The Wasabi was a commuter car. It was ideally suited to puttering forward five feet at a time, at irregularly spaced intervals, in gridlock traffic. Similarly, it did just fine at a stately 20 mph through busy London streets. It had excellent fuel economy, unsurpassed by any vehicle on the road, save for Crowley's Bentley; it very frequently needed no petrol at all, due to the frequent mechanical failures that left in parked in the garage, while its owners waited for parts to be shipped, and The Pulsifers employed more environmentally friendly alternative transportation.

It was not, however, designed to comfortably transport passengers. Nor, was it at all suited to hundred mph car chases down the M40.

Crowley hurt all over from his transportation. His very atoms felt scrambled, and it only occurred to him, after helping a quivering and coughing Yeshua into the Wasabi's passenger seat, that it would have saved them all a great deal of trouble if he had exercised that ability to transport them directly into the Bentley instead. He couldn't even bear the thought of a second transportation so soon after the first, so he put up with his inner monologue cursing him out soundly, while he used a quick application of magic to create a backseat for Anathema and Madame Tracy to squish into, and hoped that no one spotted his oversight. It was just lucky that Aziraphale wasn't there to mock him. He told himself that it probably wouldn't have worked anyway. If he was unable to transport Freddie out of the Bentley, chances were that he wouldn't have been able to transport himself into it. Still, it hadn't even occurred to him to try.

It had been a long day.

The magical alterations had left the Wasabi looking like the world's ugliest estate car, and Crowley gave it a disgusted sneer before he climbed in behind the wheel. Anathema and Madame Tracy had stretched their map out in the cramped backseat, and produced an ancient torch from somewhere. It looked as though it might, anachronistically, predate the invention of the light bulb.

Crowley's head pounded as he focused what little concentration he could muster on magically coaxing every scrap of power he could manage from the Wasabi's 823cc engine, as he shifted into third gear, and they trundled down the M40 in not-so-hot pursuit.

He fumbled at the radio as he attempted, unsuccessfully, to overtake a Morris Minor driven by an old man in a derby cap. The speakers crackled and screeched out an upbeat and high-pitched song in Korean that Crowley could feel in his teeth.

"What the blessed fuck is that?" He growled.

"Radio Pyongyang," Anathema said, desperately trying to unfold the map without hitting Madame Tracy in the face. "It's all that will come in."

oOoOoOo

"Where are you taking me?" Freddie asked the Bentley, once he realized that they'd left London behind. "You know Crowley is going to be livid about this, right? You're supposed to be doing the whole 'JUST MARRIED,' get-away car thing tomorrow. How do you think Crowley will feel if he has to leave his wedding in a cab?"

The music stopped.

The blessed silence left Freddie's ears ringing, but the car didn't slow in its headlong flight from London with its captive audience.

"I'm sorry," Freddie said into the silence. "Truly. But, this is bigger than you and me. Crowley is getting married tomorrow. You're not going to want to miss that. He loves you. You're his car. He'll be devastated if he wakes up in the morning and we're not there. It will ruin the whole day."

The mood in the car had shifted somehow. It was a subtle thing, but after the last few hours of speeding through traffic at terrifying speeds, under the oppressive aura of rage that the Bentley was putting out in waves, the sudden absence of all of that negative energy was immediately noticeable.

"I heard about what happened down in Hell," Freddie continued, carefully. "If you want to talk about committed relationships… well, Crowley…there's a guy who really is in love with his car."

It seemed to be working. The Bentley slowed down to just over the posted speed limit.

"There now," Freddie said, sitting up a little straighter and placing his fingertips gingerly on the wheel. "We're all reasonable… beings. I'm sure that we can work something out here. I said some things that I shouldn't have, and you… took us on a terrifying little drive… but, there's no reason that we can't be friends."

oOoOoOo

"They're turning off the M40, I think," Anathema said.

"Where?" Crowley growled.

"Onto the A404 at Handy Cross. You might be able to intercept them if you-"

"Cut across through Maidenhead. Right. Hold on everybody."

Crowley made an abrupt lane change to turn off, and the Wasabi rocked worryingly, but kept all of its wheels on the tarmac, and Crowley shifted back into third gear and cursed when an attempt to shift into fourth was met with grinding gears and an overtaxed engine as the gear stick socketed back into second. The Wasabi didn't have a fourth gear. "Cheap, imported garbage," he hissed, and put it back into third.

