by Jess Evander
Everything registers now. Civil War. People hiding. “They’re slaves,” I whisper. I can see them now—a man and a woman clasping hands.
Lark looks back at me and huffs. “Of course they are.” She turns back to them. “Well, go ahead and take off.”
They start to back away, but halt at the sound of hounds baying.
I step closer. “Wait. Is that…?”
Lark nods. “Trackers.” She taps the side of the tree. “Well, climb, Gabby. Time’s a-wasting.”
“No. Not until we help them.”
Lark’s hands pop to her hips. “Absolutely not. They’re on their own. We’re here to save Pinkerton and Michael. End of story.”
Dropping the rock near the base of the tree, I cross my arms. “That’s where you and the Elders are wrong. See, I think we’re here to help anyone who needs us.”
A pounding rattles the ground. Dogs surge through an opening on the other side of the road, followed closely by three men carrying guns.
Lark shoots me a glare and tosses the bag back to me. “If Michael dies, that’s on your head.” She calls to the couple behind us. “Step onto the street. I promise to protect you.”
As the trackers loom forward, I hide my shaking hands behind my back. Some have missing teeth. All have dirt and grime caking their pants.
Lark waves the slaves even closer to her. They line up behind us, heads lowered, like men waiting on death row. She squares her shoulders, and somehow looks like she’s grown three inches taller in the last few seconds. Her chin held high, she struts toward the trackers. “Evening, gentlemen.”
Like they’re in the presence of a queen, they remove their hats and hold them to their hearts. “Good evening, Miss. What has you out at such a late time?”
Lark sweeps closer to them. “I could ask you men the same question.” I imagine they see her in some impressive gown, something fitting for a spoiled plantation debutante.
The two dogs are circling me and the slaves, baring their teeth. I fight the urge to kick the animals away.
“Hunting runaways. After them slaves, I wager.” The man wags his gun to indicate the slaves behind me. My breath catches as the barrel of the gun points in my direction. I can only guess what must be racing through the slaves’ minds.
“Those slaves?” Lark’s voice goes into soprano. “Surely not. On whose order?”
“Old Mister Hanz. They’re his property.”
She fans her face. “Oh. I see now. This is a misunderstanding. For those are not Mister Hanz’s slaves. They can’t be.” A tinkering laugh follows.
“Why not, Miss?”
“Because, they are my slaves. How can they be both his and mine at the same time?”
“Are you certain they’re yours?”
“Of course I’m sure. Someone doesn’t mistake their own property, now do they?” She’s a foot away from the ring leader, batting her eyes.
He yanks on his collar. “Makes no sense. Why would you be out with them so late? A lady like you don’t usually go about alone.”
Lark lays her hand on the man’s arm. “You are right, sir. I’m on my way to surprise my sweetheart. I’ve heard he’s been moved to Camp Beauregard. With this awful war, I haven’t been able to see my Edward in so long.” She pulls a handkerchief from her pocket and dabs at her eyes. “Do you men have wives or sweethearts?”
“Yes, Miss. All of us.”
“Then you understand the pain of separation. I know I shouldn’t be out so late. I should have obeyed my Papa, but I had to see the man I love.”
“Pulls at the heart, Miss. But it don’t explain the slaves.”
“Oh, but it does.” She balls the handkerchief in her fist. “I couldn’t possibly go alone. So I brought the strongest slave from our farm to accompany me, but I couldn’t possibly be alone with him—so I had to bring my housemaid as well—for safety of course. They are very loyal. And so I wouldn’t be alone with them, I invited my impoverished cousin.” She points at me.
Thanks, Lark.
The man slaps his hat back on his head and whistles to call off his dogs. “I advise you run on home then. The camp’s a far way off yet and there are no stopping places fit for ladies in between.”
She squeezes his offered hand between both of hers. “Yes. My feet are tired. I believe I’ll heed your kind advice.”
Just like that, the trackers leave. We stand in the middle of the road in silence. I can’t gauge when it’s safe to move.
