The truck lurches, the rear end kicking sideways before the tires catch, and Kendra’s head snaps forward off the headrest, her hands flying to the dashboard. Andrew grabs Aiden’s shoulders to keep him from pitching forward and I have my hand at the back of her coat before I have thought it, easing her into the seat as the truck rocks to a stop.
“Oh shit,” Kade says.
“Oh my god,” Kendra starts, raw with sleep and adrenaline. “What are you doing,”
“What the fuck,” Aiden says from behind us.
“Oh shit is right,” Andrew says quietly, and something in his voice pulls my eyes to the windshield.
The freeway is blocked. Three black SUVs sit across both northbound lanes with headlights aimed directly at us, and behind them four more, spread wide, a wall of steel none of us are driving through. Men stand in the gaps between vehicles, weapons raised, and even from here I can see the helmets. The same helmets. And above us, rotors, two helicopters holding position over the freeway, searchlights pouring through the snow and sweeping the road surface below.
“We were almost fucking there,” Kade says, quiet and flat. Then the anger finds its footing. “How the fuck.” She looks up at the helicopters. She has her answer.
The driver door of the lead SUV opens.
I know the posture before the face becomes clear. The same loose, unhurried walk from the parking lot. The man who drove away into the blizzard with a threat. He stops in front of his vehicle and looks directly at the truck.
“I know you can hear me, Alemayehu.” His voice carries through the windshield. He doesn’t need to raise it. “These weapons might not do much to you right now, I’ll give you that. But they will hurt her.” He lets that sit for a second. “They will kill her. So do me a favor and get out of the truck so I don’t have to make that decision for you.”
Get out,my Bouda says immediately.We fight for our queen. We did not fight hard enough before and we lost everything we had. We will not lose again.
My door is open before Kendra finishes saying my name.
“Kojo,” she says, “what are you doing,” and then: “Kojo, stop.” But I am already out, both feet on the freeway, the snowdissolving on contact with my skin, my ridge locking upright along my back.
The passenger door pulls open from inside and Kade’s voice cuts across the cab. “No. Kendra, no. If they shoot, you get hit, and we cannot have that. Stay in the truck.” Then, sharp, toward the back seat: “Andrew, guard her.”
“Tell that witch-vampire,” the leader calls out, “that if she takes one step outside that vehicle, your mate is dead. I’ve got two snipers on that truck right now.”
Kade doesn’t move. Something recalculates behind her eyes. “That motherfucker,” she says through the open door. “I am going to personally drain him when this is done.”
The helicopters hold steady above us. The searchlights pin the truck and the road in white. Fourteen armed men in the formation ahead, not counting the leader. Two in each helicopter at minimum. Every helmet is fitted with the same anti-cackle hardware from the parking lot, and the rifles track me as I stand on the freeway.
My Bouda is already running the numbers. He is counting the men, the gaps between them, the distance to the formation, the angle of the helicopters against the freeway surface. He is pulling it apart and rebuilding it in the span of three seconds and when he has it he says:I have a plan. Listen to me exactly and we survive this. Tell Kade to guard the queen.
“We should not act without a clear plan.” The growl that builds inside me is not mine. It rises from somewhere below conscious thought, my Bouda pressing against the wall of my control with his full weight, and when he speaks it is not a suggestion:If you will not protect her, Alemayehu, I will shift. Right here. I will not stand still while our queen sits in that truck with snipers on her.
I know exactly how much he means it.
I breathe. I exhale through my nose and let my body settle and I am about to call to her when it hits me, sharp and unmistakable beneath the exhaust and the gun oil and the chemical stench of the helmets: petrichor, highland mineral air, the specific cold of savannah grass before rain.
My ridge flattens for exactly one second.
