11. Alaric
ALARIC
Ihear them before I see them.
The crunch of gravel outside the kitchen window, the thin whine of wind weaving through the warped pine boards.
I'm on my feet—still barefoot, pants stained darker at the knees from kneeling by the fire—with the tire iron held like a conductor's baton.
Theo moves silent as a rumor, the pale sheen of his eyes catching the phone's narrow beam.
Trent materializes beside him, coiled energy in his posture, fangs just visible.
Birdie's out cold on the couch, cheek pressed into the crook of the cushion like some sad exhibit in a taxidermy gallery.
I want to smooth her hair, whisper something gentle, but grace is a rung I never reached.
Instead, I pull the throw blanket higher over her shoulder, tucking the edge beneath her arm before shifting her carefully so she won't wake up pins-and-needles stiff.
She's finally warm.
I'm not letting the mountain steal that from her.
Theo nods toward the kitchen door. Trent flicks his gaze to me, ready. We slip out onto the side porch. Rain scuttles across the lot, turning the approaching headlights into a distorted fishbowl: two figures up front, and behind them a dribble of four more.
Theo whispers, "Mason—and his muscle."
One of the rear silhouettes is a hulking brute, shirt plastered to him, cuts bleeding freely. They're not here to parley.
They're here for Birdie.
Mason himself limps onto the porch, spitting rainwater off his lip. His grin is ugly, triumphant.
"You picked a bad night to hide her," he says, voice carrying through the rain. "Give her up, Alaric, and I'll make it quick."
I press my back against the doorframe. Trent slides a hand onto my shoulder—a steady anchor. Theo's fingers tighten around the pistol tucked into his pocket.
"Try me."
From the treeline I hear boots scraping as the underlings fan out. The brute shifts, restless. Mason laughs, like we've played this game before.
"You know we'll tear this place down, brick by bloody brick," he says, taking another step. "Then we'll come for you."
I glance back just as Birdie blinks awake.
Her eyes find mine immediately.
Not Theo.
Not Trent.
Me.
I mouth, We're running.
She nods once without hesitation.
In two heartbeats we're moving.
Trent slips to my right. Theo takes my left. We burst off the porch into the rain as Mason's crew surges after us.
Bullets chew through the cabin behind us, splintering wood into the darkness.
Birdie's breath hammers beside me, uneven but determined. She slips once on the muddy slope, catching herself against my arm.
"I'm sorry," she gasps.
Sorry.
She's apologizing for being hunted.
Something vicious unfurls low in my chest.
"I can run," she says between breaths.
"I know."
I catch her around the waist before she can protest again and lift her into my arms.
She opens her mouth.
Then closes it.
One hand curls instinctively into my shirt as I keep running.
Better.
If she has to trust something tonight, let it be me.
The woods swallow us whole, black trunks crowding the narrow trail. Rain lashes through the pines. Theo's flashlight carves a tunnel through the darkness while Trent darts ahead, every movement sharp with barely restrained violence.
One crooked braid bounces softly against Birdie's shoulder.
I pretend not to notice.
Behind us Mason bellows, "You can't hide! We'll gut every tree in these woods until we find you!"
The brute lunges from the darkness, knife flashing.
Trent meets him halfway.
Bone cracks.
The man disappears back into the trees with a howl.
I don't look back.
Half a mile later we skid into a tiny clearing. The hunting cabin crouches beneath the pines like it regrets surviving this long.
I shoulder the door open.
Trent slams it shut behind us while Theo braces a chair beneath the handle.
I lower Birdie onto the cot as gently as if she's made of spun glass.
"Are you hurt?"
She blinks at me, startled by the question, then shakes her head.
Only then do I realize blood is soaking through my sleeve.
Birdie is already digging through the first-aid kit.
"Sit."
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding."
"Technicality."
"It's really not."
Despite everything, one corner of her mouth twitches.
Worth it.
She kneels in front of me, hands trembling only slightly as she cuts away my ruined sleeve.
"This is going to sting."
"I've read internet comments."
She snorts before she can stop herself.
The sound lands somewhere behind my ribs.
She wraps the towel around my shoulder with surprising confidence, tying off the pressure bandage.
"Hold still."
"I'm perfectly still."
"You're glaring."
"Separate issue."
She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling now.
Outside, the cabin shudders beneath another impact.
"You hear me, Alaric?" Mason shouts. "Hand her over, or I'll burn you out!"
"No."
The word leaves my mouth before I think about it.
Cold.
Certain.
Final.
Silence hangs outside for one impossible heartbeat.
Then the shotgun blasts begin.
The walls explode inward.
"The trapdoor," I bark.
Theo grins like he's been hoping I'd say that.
"Best chance we've got."
Glass shatters.
Wood splinters.
I reach for Birdie.
Her hand finds mine before I ever touch hers.
I don't let go.
We disappear beneath the cabin just as the front door gives way.
The tunnel reeks of mold and damp earth. It's barely wide enough for two people abreast.
Every few steps her shoulder brushes mine.
She never apologizes for it.
I hope she never starts.
Above us Mason roars, his voice echoing through the floorboards.
Birdie leans back against the tunnel wall, breathing hard.
"Is it over?"
I step closer until our foreheads touch.
"For now."
She doesn't move away.
Neither do I.
"Then what?" she whispers.
"We keep moving until he can't find us."
It's only half true.
Mason is still out there.
The night is far from over.
But standing here in the darkness, her hand still warm in mine, I realize I let go first.
Professionalism restored.
Unfortunately.