Chapter 39: Fugitives

I sit in the back of a non-descript van, unheated and bare to the steel floor. The windows have been painted over, the only light coming through the front windshield. Sage huddles next to me, shivering, favoring his shoulder. The two guards from the restaurant watch over us, one with a machine gun in his lap, the other cradling a handgun.

Sage turns his head, lips next to my ear. "Who are these people?"

I don't answer. He already knows, doesn't he?

"Am I the only one who thinks this is a bad idea?" He doesn't sound petulant, or complaining. Just solidly anxious, though his old strength runs through him, keeping his voice steady, his whole being poised for action.

"No," I say. "But we are fugitives and they are the only resource I have to win our freedom."

"We could go back." Sage's hand reaches for mine, squeezes my cold fingers as the lights of the city flash past the windshield, the cold dark and quiet of the countryside ahead. "You have a bigger destiny, Charlie. And I'm getting in the way."

"So you want to die." I'm feeling blunt, to the point. Unwilling to pull punches. He needs to understand this sacrifice isn't just about him.

"No," he says. "But if I'm going to turn into some kind of monster and start making others like me, I guess the answer would be yes."

"There's no guarantee of that," I say, hoping I'm right. His scent remains pure of the revenant taint, even a full day after being bitten, so my hope is stronger than maybe it should be. "For all we know, you won't devolve. And until you prove to me you will, I'm going to work on the assumption there is a way to help you, if you don't mind."

Sage's teeth flash in the single streetlight as he smiles at me. "Whatever you say, princess."

I would hit him, but I'm too amused. A strange place and time to find humor, but I'm not one to discard the chance to lighten the mood if it makes him feel better.

Sage dozes on my shoulder as the hours pass. Iosif promised his men would take us to the border of Slovakia, bribe our way across. It was the best he could do, but it will mean we are out of Ukraine and, with the new papers in our possession, it's enough.

I refuse to worry what I now owe the Mafia leader. He's no Ukrainian, Russian by birth, from what I understand. But unlike other Russian leaders, he has adapted to our country, made himself comfortable, adopted us as his own. The cold and terrible emptiness in the hearts of other Mafia leaders I've met is absent in Iosif. He is either an excellent actor-able to fool even a werewolf-or he genuinely cares for the people. An odd combination for a man steeped in organized crime. His own code of ethics could get him in trouble one day.

I will be there on that day to make sure he is the victorious one for what he's done for Sage and me.

A pothole jars the van, lifting me from the floor slightly, slamming me back down again. Sage surges awake, a growl on his lips. He turns to face me as the two guards cock their weapons, looking suddenly fearful. As they should. Sage's eyes have gone wolf.

I turn toward him, reaching for him with my magic, fear surging in my heart. Is this the time, when the revenant begins to show? Were we in the palace, he would be dragged from his cell and to the throne room, to be beheaded and then cast upon a pyre to burn to dust. But he's here, with me, and if I've chosen wrong, it's possible the two guards will die for my foolishness.

But when I fix my gaze and power upon Sage, I realize there is no madness in him. The wolf has risen, barely to the surface, a reaction to being startled. But he is sane and present, the scent of him as fresh as ever, though now filled with the musky depth of a wolf.

His snarl retreats, dark eyes returning to their sea green, my own canine vision crisp even in the low light.

"Sorry," he mutters, shaking his head. "What happened?"

I laugh nervously, just for his ears, before glaring at the two Mafia guards. They are shaking, eyes wide. Iosif must have warned them about Sage. Did he give orders to kill us both if my love began to turn? I wouldn't be surprised, despite his claims of trust. He has his "concerned parties" to worry about, after all.

"He's fine," I say, cold, commanding. "Cowards."

That raises frowns, anger. The bald one uncocks his handgun, though he remains stiff, while his friend looks forward toward the driver.

"How long?" His Ukrainian is rough, uncultured. Another foreigner in my country. I shake off my irritation and listen for the reply.

"Two more miles." The driver is a slim man with a ragged scar on his cheek. He chain-smokes filterless cigarettes, his window wide open to the cold. I shiver and pull Sage to me, feeling his wolf retreat until it is gone.

The bald guard nods to me. "The border," he says in even harsher Ukrainian.

I wave him off, speaking Russian so I don't have to listen to him butcher my mother tongue with his uncouth mouth. "We're ready." My new backpack rests behind me, a softer place to lean on than the cold wall of the van.

They seem more than happy to see us go. And the feeling is completely mutual.

I peer over the driver's shoulder, nose flaring at the heavy scent of smoke, wolf's gaze catching the distant glimmer of lights signaling the border crossing.

"Arrangements have been made," the driver says in a cheerful tone. He, at least, is Ukrainian, judging by his accent. "This will be but a moment."

I nod, begin to sit back, before freezing in place when I feel them against my shielding.

Enforcers. I jerk back into position, eyes narrowing, searching the sky over the rapidly approaching border. They are nowhere in sight, but I sense the pressure of their power. Femke is looking for us.

For a moment, I consider turning us in. At least Femke will be fair, treat Sage with courtesy and kindness. But she is bound by law, and will have no choice but to return us to my grandfather. So, no. We must avoid her Enforcers at all costs.

"Stop." The driver is startled, drops his cigarette with a curse, slamming on the brakes at the grating sound of my voice in his ear. "We must get out here."

The bald guard joins me behind the driver's seat. "What is it?"

I shake my head, turning to Sage who stares at me with growing anxiety.

"Nothing you can help us with," I say as I lunge for Sage and our backpacks. "Tell Iosif thank you. Your duty is done."

The back of the van opens easily under my hands, the well-oiled hinges telling me we're not the first ones forced to sneak out before the journey is over. The bald guard slips out the back with us, breath rising from his lips in a column of mist as he points off to the right.

"Tsurl," he says. "Small town, you can hide there."

I look to the left. "And that way?"

"Train tracks." He shrugs, washing his hands of us as he leaps into the back of the van and pulls the doors shut.

I pull Sage off the rutted road as the van makes a U-turn, the driver waving a jaunty farewell with his glowing cigarette. Tall grass and brush are an excellent hiding place in the dark, but only for a short time. I glance up the road toward the border, waiting to see if the van's departure has been noticed.

Nothing, no movement. And the Enforcer presence is steady, as though waiting, not actively searching. So we are in no worse shape now than before.

Sage shoulders his pack, turning right, toward town. But I'm already slinking across the road, heading left. He hurries to catch up with me, hand on my arm. "Where are we going?"

"Enforcers are waiting for us at the border." Femke has to uphold law, even werelaw. The magical safety of Europe is her responsibility and having Sage running around-a known revenant in her territory-means she's now forced to pursue us. Sage grimaces, looks back over his shoulder. "We'll find a way across." I pull him along by his grip on me, feeling his hand slide down to take mine. "But, for now, I don't feel like walking, do you?" He shakes his head. "Then let's go catch a train."



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