Lark can. “Well, that’s that. Now shimmy up that tree.”
The male slave steps forward. “We thank you, Miz. You saved our lives.”
She nods, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “You best carry on.”
They back away, disappearing into the darkness.
I grip the tree’s lowest branches but look over at Lark. “You were great. I could never have pulled that off.”
She yanks the backpack off the ground, looping it over one shoulder. “You better hope we shift before they realize their mistake, because once they catch on, they’ll kill us on the spot.”
I’m trying to work out how I’m going to scramble up this tree while carrying a rock when Lark’s words sink in. I look back at her. “You really think the trackers will come back?”
“Most definitely.” She’s a few paces away from me now, her face draped in half shadows. Her hair glows like new snow in the few rays of moonlight that reach her.
“Will you be in trouble with Donovan because you helped those slaves?”
She shuffles her feet. “You know, my father’s not as bad as you think he is.”
“No offense, but you could have fooled me.”
Lark takes a step back that covers her in darkness. “The Elders come by their positions because they’ve experienced great hardship. My dad is no exception.”
Sure, but growing up without a mother in the care of an alcoholic father, I’m no exception, either. I cross my arms. “What could have possibly happened to make him so rough around the edges?”
Lark rests a hand on the side of her neck. “My mom loved him so much, and the same goes for him. I can’t explain it. They were more devoted than any movie or story.”
My shoulders relax. “I think I understand.”
“You don’t, though. When I got old enough not to need him the most, he shifted and it crushed her after so many happy years together. Then when I shifted—I guess it was too hard on her and she’s … not alive anymore.”
Did her mom commit suicide? I can’t bring myself to ask her. But the pain in her voice is evident. I rub the scar on my wrist. Michael was right, no matter how bad life gets, I can never take it out on myself again.
I let go of my wrist. “Is it the same for the others?”
She purses her lips. “Have you heard of the Salem witch trials? The Shades convinced the people of the town that the twins were witches. They were tied and burned at the stake. Only shifted seconds before passing out from pain. There was too much damage to their skin. It couldn’t be repaired when they got to Keleusma. They have no hope of Pairing and refuse to shift anymore.”
The story makes me grimace. “Understandable.”
“And I don’t know Beatrix’s story. My dad said it’s the saddest of them all, but he won’t tell me, and no one talks about it.” She starts to turn, to leave.
“Where are you going?”
“To find a horse. I’ll be back soon. Get in position.”
I’m left with no choice but to scale this tree. Wedging the rock under my armpit, I climb slowly. When I arrive at the fork, I shimmy inch by inch out onto the limb until I’m over the road. Lark was right about this branch. It’s almost wide enough to hide me, but each time I move, the whole thing wobbles. Bracing my elbows against the scratchy bark, I lay against the surface, the rock between my hands. My only options now are to wait, and think.
Nicholas has to be real. Lark’s appearance proved that for me. I may not understand him and how he works, but at leas
t I know he’s there. Whatever that means, I hope he has the power to keep Michael alive. Because if something happens to Michael … what if this morning was the last time I’ll ever see him?
My throat tightens with tears. I miss the weight of his backpack on my back. At least I’m wearing his shirt, though it doesn’t carry any scent of him. The piece of fabric once belonged to him, however paltry that may be. And on my hand, I still have the jagged cut he mended.
“Miz? Miz, are you up there?”
I almost lose my grip and tumble to the ground. Using a smaller branch as an anchor, I latch on with one hand and bob my head over the edge. I recognize the man as the slave from earlier.
He waves at me. “I’m here to help you.”
“That’s really nice, but you need to go. The trackers will be back.” The branch is biting into my cut palm. I wince.
“No, ma’am. You saved my sister’s life, so I’ll repay you now.”
“But if you get caught—”
“My sister is all I have in the world and she’s safe at the next stop on the rail tonight because of you. I’m stronger than those men. So don’t you worry about me.” I don’t doubt that. His muscles are clear through his thin shirt.
