This is a longer-than-usual chapter to (hopefully) make up for the wait! :)
**Oh, I recommend listening to the song 'Is This the Way to Amarillo?' (Peter Kay's version is hilarious) for better understanding of some snippets of the story :)
"Ready to go?" Erskine asked Fletcher. Fletcher looked at him.
"Erskine, Skulduggery's running around the house looking for his hat after you dented it and tried to hide the evidence, Ghastly's running after him trying to get him to hurry up, Dexter's half-dressed and is looking for his trousers, which you borrowed and then ripped because you put two legs into one hole, Saracen is trying to find the paper with Sanguine's address on it because you conveniently misplaced it after doodling on it, and I'm stood here talking to you. Do you think we're ready to go?"
"Alright, alright," Erskine muttered. He started humming something. Fletcher leaned in to hear, and a massive grin formed on his face.
"Please tell me that's what I think it is!" he said eagerly. Erskine nodded enthusiastically.
"Is this the way to Amarillo!" they both shrieked excitedly, and began singing their own rehearsed version together, at the top of their lungs.
"When the day is dawning
On a Texas Sunday morning
How I long to be there
With Sanguine who's waiting for me there
Is this the way to Amarillo
Every night I've been huggin' my pillow
Dreaming dreams of Amarillo
And sweet Sanguine who waits for me
Show me the way to Amarillo
I've been weeping like a willow
Crying over Amarillo
And Valkyrie who waits for me"
"SHA LA LA LALA LALALA!" Fletcher wailed.
"SHA LA LA LALA LALALA!" Erskine continued.
"SHA LA LA LALA LA-"
"ERSKINE RAVEL AND FLETCHER RENN SHUT UP THIS INSTANT!" yelled Anton from the living room, a murderous growl in his voice.
Erskine and Fletcher exchanged glances. Anton was unable to move from the sofa due to his injuries, so they had the perfect opportunity to torment him!
They sauntered into the living room. "What was that, Anton?" teased Fletcher.
Anton scowled. He was sitting up on the sofa, with his legs stretched out in front of him. He glared at the two.
"Do not take advantage of my current situation of immobility," he threatened. "Otherwise, I will make your lives a living hell as soon as I have healed."
Erskine gulped. Fletcher backed away. The two ran out of the living room together.
Anton smiled to himself.
"Everyone ready?" asked Fletcher. They all nodded.
Skulduggery had found his hat; Erskine had hidden it amongst his underwear.
Ghastly had found Skulduggery; he had been straightening his hat out, and vigorously scrubbing it clean of what he called 'Erskine germs'.
Dexter had found his trousers, swore at their ripped state, tied them tightly around Erskine's head like a blindfold as a punishment, so he couldn't see, and had hunted through his bag until he found another pair.
Saracen had found the paper with the address on it; it was folded up as a paper airplane and had been put in the washing machine. He had been rubbing out all the immature body part doodles Erskine had drawn on it, which Erskine had also conveniently labelled with their corresponding names.
Fletcher had managed to prise the trouser-blindfold off Erskine's head.
They were finally ready to go.
Fletcher waved goodbye to Erskine, put his hand on Skulduggery's shoulder, and teleported to outside Amarillo International Airport. The sudden heat hit them like an iron fist. It was boiling. After checking that no one had been left behind, and Erskine hadn't come with them by mistake, because, with him, anything was possible, they headed towards the car rental place, where they had already called and arranged for a car to be rented to them.
Once they'd arrived at the colourful 'HIRE A CAR FOR A DAY!' booth, they had been directed by a middle-aged man to an underground car park, where an array of cars were parked in numerical/alphabetical order based on their number plate.
Fletcher had been handed a piece of paper with the car's registration number written on it, and the group had set off to find a car that had the number plate of 'EMW 976'.
Skulduggery led them to the spot where, according to the alphabetical system, the car should have been, but a car with the number plate they were searching for was not there.
Skulduggery tilted his head. The others frowned. Where was the car?
