. “But they’ve managed to move in between us and your Werewolf friend. Whoever it is has been honking and riding our tail.