“I’m waiting for a group of Confederates. They’ll have a jail wagon with them. My friend is inside.”
“How about, I wait on down the road a spell and when I spot them I’ll do this.” He cups his hands around his mouth a releases a long coyote howl. “After I warn you, we’re square.”
I nod. “Completely.”
Just as silently as he arrived, he wanders away. I’m left alone again.
A few minutes later, footfalls and conversations announce people are traveling on the road. I lean to look down, but it can’t be the soldiers I’m watching for. This group is approaching from the wrong direction. I’ll just wait for them to pass. But they don’t. They hear someone in the woods and stop right below me. I cross my fingers. Lark’s too smart to go tromping around like that, right? Abel too. That’s when I hear the dogs barking. A second later, the two hounds from earlier crash through the underbrush and bay again. Trackers.
They’re back.
The ringleader explodes out of the woods, his gun drawn. “Did you see them?” He surges toward the men on the road.
Both men put their hands up in surrender. “See who?—and put that thing down.”
The tracker spits. “Some slaves and two ladies hiding them. One blonde and one mousy one.”
Wait. That makes me the mousy one. Even though he can’t see me, I shoot him my best glare.
Something small crawls up my leg. The bug must have made its way under the fabric of my pants, right onto my skin. I bite my tongue, but I can’t help wiggling my foot. Leaves rustle as the branch sways. Some sort of large seedling near my hand breaks free and plummets into the air.
Someone bellows, “Ouch!”
Like a little kid hoping to become invisible, I close my eyes.
But I’m still here because I hear an angry voice say, “Now. What in the world? Who tossed this at me?” Boots move against the road. I think I’m safe, and then I hear the loud bang. A bullet whistles in my direction, slicing into the tree limb. Bark splinters near my hand. My heart beats a triple-time march. Can they see me? Are they trying to shoot me out of the tree?
In the commotion, they’ve startled a squirrel. It scampers across a limb a few feet from my head.
“You’re being bested by a tree rat.” The comment is followed by a round of laughter.
This time I hear the gun cock. I hold my breath. Ignore the bug creeping further up my knee. The shot cracks the air like a whip in the night. I watch the squirrel stop in the middle of his run, teeter, and fall out of view. A second later, there is a distinct, small thud. The men talk for a moment more. I can’t tell what they’re saying because their voices are too low. Whatever it is, they all leave.
Has an hour passed? Or mere minutes? As the moon carves its way across the deep purple sky, my eyelids start to feel heavy. So heavy. Maybe a minute with them closed might help. I’ll be more energized.
A loud yawn escapes before I can stop it. Where is Lark, anyway? Why do the other Shifters always have to leave to find horses? She should be here. Help me. She’s better at this sort of thing and knows what to expect. At the very least, I should have asked a few more questions. Like, after breaking open the lock, how, exactly, am I supposed to fend off ten soldiers?
A sick feeling rocks through my gut. What if she’s been captured? Maybe the Confederates won’t even come this way now. I could sit up here for days and not know what to do next.
I’m contemplating scrambling down from my perch when I hear a long, mournful howl that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
I blink a few times. Willing myself to be alert and focus. “Thank you,” I whisper.
Sure enough, horse hooves beat like a war drum against the ground. The wagon carrying Michael and Pinkerton creeks forward on squeaky wheels.
I scan the edge of the forest and can’t find Lark. What on earth am I going to accomplish without her? Maybe she’d want me to abandon the plan and start fresh tomorrow. No chance.
I have to try. Michael’s in there. I owe him. No. It’s more than that. I care about him. Maybe more than I care about anyone else in the world.
The carriage moves closer, and sways back and forth. No one is riding behind it, most likely because nobody wants their view blocked by a jail wagon for hours on end. I study the roof. It’s flat. If I hold on to a branch and dangle, I’ll only drop a foot or two before I land on top of it.
I can do this.
