It was my turn to check in and Iwas standing there looking lost in a gross school uniform. I was apparentlyplanning to storm the courtroom and demand Lilly Mason be freed from tyrannyand unlawfulness in knee high socks and a plaid pleated skirt. Awesome.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

I took a quick glance atEvangeline’s passport before handing it over to the desk clerk, a twentysomething girl with too much make-up on. Luckily for me, Evangeline’s passportpicture was taken when she was ten and so there was a little leeway for growth.

Although she was still a brunettesix years after the picture was taken, my shade of brown was not so nutmeg, butrather just straight black. And her eyes were definitely blue, and mine weredefinitely not.

The clerk looked at the passportpicture and then at me, and then back at the picture and then again back at me.I gave her a nervous smile and tugged on my newly purchased red Nebraska footballsweatshirt. I released my magic full force through my veins, knocking over adisplay a few feet away. I jumped, startled and realized if I didn’t get mymagic under control, they were going to call the police. Who knew magic couldget nervous?

“I hate that picture,” I cleared mythroat and tried to sound confident. I attempted to send some magic her wayagain, but was afraid I would knock her over too if I didn’t relax.

“Hmmm….” she frowned suspiciously.“Do you have another form of ID on you? A driver’s license or something?” she put the passport and ticket on thecounter and tapped her fingers impatiently.

“Y-y-yes I think I do,” I stammeredout, pretending to dig through my bag looking for it. My bag was not that deep,it was just a backpack and mostly empty since I had left all of my books in thecar, but I needed to milk it for all it was worth.

“Isn’t that your wallet?” sheasked, as the item in question nearly fell from my hands. I gave her anirritated half-smile and handed it over. Once she saw not only the picture, butthe name on it, this half-assed plan was over.

A creepy crawly feeling ofirritation swept over me; I just wanted to get on that plane. I glanced over atthe clerk and felt the same sense of irritation flood her, and that was when Irealized I didn’t have to be smooth. I didn’t have to do what Avalon did. Itwas great that he could make other people feel safe and secure and smiley, butthat was just not me right then. I was pissed, I was irritated and I was in abig freaking hurry. If nothing else, I could at least make her emote with me.

I released my magic a little toostrongly and I saw the young clerk take a visible step backwards. I began tofeel guilty for hurting the poor girl, but then she gave me a dirty look thatreminded me a little too much of Seraphina. Suddenly she was looking at theclock and processing my airline ticket. She let out a huge huff of impatience,handing me my respective papers quickly.

“I assume you won’t be checking anybags?” she looked disdainfully at my worn out book bag.

“Nope,” I said, returning herirritation with a smile and breathing a sigh of relief.

She turned to the next passenger inline and I ran up the escalator. It could not have been that easy! Finallysomething was going my way. I didn’t slow down until I made it throughsecurity, to my terminal and onto the walkway.

A pretty flight attendant withperfect posture greeted me at the doorway to the plane. I handed over my ticketgrateful for assistance and she pointed just inside the doorway to a luxuriousfirst class seat next to a window.

I sat down heavily and breathedanother sigh of relief. I took a hair tie off of my wrist and knotted my hairinto a messy bun on the top of my head. Per instructions of the flightattendant I stored my nearly empty backpack underneath my seat and buckled upfor safety.

I looked out of my window at Omahafor one last time; I had never flown before, let alone overseas. I had no ideawhat to expect and less of an idea what to do when I got there. After myconnecting flight in Atlanta I would be non-stop until Romania. The brightafternoon sunlight flooded my window and I relished in the warmth and securityof self-righteousness. Lilly needed me and I refused to let her down.

–-

I breathed in the smoke and smogthat met me outside the dingy glass doors of the airport in Timisoara, Romania.The wide-lane street in front of me was full of small cabs in every color. Mostof them were driven by middle-aged, olive-skinned Romanian men with mustachesand cigarettes. And all of the cars looked at least fifty years old.

I walked over to one of the parkedDacias, waiting to take me on the next leg of this exhausting adventure. Itugged at the oversized cruise wear I acquired at a gift shop in the Atlantaairport and realized that it was not nearly warm enough for the cold and drearyautumn of Romania.

“English?” I asked hopeful, to agruff looking Romanian man wearing a worn out black leather jacket. He shookhis head and grunted what I took to be an amused laugh.

I pulled out the English toRomanian dictionary I also purchased at the Atlanta airport and searched forthe T section.

“Statie?” I stumbled through theword, using what I knew from my Spanish pronunciations to ask for the trainstation.

“Da, da. Timisoara?” he clarifiedour destination, since the airport was outside of the city a little ways.

“Da.” I repeated the Russian “yes”,most Romanians used.

He nodded his head towards the backseat and I climbed in. The springs underneath the well-worn upholstery dug intomy sore legs. I yawned, but refused to close my eyes. Not that I necessarilytrusted this stranger, nor did I know how long the ride would be exactly, butthere was much too much to see as we made our way towards the westernmetropolis of Timisoara.

Communist block apartments rose onevery side of me; the tall, simple, concrete buildings emoted a melancholydismalness that was enforced by the incessant rainfall. Small corner shops andgypsy children begging for money lined the now narrowed streets as I held onfor dear life. The driver swerved in and out of traffic more precariously thanAvalon and not nearly as gracefully.

The olive skinned Romanians walked,or biked or took the tram, all with their heads down, minding their ownbusiness. In my Guide to Romania book I picked up along with my dictionary, Iread that the Romanians fought their way out of Communism by a revolutionstarted in this very city. What was once called the Paris of the East was onlya shell of its former glory.

Timisoara was destroyed byCommunism after World War II; the Communist dictatorship that enslaved theRomanian people raped them of any technological or artistic advancement. Andalthough they were well on their way to recovery after a Revolution that hadhappened over twenty years ago, there was still an oppressiveness that settledon the country’s inhabitants.

I had yet to read anything ineither of my books pertaining to an Immortal Citadel. In fact, the only folklore of any kind related to vampires. I had no idea where I would end up orwhat to expect but for some reason entering Romania was like coming home. Thedesolate streets and war torn buildings held an eerie beauty I foundcaptivating.

The cab slammed to a stop in frontof an old building on the edge of a piazza or square. The driver tapped hisfinger on the meter, indicating the fare I owed him. I clumsily tried to countout the Lei, but in the end I threw a stack of bills at him, hoping heappreciated the tip.

I exchanged plenty of money in theairport, and was told that most places accepted my American credit card anyway.Hopefully, Aunt Syl wouldn’t be too upset with the credit card bill this month.Who was I kidding? If it wasn’t the bill that made her go ballistic, it wouldsurely be my spur of the moment trip across an ocean to a third world countryafter I was specifically forbidden not to by more than one authority.