They split up and walked around the whole car park; Skulduggery searched the first third, Ghastly and Fletcher searched the middle, and Dexter and Saracen searched the end. They met up again where they started. There was no sign of this car.
They became suspicious. Could the Sanctuary have done this? Could they have discovered that they were heading to this place? Were they in a trap? Was the trap about to be sprung? Who was-
"Um, guys," Fletcher said sheepishly. They whirled to him.
"What? What is it?" Skulduggery asked urgently.
"The, uh, the paper was upside down," he mumbled. He showed them the actual registration number- 9L6 MW3. Dexter took it from him, studied it, and rolled his eyes.
"Uh... Whoops?" Fletcher tried, but the four furious faces glaring at him (yes, even Skulduggery's skull looked scarier than usual) didn't show any signs of forgiveness.
"Valkyrie could be dying right now, Renn," Skulduggery snarled, "and you're prolonging her torture with your immature antics."
"Ooooooh!" Fletcher grinned. "Val and Skully sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G! First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a-"
"VALKYRIE IS IN DANGER- WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?" Skulduggery roared.
Fletcher flinched at the sudden increase in anger and volume, and Dexter and Saracen stepped back, and took this as their opportunity to go and search for the car with the correct registration number.
Ghastly stepped inbetween the two before things got out of hand. He knew that Skulduggery had strong feelings for Valkyrie, but it was also becoming evident that Fletcher still did, too. Therefore, there was going to be competition.
"Guys, come on. The quicker we get to the car, the quicker we get to Valkyrie, okay?" he said gently. Skulduggery, after a moment, turned and walked away towards Dexter and Saracen. Fletcher scowled at his back.
"Come on, Fletch," Ghastly said, and they trailed behind the others.
All of a sudden, they heard Dexter exclaim from up ahead, "You have got to be kidding me!" Saracen followed that up with a curse.
Fletcher grabbed Ghastly's arm and teleported them up ahead, behind Dexter and Saracen. Fletcher inwardly smirked at the fact that he had reached the car before Skulduggery had. Speaking of the car...
It was small. It was green. It was a Volkswagen Golf.
"How the hell are we meant to fit in that?" Fletcher wondered.
"Stop complaining," said Skulduggery, coming up behind them. "It's got five seats, and there's five of us. Perfect."
"I bag shotgun," Dexter, Saracen and Ghastly said immediately. They glared at each other.
"Firstly, who's driving?" Ghastly reasoned.
"Well, who knows the way?" Dexter asked.
"I do," said Saracen, and when no one else replied, he grinned. "Guess I'm driving, then. How far away is it?"
"I thought you knew?" Dexter frowned.
"I know the way, but I don't know how long it will take," Saracen reasoned.
"Five and a half hours," Ghastly said, showing Saracen his phone, where he'd brought up Google Maps. Saracen grimaced.
"I can not drive for five and a half hours. I simply can't. Someone will need to take over."
"How about you do two and a half hours," Skulduggery offered, "and I'll do the other three, with you in the passenger seat directing me."
Saracen nodded. "Okay, yeah. So for the first leg of the journey, I'm driving. Who's riding shotgun?"
"Me!" Dexter, Fletcher, Skulduggery and Ghastly said.
"How about biggest at the front, smallest at the back, so we can all comfortably fit," Saracen suggested.
"Fletcher, you're tiny, so you can squeeze into the back," Dexter said immediately. Fletcher began to protest, but no one was listening.
"Skulduggery, you're a skeleton, and if you collapse the frame of your clothing, you have no bulk. So, you're in the back as well," Dexter continued.
"No," Skulduggery said simply.
"Oh my god, Skulduggery stop being a baby. Think practically," Ghastly sighed. "You're sitting at the front anyway for the last three hours of the journey."
"I bag shotgun," Dexter said. Ghastly raised an eyebrow.
"Dexter, I'm a bit bigger than you," he said.