Purpose surges through me. I wait for the very last moment before clutching the rock in one hand and swinging down on the branch with the other. Bark rips at my skin, but I don’t feel the pain. I drop down onto the top of the jail wagon. The troops ride on. They haven’t noticed me. Gripping the edge for balance, I worm to the back end. Blessedly, there is a handrail across the top of the door. My guess is it’s for extra guards to hang onto while the thing is moving. I grab the bar and lower myself down the back.
My hands are sweaty and my grasp starts to slip. Feet spinning like a cartoon character, I find a three-inch ledge near the bottom of the door to steady myself. Readjusting my hold, I wait for the men’s song to crescendo. When they do, I smack the top of the lock with the rock as hard as I can. I have to strike it again before the metal breaks clean off.
The door flings open, sending me tumbling head over feet on the ground. I’m dazed for a second, but with it enough to see Pinkerton hop down and tear past me. Someone whistles. Lark stands twenty feet back, a horse next to her as she motions for me to run to safety.
But Michael hasn’t come out of the carriage yet. Jumping to my feet, I take off at a sprint. The swaying movement of the carriage makes the door start to close. I push myself harder and lunge toward the wagon, sticking my hand between the door and where it will close again. Pain shoots up my arm. I can handle it, though. My actions have kept the door from clattering shut and giving us all away. With strength I didn’t know I possessed, I yank myself into the carriage and find Michael tied to a bench.
He tries to shove me away with his feet. “Get out of here. They’ll catch you too.”
I grab his arm and squeeze hard enough to make him flinch. “Knock it off. I’m not leaving you.”
Even in the half-dark inside this box, his condition makes my heart constrict. The entire side of his face is one big bruise. A deep gash carves its way around his eye, and dried blood cakes his hair. The knot holding him in place is easy enough to work free. Once it falls to the ground, I pull him to his feet, wrap my arm around his waist, and we jump to the ground. Fall to our knees. For a heartbeat I think we’re free. Then I realize the carriage isn’t moving anymore, and no one is singing.
“Get up, Michael. Now!”
He must have some energy left, because he’s on his feet before I am. Michael grabs my
waist, shoving me in front of him as we run. His body is a shield protecting me from any attack the soldiers might launch.
The troops holler something I can’t make out, and my lungs burn for air. Hooves pound behind us. We can’t outrun horses. Four gunshots break the stillness of nighttime. Then five, six, I lose count. Bullets hiss around us and pelt into the dirt and into nearby trees. Too close.
I spot Lark and veer toward her. But Pinkerton and the horse are gone.
“Hurry!” Lark waves her hand. “There’s a portal just over this bend.” She points into the forest.
I’m a foot away when I see her stumble. I leap forward, catching her by the elbow. She gasps and coughs. Her eyes trail down her front, and I follow them to the bullet hole in her chest.
Michael’s beside me now, his breath coming out hard and fast. He throws his arm over my head, making me stoop as more bullets rip through the fabric of night above us.
I shove his arm away. “She’s been hit.”
The horses are off the road and charging through the bushes now. In seconds they’ll descend upon us. Probably crush us.
Lark totters. Her eyes droop shut.
Michael takes her from me, hoisting her into his arms. At a fast clip, we head in the direction Lark pointed. As we turn a small bend, I see the bright rippling light. The portal’s ready for us. I could weep. I glance back over my shoulder and gasp at the coming troops. Why did I stop running?
Michael’s more than twenty feet ahead of me, stumbling into the light with Lark limp in his arms. Everything around him starts to glow. He’s headed back to Keleusma.
Michael looks back just in time to see a Confederate soldier round his horse in front of me, cutting me off from Michael and Lark. The portal goes dark. They’re gone. Safe.
Two more horses close me in. Three guns cock.
I fling my arms over my head, as if that’ll save me from a bullet. Heat coils around my wrist, and at first I think they shot me, but then comes a familiar bolt of light, wrapping me in a wave of charged air.
The soldiers unload their guns, but the bullets pass through me. Their choice words sound far away.