CHAPTER 38
GETAWAY

All four of my legs shot out, like brakes on a car careering out of control. I caught a glimpse of fur, a flash of canines, and braced for the attack. A tawny underbelly sailed over me. Stupid dog. They never did have any sense of aim. I wheeled around to meet my assailant on the backlash and saw only a flicker of tail fur as he raced away. Huh. Well, that was easy. As I began to run for the riverbank, a roar of fury split the night air, and I again skidded to a stop. I knew that roar. Inhaling, I caught my attacker’s scent and realized why he hadn’t attacked me.

Wheeling, I saw Clay fly at a pack of five dogs. I tore after him. Before I could cover the fifty feet between us, both hounds and one rottweiler turned tail and ran. That meant we only had to fight two dogs, a rottweiler and German shepherd. Perfect! Hey, wait a minute—Clay was running after the cowards, leaving me with both remaining dogs. Goddamn it! Couldn’t he just let them go? Of all the egotistical—The rottweiler turned on me, cutting short my mental tirade. As I spun to face him, the shepherd lunged at my haunch. The rottweiler sank its teeth into my shoulder. I topped backward, trying to knock him off. The shepherd leaped at my throat, but I saw the flash of teeth and snapped my head down to protect my neck. As the shepherd pulled back, I grabbed his ear between my teeth and wrenched, shredding it. He yelped and stumbled away. The rottweiler grabbed my shoulder again and shook me. My legs struggled for a foothold. Pain ripped through my shoulder. My traitorous knee joint flared, doubling the agony. As my good rear leg scuffed the ground, I dug in, got some leverage, and rolled, jerking the rottweiler off his feet. We tumbled down, somersaulting together, snapping at anything within biting distance. Then, in mid-roll, the rottweiler flew off me. Literally flew. One second his teeth were plunging into the thick fur around my neck, then next he was hurtling skyward. Blood sprayed my eyes. Blinded, I lurched to my feet, tossing my head to clear my vision. The first thing I saw was the rottweiler hanging from Clay’s jaws. Then I noticed a movement to my right. The shepherd. It dove at Clay. I spun, catching it in mid-flight, and tore out its throat before we even hit the ground. Its body was still twitching when I heard the shouts of the guards.

I ran for the riverbank. Clay cut me off and shoved me toward the woods. As I snapped at him, I saw the bodies of both hounds lying farther up the path and I understood. Clay had gone after the fleeing hounds to ensure they couldn’t double back and pick up our trail. With the hounds dead, we didn’t need to head for the water.

We dove into the underbrush and circled north, coming within thirty feet of the guards as they jogged toward the river. They didn’t stop, nor did the rottweiler loping beside them. They were making enough noise to cover ours, and the southeasterly wind kept our scent from the dog.

I followed Clay through two miles of forest, heading northeast. When he stopped, I sniffed for the stink of a road but smelled only forest. As I searched the breeze, he brushed along my side, rubbing close enough for me to feel the heat of his body through his fur. He circled me, then paused at my injured shoulder, licked it twice, and circled again. This time he stopped at my left back leg and nudged it out from under me, forcing me to my haunches. He snuffled my torn kneecap, then started to lick it. I jerked up, straining forward, motioning that we had to keep running, but he knocked my rear legs out again, less gently this time, and went back to work on my knee before moving his attention to my shoulder. Every few minutes, he’d move his muzzle to my cheek, breath whooshing hot against my face, nuzzle me, then return to cleaning my injuries. As he worked, my ears pivoted constantly, listening for the guards, but they didn’t come. Finally, Clay prodded me to my feet, brushed along my side one last time, then headed northeast at a slow lope. I followed. A half-hour later, I picked up the distant scent of a road. Time to Change.

Even after I’d Changed back, I stayed in my hiding place. While Clay paced beyond the thicket, I crouched there, listening to the crunch of dead leaves under his feet and wondering what the hell I was doing. For nine days, I hadn’t known whether I’d ever see Clay again. For one endless night, I’d even thought he might be dead. The moment my Change ended, I should have run to him. Instead I knelt close to the ground, heart thudding, not with anticipation, but something closer to fear. I didn’t know how to face Clay. It was like a stranger was waiting for me and I wasn’t sure how to react, wanting nothing more than to huddle here until he went away. Not that I wanted Clay to go away. I just … I wished Jeremy were there. Wasn’t that awful? Wanting a buffer to protect me against a reunion with the man I loved? Clay was the only person with whom I ever felt completely comfortable. And now I felt as if I were confronting a stranger? What kind of bullshit was that? Yet even as I railed at my lunacy, I couldn’t bring myself to go to him. I was afraid. Afraid I’d see something missing from his eyes, see traces of the look he’d given me when he’d thought I was Paige.

