Priceless

and the doors slammed shut as I peeled out.
    “No smell Harpies.” Alex whimpered. Of course he hadn’t smelled them before; no doubt, they’d watched us from a distance, flying in high enough.
    “It’s okay,” I said, though it wasn’t. “O’Shea, you’re going to have to take the wheel, or take one of my swords and try to fend them off. They’re territorial, so you just have to buy us time.”
    “You drive, I’ll fight.”
    “Don’t look them in the eyes, no matter what.”
    O’Shea took my offered—and bloodied—sword and rolled down the window.
    “Why?”
    We hit a bump and I fought with the steering wheel, no longer enjoying the pot-hole filled road. “Think a version of the spell that was on you and me, except you’d get to ‘knock boots’ with
them
, and then they’d eat you.”
    Without a word, he slipped off his seatbelt and slid halfway out the window, his butt hanging on the edge. A part of me was starting to admire the former agent. He was not only doing as he was told, but he did it without arguing. Damn, I really didn’t want to like him.
    A screech from above us that might as well have been inside the cab lifted the hair all over my body. Alex howled, adding to the noise, but it didn’t affect my concentration. Ahead was a Y in the road. To the right waited the main highway and possible safety. To the left waited more of the badlands. Decisions, decisions.
    O’Shea hollered and his body flexed as he swung. I didn’t have to see to know what was happening. I could almost feel the missed thrust of the sword.
    “Get back in!” I hoped O’Shea could hear me. One of his hands slipped back in and gripped the Holy Shit handle, and he yanked his body back in, the sword dented.
    “We’re going to pit species against species,” I said, gunning the Jeep and cranking the wheel hard to the left. The four-wheel drive was a godsend as we blasted across the open badlands with nowhere to hide from the two remaining Harpies.
    O’Shea clicked on his seatbelt. “What do you mean species against species?” He had to yell to be heard over Alex and the Harpies.
    I gripped the wheel and kept my foot on the gas. “Just wait. You’ll see.” A part of me wondered at my reasoning. Maybe I didn’t want O’Shea to think all the monsters were nasty. Some of them were downright stunning in their beauty.
    “I’ll give you a hint,” I said. “Ever read anything by Peter S. Beagle?”
    We hit a bump and then something, presumably a Harpy, hit the Jeep and we teetered on two wheels. There was the screech of metal meeting and giving to talons as the Harpy dug into the hard top.
    “This side!” I motioned with my head for the two boys to throw their weight to my side of the Jeep. Alex obeyed, as did O’Shea. His body jammed against mine. Our eyes met for a split second, and I thought I saw something there in those dark depths. This was bad, we could die, yet I’m sure I saw fire flare inside him as if he were . . . enjoying this.
    Then the moment was over; all four wheels hit the ground and we careened down a slope, the Jeep skidding sideways as Alex whimpered in the back.
    Wind whistled through the new tears in the metal roof; flashes of dark brown between the bursts of sunlight were all I could see of the Harpies, but it was enough. At the bottom of the slope, the ground levelled out into flat hard surface, perfect for the Jeep to pick up speed. In a few short moments, we were doing over sixty.
    “They’re well behind us,” O’Shea said, half turned in his seat, and I glanced at him, his eyes still glittering. He
was
enjoying this.
    I didn’t let up on the throttle, though; I knew what was coming. Ahead of us was a large rock that stuck out of the ground like a mini mountain. Spinning the wheel, I tucked the Jeep in beside it, facing the Harpies. They hovered for another split second, and then they exploded toward us with a flurry of wings.
    “Oh shit,” O’Shea said.
    I lifted a hand and turned the Jeep off. “Just wait.”
    “Are you crazy?”
    I rolled down my window and prayed I was right. The distant thunder of hooves answered my pleas. This was the territory of the Tamoskin Tribe—or more accurately, herd.
    I felt more than saw O’Shea go still beside me.
    “Tell me I’m seeing things.”
    From off the plains thundered the Tamoskin Herd, their coats a myriad of colours, shining and glossy in the sun. From Paints, to blacks, chestnut and white, and a little of