"Mr. Crowley?" Madame Tracy asked from the back seat. "I don't mean to sound pessimistic, but what exactly is your plan if we do manage to catch up to them?"

"I'm going to," Crowley started in a growl, but what would he do? The more exciting car chases he'd seen in films and on television ended with fiery crashes, or shooting out tyres with machine guns, or action sequences involving secret agents or Austrian bodybuilders jumping between vehicles at high speeds. None of that seemed as though it would end well for anyone involved—most importantly, the Bentley.

"I'll honk the horn," Crowley finished, lamely, and magically coaxed a few more miles per hour from the Wasabi by dint of flattening the accelerator to the floor and threatening it with grievous mechanical harm.

oOoOoOo

After his conversation with Anathema and Tracy, Aziraphale was feeling just a tad nervous about the wedding. With everyone's insistence that he and Crowley shouldn't spend the night before the ceremony together, he was at something of a loss with what to do with himself.

He'd never been in the habit of sleeping, prior to the brief revocation of his angelic power and subsequent beginning of this new physical aspect of his relationship with Crowley, and absent of the former demon coiling himself around Aziraphale with long, bony limbs and drooling on him for several hours, Aziraphale was unable to get his brain to switch off for the now customary period of slumber.

He'd spent the first six millennia of his existence on this planet occupying himself perfectly well during the dark hours of night, but now that he had gotten into the habit of sleep, he simply had no idea what to do with the hours stretching out from now until his pending nuptials—simultaneously a seeming eternity and too soon by half.

He'd fallen into that old standby of fretting with a cup of cocoa in one hand and a book in the other. Somehow the volume that he'd ended up with was Blake's The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. The vast majority of it was the mad ramblings of a disturbed mind, but the poetry was artfully phrased, and after Adam's well planned stag night, he'd never be able to think of certain passages quite the same way again.

The whole thing sent a frisson of wanting through his corporeal being, a physical need he'd never had to bother with before the chain of events that had led to his sudden possession of the complete complement of male anatomical features.

He abruptly decided to abandon his cocoa in favor of a bath and a glass of wine instead.

oOoOoOo

"What's happening now exactly?" Freddie asked tentatively. He'd thought that maybe his reasoning with the car meant that he'd be allowed control of the wheel once more, but any attempts at steering or applying the brake had been met with a sullen refusal to react in any way. "Are you taking me back to London, or…?"

The radio remained silent.

Freddie wasn't about to complain. His situation had improved dramatically. The music had stopped its slow, psychological torture, and they were moving along at a reasonable speed. He should just shut up while he was ahead, before he put his foot in it, but the sullen silence emanating from the Bentley was a torture of its own.

It felt like the car was thinking, working through some complicated automotive emotions, and Freddie was a little worried about what kind of conclusions Crowley's mad, centenarian car might come to if left to it's own devices.

"I mean, I get that communication isn't the easiest here, but I can listen. I'm not half as self-centered as I pretend to be." He fidgeted. "Sometimes it's just easier to pretend, you know… It's easier to put on the mask and the persona—just fake the confidence instead of feeling so… insignificant. Onstage, I felt like a giant, and offstage… offstage I'm just a queer kid from Zanzibar… I'd rather pretend to be Freddie Mercury than try to survive as Farrokh Balsara."

Freddie went quiet for a moment, as a sudden need to just let the honesty come pouring out overtook him. In a way, sitting here in The Bentley, talking to the dash board, as the world blurred by around this little bubble of stillness, he felt like he was talking to himself. The fact that The Bentley's responses came in the form of scraps and snippets of his own lyrics, solidified the feeling. But there was also a clear presence there with him. It was hard to explain exactly, but while all his secrets felt as safe as if he were speaking them to the empty night, there was also someone there listening.

And, yeah, he'd started this ramble by saying that he could listen, and ended up talking about himself, so maybe he really is as self-centered and conceited as he pretends to be. He tells the Bentley that too, and he feels a kind of warm sense of acceptance from that presence.

Somebody To Love, started playing, softly, and Freddie lounged back in his seat and did just listen for a while.

He didn't quite understand exactly what the Bentley was. Clearly it was more than just a normal car, but all joking about BJs and gear sticks aside, he had no idea what the car could possibly want from him, or from anyone else for that matter, but it was obvious enough that the Bentley was lonely.

"Is all of this because of the wedding?" Freddie asked, when the song ended. "Are you feeling jilted because Crowley is marrying Aziraphale?"