Clay stopped pacing. “Elena?” he said softly.

“Ummm—I don’t have any clothing.”

Of all the idiotic things I could say, that topped the list. I expected Clay to fall over laughing. He didn’t. He didn’t make a sound, just reached into the thicket and held out his hand. I closed my eyes, took it, and let him pull me out.

“Lousy time for joking, eh?” I said.

But he wasn’t smiling. Instead he stood there, eyes searching my face, hesitant, almost uncertain. Then he pulled me against him. My knees gave way, and I stumbled into his arms, burying my face against his shoulder, inhaling his smell as a sound frighteningly close to a sob burst from my lips. I breathed in his scent, filling my brain with it, crowding out every thing else. My body shuddered, then started to shake. Clay hugged me tight, one hand entwined in my hair, the other rubbing my back.

When I stopped shaking, I bent my knees, lowering us to the ground. His hands slid behind my back, cushioning it against the cold earth. I touched my lips to his, tentatively, as if there was still a chance he’d pull away, reject me. His lips moved against mine, soft, then harder, increasing in pressure and intensity until I couldn’t breathe and didn’t care. I guided my hips up to his and pulled him into me.

Afterward, as we lay on the dew-damp ground, I listened for human sounds and heard only the tripping of Clay’s heartbeat, slowing with each breath. It would be just my luck to have the guards find us now, lying in the grass twenty feet from freedom, having postponed our getaway to make love. Was that the ultimate in balls, recklessness, or plain stupidity? Probably a combination of all three. Never let it be said that Clay and I ever did anything as conventional as actually completing an escape from near-death before indulging in a quick round of reunion sex.

“We should go,” I said.

Clay chuckled. “You think?”

“Probably. Unless you brought food. Then maybe we could squeeze in a picnic before we leave, watch the sun come up.”

“Sorry, darling. No food. There’s a town about ten miles from here. We’ll grab breakfast there.”

“No sense rushing things. Sex. A relaxing meal. Hell, maybe we can find time for some sight-seeing before we go.”

Clay laughed. “I’m afraid the only local sight we’ll be seeing is the nearest restaurant drive-thru. I was in kind of a hurry to get away and I didn’t grab a change of clothes. We’ll have to share what I’ve got. Of course, that’ll make it easier if we decide to stop for more sex after breakfast.”

“Just take me home,” I said.

“I wish I could, darling.”

“I meant, take me wherever Jeremy and the others are.”

He nodded and retrieved his clothes from behind a nearby tree. Then he handed me his shirt, boxers, and socks, leaving him with his jeans and shoes. Once we’d dressed—or half-dressed—he carried me to the waiting car. No, it wasn’t some great romantic gesture. The ground was wet and I’d have drenched my socks if I walked. Plus my knee still throbbed when I put any weight on it. So maybe it was romantic after all. Practical romance. The kind we did best.

We were in Maine. Not seaside, vacation-land Maine, but the middle of the remote northern section. Before Clay had left Jeremy to look for me, the others had narrowed my location to upper Maine. In Clay’s absence, Jeremy had moved everyone to New Brunswick, deeming it the safest location from which to search for both of us. Clay learned this by calling Jeremy from a roadside pay phone. Jeremy still had my cell phone and was able to give him directions.

On the way to New Brunswick we stuck to the back roads for as long as we could, but in that part of Maine, the non-highway roads were often so insignificant we couldn’t find them on the map. We soon turned onto I-95. Forty minutes later we arrived at the Houlton– Woodstock border crossing. As usual, crossing the border into Canada was a snap. Pull up to the booth and answer a few simple questions. Citizenship? Destination? Length of stay? Bringing any firearms/liquor/ fresh produce? Enjoy your stay. I hoped we would.

