Taken

Chapter 27

It rained through the minister’s graveside address, but stopped just in time for the casket to be lowered. The sun broke through, and golden light poured over the cemetery.

She sat in the passenger’s seat, her fingers twisting together, and watched as the pearl-gray coffin descended. The window was down just a little, and she suspected Zach would have told her what was being said. If she asked.

The little jeweled purse lay in her lap. When her fingers weren’t curling around one another, they were running over the absurd colored rhinestones, the big fake plastic jewels.

Oh, Lucy.

There were mourners—Battle-Ax Margo, her blue hair piled just as high and proud as ever, and everyone else from the office. Classmates. Quite a few of them, actually. Some of them were even crying. Margo dabbed at her eyes every so often.

And off to one side, in his grubby mackintosh, was Detective Andrews.

I’m free. It was a strange thought. Shadows moved like liquid through the van’s interior; Zach had parked out of easy sight, in the shade of a huge cedar.

She watched intently, pushing her glasses up every now and again. When she looked over the top of the lenses, the world was a comforting blur of evergreen and gold, with the silver speckles of frozen rain dewing the blade-edged grass.

When she looked through them, everything was in clear sharp focus. Even the majir, swirling around the van, unhurried.

“You all right?” Zach asked again.

“Fine,” she said, again. Quietly. “I’m watching my own funeral.” After all, I missed Lucy’s.

“Are you sure about this?”

She glanced at him. He held the steering wheel, his hands steady, and was looking at the side mirror, checking around the van. It would be stupid to be seen here, but she’d wanted to come.

His hair fell over his eyes, that soft wave she could touch anytime she wanted—or the white streak sliding down the side of his head, a little coarser than the rest of his hair. Each time she did he would lean in, as if he liked it. As if he couldn’t get enough. He would let out a little sigh, and sometimes close his eyes. Which meant she had to touch his cheek, too, trace his jawbone, and marvel at the complete and utter trust on his face, the vulnerable openness.

Which usually lead to him leaning in and kissing her. It was nice, and he was very slow. Very deliberate. Very patient.

She liked that about him. The more she was with them, the more she realized she did like all of them. She liked Julia’s fierce loyalty and Eric’s steadiness, and Brun’s sweetness.

But most of all, she liked Zach.

“I’m sure. They’ve already reported me as dead. Why show up and have to answer questions?” And I was so close to my degree, too.

“You could go back to school. We’d tell whatever lies we had to, Sophie.”

“Better just to start over with no lies.” Or, at least, very few. She still wasn’t used to the implicit assumption of “us against the world,” but traveling werewolves probably had a lot of reasons to feel that way.

Not werewolves, she reminded herself. Carcajou.

And she was their shaman. She was beginning to learn what that meant. The next thing was singing Zach’s brother into rest, a type of funeral they would perform privately. When she was ready to handle it.

“You might feel differently when we—”

“I started over once before, Zach. I can do it again.” There’s a whole lot I didn’t know I could do. But I can.

Detective Andrews was staring at the grave. Some of the mourners were hugging one another. Margo blew her nose, and the sun slid behind a pall of heavy gray cloud, rain threatening. The golden flood of light faded as the coffin thumped home in its hole.

“That cop is going to be trouble.” The words held a touch of a growl. It might have scared her, before.

“The Tribes will make sure he meets dead ends. Cullen told me so.” I’m not sure how I feel about that. That’s someone else’s body in there.

“Damn bears.” Zach sighed.

She watched as the mourners started moving away, the knot of people fraying, coming apart. Margo walked with her head down. Detective Andrews stood watching, even when the minister left. He was still there when the backhoe lumbered into place and started filling in the hole.

That’s Sophie Harris’s grave. She was cold for a moment, and the majir moved restlessly, their voices rising in a chorus of comfort. Who am I now?

Andrews turned and walked away, his shoulders hunched. Sophie crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself. For a moment, the feeling of being invisible, inconsequential, nameless, or dead—she couldn’t quite figure out which—was overwhelming.

Who am I now?

Zach’s fingers met her shoulder. He didn’t squeeze, just rested his hand there, warmth spreading from the touch down into Sophie’s chest.

Andrews stopped. His head came up. The majir swirled, warning her.

I know who I am. “Time to go,” Sophie whispered.

Zach’s hand vanished and the van roused quietly. It crept forward, and Andrews turned. Fresh rain spotted the windshield.

The narrow, one-lane paved strip turned toward an exit onto Alderson Avenue. Sophie twisted in her seat, watching as Andrews looked—the other way. By the time he turned to his left, the van would already be gone behind a screen of junipers. Still, she held her breath until the wet greenery folded around the van. There were tinted windows and she wouldn’t be visible at this distance, anyway, but…

“We’ll pick up the others and head out of town.” Zach turned the wipers on. “Do you know where you want to go?”

“Kidnapping me again.” But she smiled, and when he glanced at her, he was smiling, too. It did wonders for his face. “I don’t know, Zach. Anywhere’s fine as long as it’s not here. I don’t think I ever want to come back here again.”

It was funny. She should have felt like she was leaving home. She wouldn’t even get to see Lucy’s headstone.

But she felt light, and strangely happy even though her heart ached. Was this what freedom was?

“You got it, shaman. South, then. It’ll be nice and warm. I’ll see you on the beach in a bikini.”

Sophie settled herself in the seat, leaned her head back on the headrest. “I don’t wear bikinis.” Or I never did before. I never even went swimming. Because of Mark. Because of the bruises.

“Huh.” He sounded more disappointed than she thought possible.

Sophie closed her eyes. The van’s engine hummed, and its tires shushed on the wet road. The majir hummed and sang. And beside her, Zach tapped the wheel as he drove.

“But you never know,” she said finally. “Anything can happen.”

“Amen to that,” he said, and Sophie laughed.