"Then there's nowhere to go but forward," Melpomene said, and plunged forward into chilling, uncertain waters. If their actions caused Clio harm... well, Melpomene would just have to sharpen her vengeance knives, wouldn't she, and call on the wrath of any god she could call on, cover the alphabet from Apollo to Zeus...
"Okay, um, turn left here," said Much, who'd slithered into the back seat and was hovering near Alan's shoulder, phone in hand. Head in the same direction by a different route, that was the plan... and what happened when they got there?
Figure it out when they got there, Much supposed. So much for complicated plans. The world really did want him to just think on his feet, didn't it?
He kept giving directions, as the city around them grew more industrial, less alive. And suddenly Much said “He’s stopped." Every one of his nerves danced under his skin.
“Then we stop too,” Melpomene said, her nerves cooler, angrier. She didn’t like this, she didn’t like not knowing the risk to Clio’s life, and yet she would not be anywhere else. Alan listened to her, and found the nearest place to pull over, outside a factory too dark and closed to tell what kind of factory it was. They all leaned forward to look at the map on Much’s phone, the dot that was Will Stutely’s phone three blocks away. If Clio was anywhere, it was there too.
There was a fast, whispered argument between Much and Melpomene.
“We need to get closer.”
“No, if he sees you, he might hurt her.”
“We need eyes on the scene!”
“If. He. Sees. You.”
“He won’t - I’m sneaky. He’s eight feet tall,” Much pointed accusingly at Alan. “You’re pregnant. I’ll be silent and slow and careful. And also? I’m gone already!” He slipped out of the car before anyone could grab him and stop him. Melpomene gripped Alan’s arm in alarm, or anger, or fear, but even she had to admit Much melted very convincingly into the shadows.
Much wasn’t going to get close if he could feel them all there, he’d already decided. Wasn’t worth risking Clio, but he wasn’t just going to sit in the car, because it wasn’t worth risking Stoots either. Maybe 'you won't find them' didn't count if Stoots wasn't quite lost, yet...
And if there was a chance, just a chance he could get close enough to the Sheriff’s car to slap the tracker in his pocket onto it (thank you Ben) then Much had to take it.
But as he got closer, there was only one immortal he could feel, and it wasn't the familiar, comfortable-old-boot feeling that was Stoots or the nauseating gut-twist that was the Sheriff. They were both long gone. Clio, though, was not. Despite their loss, Much still breathed and dizzying gasp of relief.
"Clio!" he called out, sprinting down the road toward her.