[ It’s not lost on Mace, the level-headedness with which Peter’s facing everything, and he doesn’t mean this situation alone. Peter’s words from the network filter back into his thoughts — I can handle more than you think — and he makes a mental note to ask the kid what he’d meant, later on. But he doesn’t miss that squint, either; and that, coupled with Peter’s question, has a few pieces immediately falling into place that had been in limbo before.
Mace is quick to clarify. ] One of Santa’s reindeer’s gone rogue, right behind us — approaching fast, about thirty feet away, give or take five — and I don’t think it’s Rudolph. The nose isn’t lit up, but the eyes ... [ His last look in the rearview just now had shown him two dull red flames, glowing brighter and brighter below what looked to be incredibly wide-set antlers — and that alone is enough to confirm that this is, yes, deliberate. Not a regular deer. Something else.
A clear blue gaze flicks over at Peter in one final check to make sure he’s secure, and there’s something firm and approving in Mace’s voice as he notes the arm around the seat. ]
Good man.
[ And then it’s pedal to the metal — which is not nearly as impressive as it would’ve been about a century later, but to the station wagon’s credit, it does the best it can. Which seems to be a loud, sullen grumble that suddenly jumps in volume as the car lurches forward, the trees on either side of the road whipping past in a dark, greenish blur. Mace’s eyes don’t stray from the road in front of him, this time, because he’s got a single damn objective or bust.
Five minutes, ETA. Tops. It has to be, they’re going easily fast enough —
The sun dips below the horizon, plunging the world around them into night; and the darkness around them shatters with something deep and bellowing and monstrous, hooves clattering against concrete, suddenly far too loud to be anything but right behind them.
Clang. Something hits the trunk of the car, and Mace’s hands go tight around the steering wheel as he keeps the wagon from skidding into the side of the road. ]
no subject
Mace is quick to clarify. ] One of Santa’s reindeer’s gone rogue, right behind us — approaching fast, about thirty feet away, give or take five — and I don’t think it’s Rudolph. The nose isn’t lit up, but the eyes ... [ His last look in the rearview just now had shown him two dull red flames, glowing brighter and brighter below what looked to be incredibly wide-set antlers — and that alone is enough to confirm that this is, yes, deliberate. Not a regular deer. Something else.
A clear blue gaze flicks over at Peter in one final check to make sure he’s secure, and there’s something firm and approving in Mace’s voice as he notes the arm around the seat. ]
Good man.
[ And then it’s pedal to the metal — which is not nearly as impressive as it would’ve been about a century later, but to the station wagon’s credit, it does the best it can. Which seems to be a loud, sullen grumble that suddenly jumps in volume as the car lurches forward, the trees on either side of the road whipping past in a dark, greenish blur. Mace’s eyes don’t stray from the road in front of him, this time, because he’s got a single damn objective or bust.
Five minutes, ETA. Tops. It has to be, they’re going easily fast enough —
The sun dips below the horizon, plunging the world around them into night; and the darkness around them shatters with something deep and bellowing and monstrous, hooves clattering against concrete, suddenly far too loud to be anything but right behind them.
Clang. Something hits the trunk of the car, and Mace’s hands go tight around the steering wheel as he keeps the wagon from skidding into the side of the road. ]