Friends will be friends
When you're in need of love they give you care and attention.

Freddie puzzled that over for a moment. "So, not jilted exactly but… less of a priority?"

How it hurts (yeah) deep inside (oh yeah)
When your love has cut you down to size
Life is tough on your own
Now I'm waiting for something to fall from the skies
I'm waiting for love

Freddie scratched the back of his neck. "Not jealousy. Envy." Freddie blew out a breath, full of empathetic commiseration. "I can dig that. You need someone who's just for you, to balance it out. But, that can't be me…" He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he thought. "We need to find you some sexy convertible with her top off. Only…"

Freddie was cut off by a sound like an angry goose with acid indigestion.

oOoOoOo

"What do you call that?" Crowley demanded, turning to stare at Anathema in the back seat.

Anathema shrugged. "To be honest, I'm surprised that the horn works at all."

Crowley laid on the horn again, and it let out another asthmatic quack. He flashed his lights at the Bentley, but the car neither slowed, nor showed any signs of having noticed him. It maintained a steady speed as the gap between the two cars steadily grew.

"We're not going to catch them," Yeshua grumbled. He was still suffering from the transportation, and he'd been riding with his head pressed against the cool glass of the passenger window.

They did manage to close the distance between the two cars though, as the Bentley was met by a blockade of lorries, matching speed across all four lanes of the motorway.

Crowley brought the Wasabi level with the Bentley and Yeshua lowered his window, immediately chilling the inside of the car with a blast of cold air, and the defending roar of wind resistance.

They could make Freddie out now, caught in brief glimpses by the light of the street lamps every twenty or thirty seconds, behind the wheel of the Bentley. He seemed to be unable to roll down his own window, and was pounding on the glass and yelling something.

"What's he doing?" Crowley demanded. "Freddie! Stop banging on that window! If you damage my car, you'll wish you were still dead! Pull over!"

"I don't think he's the one driving," Yeshuashouted over the wind.

With nothing else to do, Crowley laid on the horn again.

Anathema pulled her jacket tight around her, while her teeth chattered, in the back seat. "A former demon and the son of God," she muttered to Madame Tracy, "and what are we doing? Screaming out the window like lunatics and honking at them… at two in the morning. We're meant to be back at the park by nine. And it'll be an hour drive to Tadfield at this point. Doesn't Crowley realize that some of us need to sleep? This is ridiculous."

Madame Tracy folded up the map and put an arm around Anathema. "Whatever else he is, he's a man. You know how they get about these things. Best to just ride it out. We've found the car now. Our part is done. Try to catch a nap." Tracy closed her eyes and tucked her head against Anathema's shoulder.

"A nap? We're in the middle of a car chase!"

"It isn't much of a car chase. What are they going to do? Crowley would never risk his Bentley by doing anything extreme. My guess is, we'll be driving around after them half the night. Might as well catch some shut-eye while we can."

Madame Tracy seemed not at all bothered by the turn of events that the night had taken. Normally, he tendency to take anything, and everything, in stride was one of the things that Anathema liked best about her, but at some point enough was enough.

"I'm giving you an hour, Crowley," she shouted over the wind. "After that, we're leaving you on the side of the road, and Tracy and I are going home."

"I'm getting married tomorrow. You can't just kick me out in the middle of nowhere."

"We aren't in the middle of nowhere. You can find public transportation. But, I'd suggest you make it home before then instead. You're getting married tomorrow. The car thing isn't that important. Anyway, isn't God supposed to be showing up tomorrow? If Freddie is meant to be going back to Heaven, you might as well let Her sort it out."

"I'm not abandoning my car," Crowley growled, but before he could do any ranting about the responsibility of automobile ownership, the Bentley found a window through the lorry blockade and slipped through just before it closed again, stopping Crowley from cursed Freddie, all lorry drivers everywhere, and the Wasabi in turn, and then laid on the horn again.

oOoOoOo

"Crowley seems pretty angry," Freddie said, as the Wasabi disappeared from sight. "If it's revenge that you wanted, you have it. He's going to blame all of this on me."

How long can you stand the heat?

"Very funny, but I doubt you'll be getting out of this free and clear. You're the one in control. He's going to be mad at you as well, or do you plan on just keeping me trapped in here forever while Crowley chases after you?"