Jeremy had taken the others to a motel a few miles off the Trans-Canada Highway, near Nackawic. Why had Jeremy chosen western New Brunswick for their base camp? Two reasons. First, it was outside the United States. Tucker and his guards were American and knew all of us—except me—were American, so they’d assume we’d stay in the States, even if Canada was a few scant hours away. Second, western New Brunswick was primarily French-speaking. That might seem like an obstacle—and Jeremy hoped it would—but in reality the language barrier was as easily crossed as the international border. Jeremy and I both spoke French, and even if we hadn’t, most locals would be bilingual. It was difficult to live in Canada and not speak at least some English, despite our official national bilingualism. If Tucker even thought to send a search party across the border, he’d gravitate toward the English-speaking regions in eastern New Brunswick. So, although we were less than two hundred miles north of the compound, we were safer here than if we’d run all the way down the coast to Florida.

Throughout the trip, Clay and I barely spoke. Anyone else would have peppered me with queries about my captors, the compound, my escape. Eventually I’d have to answer these questions, but right then, I wanted nothing more than to lean back in my seat, watch the scenery pass, and forget what I’d left behind. Clay let me do that.

We reached the motel at nine-thirty. It was an old but well-kept motor lodge with a huge roadside sign proclaiming “Bienvenue/Welcome.” Only a half-dozen cars dotted the parking lot. Come evening, it would fill with vacationers making the trek from Ontario and Quebec to the Maritimes, but for now everyone was gone, up early and on the road by breakfast.

“Is this the right place?” I said. “Do you recognize any of the rental cars?”

“No, but they’d have traded them for new ones. I do recognize that guy by the fence, though.”

Jeremy stood before a caged pen of grouse and pheasant, his back to us. I threw open the door and leaped out before the car stopped rolling.

“Hungry?” I called as I jogged toward Jeremy. “They look fat enough.”

Jeremy turned, giving me a half-smile, as unsurprised if I’d been standing behind him the entire time. He’d probably seen us drive in and stood here, watching the birds. At one time, not even so long ago, I’d have taken this as a snub, spent hours agonizing over why he hadn’t come to greet me. But I knew Jeremy hadn’t been ignoring me. He’d been waiting. Jeremy would no more come running out to welcome me back than he’d scoop me up in a bear hug and tell me he’d missed me. Anyone else in the Pack would, but that wasn’t Jeremy’s way, never would be. Yet when I threw my arms around him and kissed his cheek, he hugged me back and murmured that he was glad to see me. That was enough.

“Have you eaten?” he asked. Again, typical Jeremy. I’d spent nine days locked in a cell and his first concern would be that they hadn’t fed me properly.

“We grabbed breakfast,” Clay said as he approached. “But she’s probably still hungry.”

“Starved,” I said.

“There’s a restaurant a mile down,” Jeremy said. “We’ll get a proper meal there. First, though, I suggest you put on more clothing. Both of you.” He steered me toward the motel. “We’ll take my room. My kit’s in there. Judging by the looks of that knee we’ll need it.”

A room door opened and Paige emerged, but Jeremy continued leading me toward the opposite end of the motel. I managed a quick smile and wave before Jeremy ushered me into his room.

“They’re eager to see you, but it can wait,” he said.

“Preferably until after I shower,” I said.

“First, medical attention. Then a shower, food, and rest. There’s no rush to talk to anyone.”

“Thanks.”

“Her knee’s the worst,” Clay said as I sat down. “The shoulder looks bad, but it’s all surface tearing. The knee damage goes deeper. Partially healed and torn open again. The arm and facial cuts are superficial, but they need to be cleaned up. Same with the slice on her hand and the powder burns on her shoulder and side. There’s also some healed puncture wounds in her stomach you should check.”

“Should I?” Jeremy said.

“Sorry.”

I knew Clay was apologizing not so much for giving Jeremy medical instructions but for the last few days, for taking off on his own. No one spoke as Jeremy examined my wounds. While he bent over my knee, my stomach growled.

Jeremy glanced over his shoulder at Clay. “The restaurant is on the east side of the highway. Head south around the bend. They should have pancakes.”

“Et le jambon, s’il vous plaît,” I said.

“They speak English,” Jeremy said, lips twitching as Clay hesitated by the door. He gingerly pulled a half-dozen broken threads from my kneecap before adding, “She said she wants ham as well. Naturellement.”

“Right,” Clay said. And left.