We track the numbers, then stop when we reach it. A white van is parked there. Sable circles to the driver’s side, opens the door, and flips the visor. Keys drop out, and then she’s sliding into the front seat and firing the ignition. The engine turns over.
“In!” she urges. “Quick.”
I’m in the passenger seat, and she pulls off before I’ve slammed the door shut, the tires squealing on the smooth floor.
A rolling door looms ahead. Chain drive. Electric motor.
“Last one,” she says, eyes focused ahead.
I reach. Find the motor’s frequency. Push. The chain groans. The door climbs. Cold air floods in. Pine. Wet earth. Open sky. My lungs fill with air that hasn’t come through a vent, and for a heartbeat, I can take all of it in.
“Hey. You okay?”
“Yeah.” I wipe my face and find blood dripping off my chin.
Hold it together.
Sable pulls through the loading door. Headlights off. Gravel under the tires. The compound lights slide past as we move through an empty yard.
We pass through, the towering security fences shrinking in the mirror.
I lean against the window, glass cold on my skin, blood drying on my skin. My power is spent. If another door appeared, I couldn’t open a jar.
“You’re still bleeding,” Sable says. Driving by wolf-sight, the van winding through dark trees.
“I know.”
“How bad is it?”
“I’ll be fine. The wolf is carrying it.” I look at my hands. My nails are clawed.
“Being away from the wards should help with healing. Give your body time.” She takes a curve. “We’re heading north. Past the border territories.”
“How far?”
“Few hours. Maybe more.”
“Okay,” I say. My teeth chatter as I say it. Shock. Exertion. Maybe both.
She glances at me. Quick. Then back to the road. “There’s a blanket behind your seat.”
I reach back and feel rough wool. I pull it over my shoulders. My body takes it like a gift.
“The doctor,” I say. “From the facility. She’s at Aurora.”
“I know. I met her.” Sable’s jaw tightens. “She told Viktor I’m the reason you’re unstable.”
“She’s wrong.”
“I know she’s wrong.”
Trees pass in the dark. Tires hiss over wet asphalt.
“She said she built you,” Sable says. Quieter. “That nobody else can manage what’s inside you.”
“She didn’t build me,” I mutter. “I was always there. She just used what I had.”
Sable’s hand leaves the gear shift. I take it. My fingers are too thick, the joints swollen. I close them around her hand as carefully as I can.