I'm a racing car passing by
Like Lady Godiva
I'm gonna go gogo
There's no stopping me

"What about the wedding?"

The show must go on, yeah
The show must go on
I'll face it with a grin
I'm never giving in
On with the show

"So, we're getting back before morning then?" Freddie let out a sigh of relief and slumped into the seat. He couldn't help a yawn. The last few hours had been draining, and he was exhausted. "Are we going back to London now? Because, if you're not planning to bring me to a bed anytime soon, I think I'll just climb in the backseat and get some sleep."

The stereo slipped from half a line of Crazy Little Thing Called Love to a scrap of Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy in an odd jag: Take the backseat, Dining at the Ritz.

Freddie frowned. "You're taking me back to The Ritz? Why?"

He was expecting something about driving back in style on ahot-seat of love, but instead it was:Find me somebody to love, a brief skip, and then,The machine of a dream, such a clean machine
With the pistons a pumpin', and the hubcaps all gleam.

Freddie rubbed his hand over his eyes. "What does that mean?"

The Bentley just repeated Find me somebodyto love.

"Right," Freddie grumbled. "If you have your sights set on Wilde, I think that you have some competition."

Get a grip on my boy racer roll bar.
Such a thrill when your radials squeal.

"Obviously," Freddie sneered, rolling his eyes.

Regardless, the Bentley seemed to be in a better mood, and Freddie listened to half a dozen of his more cheerful songs, catching occasional glimpses of the Wasabi in the mirrors, as they cruised back toward London at a more reasonable speed.

At some point he must have fallen asleep, because one moment he was looking out the window at the city lights, whileKiller Queen played quietly, and the next moment they were crashing through a ticket barrier into a parking garage.

oOoOoOo

The Bentley wasn't necessarily looking for a cherry-red convertible with its top off. It would have been quite pleased with a Jaguar E-type. It would have been happy with a Bughatti Veyron. Even the Lamborghini Huracan had a certain dangerous charm. What the Bentley found in the space it had left it, on the level reserved for the Ritz's valet parking, was a battered, silver Citroen C3 Pluriel. It was about as sexy as a Volkswagen Beetle, without the sense of flower-power nostalgia.

It did have its top off though.

And, beauty went deeper than body panels;…under the hood were four cylinders that could manage a whopping 74 brake horsepower.

The Bentley tried not to be too disappointed.

At least it had a manual transmission.

The Bentley would have never been able to be seen fraternizing with an automatic.

Still, Freddie had a point. The Bentley should be shifting its focus to another car. Humans were far too emotionally unstable to be bothering with. And it wasn't as though there were any other options. Adam's Citroen was the only other infernally-influenced automobile in England, and probably the world. It might not be old enough to have gained the same level of self-awareness that the Bentley had, but there had to be at least a spark of sentience there. The Bentley could have gone cruising around to Ferrari dealerships looking for a hot new ride, but it would have been like proposing marriage to a statue in the park. As lovely as they were on the outside, on the inside they were as lifeless as cold stone.

So, better to just make the best of it. Here they were: a black swan and an ugly, grey goose with identity issues, sharing the same lonely ,alternatively, a vintage Bentley in mint condition (save a few scuffs from driving through the ticket barrier, but Crowley would take care of those) and a convertible whose designers thought it should double as a pickup truck.

What kind of pickup line did you use on a pickup truck?

The Bentley figured that you could never go wrong with the classics.

I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things.
We can do the tango just for two.

oOoOoOo

The car had stopped.

Actually stopped.

They were parked.

Freddie didn't have a whole lot of hope as Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy, started playing, and he reached for the door handle, but he had to try.

He practically tumbled right onto his face on the cement floor of the parking garage, when the door popped easily open, and he was all but ejected from the Bentley. He caught himself in time on his knees and fingertips and scrambled quickly away from the demonic car.

Nothing happened.

The Bentley just sat there, engine idling, driver's door ajar, playing a silly, romantic song that he'd written in 1976. The music, echoing off the walls of the deserted garage, was eerie in the absence of another living soul to hear it.

The whole thing seemed very anticlimactic.

Freddie stretched his legs and walked around, keeping a safe distance from the Bentley, as he circled the car warily and tried to figure out where they were and what was going on.

There were signs at one end of the garage, directing out to the street, and Freddie confirmed that they were back in Central London. Since he had fallen asleep, he wasn't sure if Crowley and the others were still following in the Wasabi, and he considered making his way out to the street to try to get a cab back to Mayfair, but he glanced over his shoulder when the Bentley segued into I'm in Love With My Car, and took the whole scene in again.