Dexter shook his head. "Look at these muscles, Ghastly," he grinned. He took off his shirt, and struck a pose. Saracen stared at his bare torso.
"Ghastly, I think Dexter wins this," he said faintly. Ghastly shook his head stubbornly.
"No. I refuse to be stuck at the back with those two. No. I won't do it. No."
Dexter ignored him and put his shirt back on, and got into the driver's seat. After a moment, he got out again.
"Whoops," he muttered. "Steering wheel's on the left." He got into the passenger seat this time. Saracen chuckled, and got into the driver's seat.
Skulduggery hesitated only a moment, and got into the back seat. Fletcher went to follow him, but stopped sharply at Skulduggery's yell.
"No, Fletcher, you are not sitting next to me. Ghastly, you come next."
Ghastly sighed, and got in beside Skulduggery. Fletcher got in beside Ghastly. Saracen started the engine, and reversed out of the car park. They began the long journey to Dallas.
"Anton."
"Anton."
"Anton."
"Anton."
"Anton."
"Anton."
"Anton."
"Anton."
"Anton."
"Ant-"
"For God's sake, what?" Anton sighed wearily. Erskine had been annoying him non-stop for the past two hours. Two hours! Didn't this man ever tire?
"What's your favourite colour?" Erskine questioned.
"Why the hell do you want to know?" Anton asked. He attempted to remain calm and composed, because he had already tried threatening Erskine in numerous ways, as well as growling and snarling at him, but it was having no effect. Anton would have admired this determination, if he wasn't so damn annoyed.
"Just curious," Erskine replied. "You see, Val's favourite colour is black, because she loves her protective clothes. Ghastly's is green, because it's the colour of his eyes. Dexter's is orange, because that's the colour his energy streams make. Saracen's is red, because that's the colour of love, and it's the only colour that doesn't make him look fat, apparently. I doubt that. Skul's favourite colour is, well, he hasn't told me, because when I asked he just gave me this really blank look, which makes sense I suppose, since he's got a skull for a head, but anyway, I'm assuming it's purple, because he likes his hat with the purple ribbon the most, and I've seen him in purple ties before. I even know Fletcher's favourite colour- it's pale, sun-kissed yellow, because it's the colour closest to his hair. So, what's your favourite colour?"
Anton resisted the urge to punch Erskine. Why Erskine felt the need to give him a tirade about his friends' favourite colours, he hadn't the slightest clue.
"Erskine, please, please, please leave me alone," Anton begged. "Look- I'm begging. I never beg." And that was true. Anton had never begged before in his whole life, but now, now that prestigious reputation was ruined by one little weasel of a man. Oh, he was going to pay.
"Anton, just tell me your favourite colour," Erskine whined.
"Now you're begging me!" Anton exclaimed, exasperated.
"Oh yeah," Erskine realised. "Just tell me, and all this suffering will come to an end."
Anton considered this, then sagged. "Grey," he muttered.
"Really?" Erskine asked. Anton threw a cushion at him.
"No, my favourite colour's pink. What do you think?"
Erskine frowned. He honestly wasn't sure if Anton was being sarcastic or not. Pink or grey... Which one's more likely to be Anton Shudder's favourite colour...? He settled on pink.
"Why do you like pink?" Erskine queried. Anton looked at him.
"I said I was joking, Ravel. I like grey," he said slowly, simply. Anton wondered how the hell Erskine had ever gotten the job as Grand Mage. He was intelligent, he truly was, but he didn't always show it. He was smart in terms of war and battle and tactics- but when it came to general knowledge... Pffffffft. Erskine was no freaking genius.
"Erskine-"
"Yes?" Erskine eagerly responded, before Anton had even finished his sentence. It was rare for Anton to speak to him first, without Erskine having said something prior.
"Please go away."
"Good idea- the kitchen's calling me," Erskine scurried off to make a sandwich.
Anton looked at where Erskine had just been, and shook his head. That man... he thought to himself. I won't be surprised if he gets the butter knife stuck up his nose again.