Chapter 27
twenty-seven
It poured all through the minister’s graveside address, stopping 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 a blue coffin descended inch by inch. The window was down just a little; she could strain acute hearing, but she also suspected the majir would tell her what was being said.
If she asked.
The little purse lay in her lap. When her fingers weren’t locked against each other, pulled tight, they ran 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 under a black plastic bonnet, and everyone else from the office. Classmates. Quite a few of the latter, actually. Some were even crying. Margo dabbed at her eyes every so often with a starched, snowy hanky.
And off to one side, in his grubby tan mackintosh, was Detective Andreeson.
I’m free. Such a strange thought. Shadows moved liquid through the van’s interior; Zach had parked out of easy sight, in the shade of a huge cedar.
She watched intently, wishing she still needed glasses. When she used to look over the top of the lenses, the world was reduced to comforting blur. Now it was painfully sharp, evergreen and gold in-focus, silver speckles of frozen rain dewing blade-edged grass.
Even the majir were in focus, swirling unhurried around the van.
“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 the driver’s seat. He held the steering wheel loosely, 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, strands little coarser than the rest. 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, the vulnerable openness.
Which usually lead to him leaning in and kissing her. It was nice, and he was very slow. Deliberate. Very patient.
She liked that about him. The more she was with them, the more she found to like. Julia’s fierce loyalty and Eric’s steadiness, Brenn’s sweetness.
But most of all, she liked Zach.
“I’m sure,” she reassured him. “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. 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 private funeral. 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 Andreeson stared at the grave. Some of the mourners hugged one another. Margo blew her nose, and the sun slid heavy grey cloud, the first serious winter storm threatening.
The coffin touched bottom. A slight movement went through the graveside assembly.
“That cop is going to be trouble.” Zach’s tone 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 part. That’s someone else’s body in there.
“Damn bears.” Zach sighed, shifted in the seat.
She watched as the mourners began moving away, the knot of people fraying, coming apart. Margo walked with her head down, the hankie balled in one fist. Detective Andreeson stood watching, even after the minister left.
He was still there when the backhoe lumbered into place and started filling in the hole, too.
That’s Sophie Harris’s grave. She was cold for a moment; the majir moved restlessly, their voices rising in a chorus of comfort.
Andreeson finally turned sharply. 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 touched her shoulder. He didn’t squeeze, just rested his hand, warmth spreading from the touch.
Andreeson stopped, his head rising as if he’d just had a good idea.
Or remembered something. The majir swirled, warning her.
I know who I am. “Time to go,” Sophie whispered.
Zach’s touch vanished. He turned the key; the van roused quietly, slipped into gear, crept forward. Andreeson turned. Fresh rain spotted the windshield.
This narrow, one-lane paved strip turned toward an exit onto Alderson Avenue. Sophie twisted in her seat, watching as Andreeson looked…
…the other way. By the time the detective turned to his left, the vehicle would already be gone behind a screen of dark, soaked junipers. Still, she held her breath until wet greenery shielded them. There were tinted windows and she wouldn’t be visible at this distance, anyway, but still.
“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 so it’s not here. I don’t think I ever want to come back here again.”
It was funny, in a way. It should have felt like she was leaving home; she wouldn’t even get to see Lucy’s headstone, apparently still being carved.
Instead she felt strangely light, even though her heart ached. Was this what freedom felt like?
“You got it, shaman. South, then. Nice and warm. I’ll see you on the beach in a bikini.”
Sophie settled, propped her head on seat back. “I don’t wear bikinis.” Never even went swimming. Because of Marc. Because of the bruises.
“Huh.” He sounded more disappointed than she would have thought possible.
Sophie closed her eyes. The van’s engine hummed, its tires shushing on wet roadway. The majir hummed, chirped. And beside her, Zach tapped the wheel as he drove, a rhythm of deep thought. He was planning, anticipating. Being responsible.
“But you never know,” she said finally. “Anything can happen.”
“Amen to that,” he said, and Sophie laughed.
finis