The Bentley had parked nose-to-nose with a silver convertible—not in one of the spaces, but rather in the garage's traffic lane. It wasn't quite perfectly parallel, but parked at a slight cant, and there was something about the position that sparked an image of a teenager glancing coquettishly over one shoulder to see if the object of their affection was appropriately appreciating their backside.

Freddie took a closer look at the convertible. It wasn't a particularly noteworthy car. It looked older, and not especially well-cared for. It wasn't so old as to be considered a classic, and it didn't have the right kind of lines or timeless style to merit preservation by a collector, in any case. It looked like the sort of car you might get from a rental agency if you wanted something fun on vacation, or maybe the kind of car a kid would think was cool when making their first foray into automobile ownership. Something about it seemed oddly familiar though.

The Bentley switched over to Somebody to Love, and finally the situation, at least, became clear.

The Bentley had taken his advice and redirected its romantic intentions to something more in its own lane. It had gone cruising for a topless convertible. Freddie wasn't quite sure why the Bentley had chosen this particular model, but anything was an improvement over it's crazy, stalker fascination with him. He smiled. It was really kind of sweet.

Freddie was just starting to feel a little sad for the Bentley, since it wasn't likely to get any kind of response from the trashy little convertible in question, when the lights on the other car flicked on, and the engine revved to life.

Freddie looked around the garage, but he still didn't see any other human beings. Then, the convertible's stereo started playing.

He didn't recognize the song, something after his time, but the lyrics made the meaning clear enough, and he started to feel uneasy.

Get you where you wanna go, if you know what I mean
Got a ride that's smoother than a limousine
Can you handle the curves, can you run all the lights
If you can, baby boy, then we can go all night

Freddie walked slowly backwards, away from the cars. He wasn't sure if he had lost his mind somewhere around the thirtieth repetition of Headlong; maybe he was still riding around in the back of the Bentley gibbering to himself. Or,hell, what did he know? Maybe all cars were secretly sentient. Whatever the reason, he had suddenly become very worried that he was about to see a couple of cars make the beast with two backs. Two roofs? No, that didn't work with a convertible… Either way, it was the wrong kind of autoeroticism. He didn't know how, or why, or what either of them could possibly get from the experience, but he didn't think it was something that he needed to see.

And yet, like a train wreck, he was unable to look away.

I got class like a '57 Cadillac
And overdrive with a whole lot of boom in the back
You look like you can handle what's under my hood
You keep saying that you will, boy, I wish you would

How would it even work? The Bentley was huge. It had to weigh tons. It was going to crush the poor little convertible, and it looked like it had been abused enough already.

Suddenly there was the echoing rumble of another engine inside the parking structure, and the Wasabi wheezed it's way up the ramp and came to a squealing stop with its headlamps shining right at Freddie. He felt like a Peeping Tom, caught in the act, but that was ridiculous. He was just standing here watching two cars play music at each other.

Crowley was in a fury as he stalked out of the Wasabi. "What the bloody Hell is going on?"

Yeshuawas only a moment behind him, looking tired and concerned. "Are you okay, Freddie?"

Freddie gave a half-manic laugh and brushed his hand through his hair. "Aces, now that you're here, darling. Crowley's lovely automobile just decided to take me on the ride of my life, and I definitely have no interest in an encore."

His light-hearted tone must not have been very convincing, because Yeshua frowned and put a hand on his shoulder, looking even more worried—possibly for Freddie's mental stability.

Not entirely unwarranted.

"I'm fine, really," Freddie said, and he thought that he managed to sound a little more confident that time. "Just a bit of excitement. Nothing that a strict future as a pedestrian won't cure. Thank you for gallantly coming to my rescue."

"There was less gallantry and more vomiting involved than you might imagine," Yeshua admitted, "but as long as you're safe. I'm not sure that Gabriel would have let me live it down if anything had happened to you under my care.

Crowley was carefully inspecting the Bentley, cursing about, and then miracling away, the damage to the front bumper, as Anathema and Madame Tracy climbed out of the Wasabi, and the Bentley started playing Crazy Little Thing Called Love.

"Everything alright?" Tracy asked.

