I fell, fast and hard, slamming into my body, choking, coughing, tasting blood. My face was wet, hell, all of me was wet and my chest hurt. I reached for the pain, expecting to encounter the knife, but it wasn't there. I came upright with a curse, and my eyes snapped open.
It was raining, had been raining for quite a while considering the soaked state of my clothes and hair. One side of my body was warm, the other slightly chilled despite the remaining heat of the summer night.
Sawyer was pressed the length of me. He lifted his head; his snout and paws were covered in blood.
Nearby lay my knife, as pristine as if it had never been buried to the hilt in my chest. Considering the sharp, shiny agony that pulsed between my ribs, I had to think the rain had washed away the blood.
Had Sawyer yanked it out with his teeth? Had I done it myself in the throes of death? Or had it magically disappeared from here and appeared over there? Did it matter as long as the weapon was no longer sticking out of me?
In the distance someone shouted, and I glanced at Lake Vista, then immediately hit the ground again. The suburb was lit up like Christmas, and there were cops all over the place.
I wanted to ask Sawyer what had happened, besides the obvious—death, death, and more death. However, I didn't have time to shape-shift and play twenty questions. We needed to get out of here, and I wasn't going to be able to drive a car with paws.
"Come on," I whispered, inching back to where the Impala was parked in the shadow of the trees.
It wouldn't be long before the police widened their search. If they found a woman and a wolf near that massacre . .. Well, it would make their job a whole lot easier. They'd blame us and close the case.
Even if we were able to get out of jail by some combination of shape-shifting and magic, we'd be marked from then on. I wouldn't be able to travel with the freedom I needed. More people would die. I had enough of them on my conscience already.
The memory of the children popping up one at a time in Ruthie's backyard made me want to punch something. I considered putting a dent in the Impala, but knew from past experience that I'd hurt, maybe break, my hand. Sure, I'd heal, but the kids would still be dead. Those kids were forever dead.
I rubbed my palm over my face, brushing away all the raindrops.
We reached the car and I opened the driver's door as quietly as possible. Sawyer hopped in. I put it in neutral and pushed the vehicle through a slight track in the trees until we emerged in another subdivision, just as I'd expected. Superior strength was so damn useful.
Only when we were far enough away that no one would hear the rumbling of the engine, did I turn the key and leave Lake Vista behind.
Sawyer sat in the passenger seat and hung his head out the window like a dog, mouth open, tongue lolling. If no one saw his long, spindly legs and huge paws, or peered too deeply into his too intelligent yet just short of feral eyes, he could pass for a dog.
We both needed a shower in the worst way. If anyone got a look at my gory wet clothes and my blood-covered ... I glanced at Sawyer—I'd been about to say pet.
"Companion," I murmured, and he huffed. Sometimes I could swear he read my mind. At least he could understand me even if he couldn't talk.
"We'll stop at a hotel, get cleaned up." And while there, I could shape-shift and find out what in hell had happened in Lake Vista. Then, depending on the tale, we'd either chase luceres or continue on to Detroit.
I drove southeast for an hour. I needed to put enough distance between us and the massacre so that we wouldn't attract immediate suspicion.
On Interstate 94, I found a nondescript motel used by truckers. A place where I could check in—after I'd covered the bloody hacked and slashed tank top with a jacket despite the heat—then drive around the back to my room, park directly in front, slip the wolf in through the door.
Once inside, Sawyer headed for the bed.
"Shower first," I ordered. "We don't need bloodstains on the sheets. I had to give them my license plate number."
Sawyer bared his teeth, but he went into the bathroom, then sat on the tile and stared at the bathtub until I turned on the water.
The blood had dried on his snout and paws. The hot water loosened it somewhat, but soap would work faster. I sighed and went to my knees. I was going to have to bathe him like a dog, then, I was going to have to dry him like one, too. From the expression in his eyes, Sawyer thought this was hilarious.
"Don't get used to it," I muttered as I tore the paper wrapping off the tiny bar of soap.
He might not get used to it, but he certainly enjoyed it, moaning a little as I worked the soap through his dark, coarse fur. He ducked his head beneath the stream, then shook droplets all over me.
"Hey!" I protested, but the tickle of the water made me smile until I realized what I was doing and stopped. Smiling after so many had died was a lightness I couldn't afford.