Before Freddie or Yeshua could answer, Anathema said, "It's fine. Crowley has his precious car back. Now I just have to somehow get us home without falling asleep behind the wheel, so we can sleep for a few hours before driving back again and dealing with whatever nonsense is bound to happen at the wedding."

Crowley circled back around to the rear of the Bentley and fixed a glare at Freddie. "Why did you come back here?" he demanded. "What do you want with Adam's Citroen? Planning to run off with that next?"

"That's Adam's car?" Freddie let out an "Ohhhhh," of sudden understanding. "That makes a lot more sense."

"What does?"

"Uh, well… your Bentley is doing a bit of…romancing."

"Roman-" Crowley cut off halfway through the word, frowning. "What do you mean, romancing?"

Crazy Little Thing Called Love ended, and the Citroen responded with a Simon and Garfunkel song that Freddie recognized.

My daddy was the family bassman
My mamma was an engineer
And I was born one dark gray morn
With music coming in my ears
In my ears

They call me Baby Driver
And once upon a pair of wheels
I hit the road and I'm gone
What's my number
I wonder how your engines feel

"I suggested that it should set its sights on another car, instead of me. It took the advice to heart, so here we are." After a beat, he added, "I think the courting is going well."

Crowley spun and glared at the Bentley. "A fuckingC3 Pluriel?" The disgust was clear in his voice.

"Better it than me," Freddie muttered.

"What has gotten into you?" Crowley asked the car. "I don't know if it's since Adam reversed the damage from the apocalypse, or that little jaunt into Hell, but all of this acting out has to stop. Adam's Citroen? Don't you have any taste?"

The Citroen's engine gave a threatening rumble, over the sounds of Baby Driver,but Crowley just turned his glower on it and pointed a finger at it. "Don't think that I won't be having a conversation with Adam about you either."

"Oh, leave them alone, Crowley, you big bully," Madame Tracy cut in. "It's really rather sweet."

Sweet maybe wasn't the word Freddie would use. He still found the idea a bit disturbing when you got down to the mechanics, but he wasn't one to judge. "Love is love," he said.

"Love?" Crowley sputtered, but the idea brought him up short.

"I, for one," Anathema said, "don't care if its love, lust, or mechanical dysfunction. If I'm not sleeping in bed with my husband in the next hour, I'm not going to the wedding tomorrow. It's 3 am. Come on Tracy. The boys can handle it from here."

That's when Dick Turpin rolled forward toward the Bentley, tentatively, of it's own volition, and a robotic, feminine voice, with a thick Asian accent, chimed out. "Black as darkest night. Gleaming bright, under cold stars. I thrill with the chase."

They all stood in complete, gobsmacked silence for a moment, staring at the Wasabi, and then Crowley's expression turned thunderous.

"No," he said, firmly, pointing at the Wasabi like it was a puppy that had just piddled on the carpet, thirty seconds after being let inside. "No. No. No!" He snapped his fingers at the car, and it morphed and shortened back into its usual, sub-compact, two-seater form. "No," Crowley said again, and then he turned to Anathema. "Get that thing out of here, and get some sleep, and you had damned well better be at my wedding tomorrow."

Anathema rolled her eyes. "We'll be there. Don't worry." She let out a jaw-cracking yawn. "Maybe not on time…"

"Go."

Anathema and Madame Tracy went, and Crowley, Yeshua, and Freddie were left with the two cars, continuing to play increasingly suggestive songs at one another.

"What do we do now?" Yeshua asked.

"We drive back to Mayfair, and get some sleep, and pretend none of this ever happened."

"You can't just break them up," Yeshua protested. "They're having a moment."

"A moment. A moment?" Crowley stalked toward the open driver's side door of the Bentley. "I had this black Andalusian stallion in the 15th century: sleek, beautiful, magnificent, the fastest thing around on four legs. The only problem was that anytime there was an in-season mare within sniffing distance, he became completely unmanageable. It didn't matter if it was the pride of the king's stables, some farmer's plow horse, or a broken down bag. He wasn't going anywhere until he'd had his fun. Obviously, the only solution was to have him castrated. I don't know how to castrate a car, but you'd better fall in line, or I'm trading you in for a Rolls Royce Phantom." He finished in a low growl, and the Bentley which had been starting in with another round of Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy, abruptly fell silent.

"He's as bad as my dad," Yeshua said to Freddie.

"Get in," Crowley called.

"Actually, I think I'm going to walk," Freddie said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder toward the garage's exit.

"I said. Get. In." Crowley growled.