Where to, I had no fuckin’ clue. Memory told me Priest’s funhouse was around an hour from the Crow compound, but in what direction? And how many Crows were still out there? If we went the wrong way and ran into them, we were fucked.
You’re already fucked. Look at him.
At my side, Viktor stumbled. I caught him and warmth oozed down my bicep from the stab wound in my arm.
Motherfucker. I set Viktor right. “I’ve got you. Tell me if you need to stop.”
Viktor laughed, garbled Russian spilling out of him. I gave him a moment. Then we hustled away from the house of horrors and made for the woodland across the road, seeking cover until I found a road sign and figured this shit out.
The grass wascold, the wind bitter. I stayed in front of Viktor, shielding him as much as I could, but there was no hiding from the elements. It began to rain again, heavier this time, fat drops that soaked our filthy clothes. We tried to hide from it in the woods, but I needed to get my bearings.
I propped Viktor against a tree. “I think I know where we are, but I’m so fuckin’ tired, I need to be sure.”
Viktor waved me away, already half gone. I left him, still chewing on the lollipop stick, and scrabbled down an embankment at the side of the road, keeping away from the roadside cameras and the headlights of any passing vehicle.
I found a sign. Studied it, the words and symbols swimming in my hazy vision, the picture they made not entirely clear, and the climb back to Viktor almost killed me.
Staggering, I fell into the copse where I’d left him.
He looked dead.
Nope.
Not on my watch.
I heaved him upright and tapped his cheek. “Viktor.”
Nothing.
“Viktor.”
His eyes opened, focused enough that I knew he wasn’t checking out just yet.
“I know where we are,” I told him. “If we head south-west, we should find the coast road that’ll lead us back to Whitness.”
“Cross country?”
“Has to be.” State we were in, we couldn’t risk being seen by anyone. Feds. Crows. Do-gooders. “And it’s gonna take us all fuckin’ night.”
I dragged Viktor to his feet.
He held onto my arms, discomfort creasing his face, his eyes narrowing to pained slits. Before this hellscape, I remembered him with a tan that never seemed entirely Russian. Brown hair with copper streaks that shone in the sun.
It might’ve been the dark, but right now, he looked grey.
I forced him to look at me. “I need to tell you something.”
Viktor’s eyes opened and shut too slowly to be considered any kind of blink. He spoke Russian again, and the only word I recognised was car, thanks to Alexei bitching to Rubi about Doritos crumbs left on the back seat of his Jag.
I gave Viktor a little shake, mindful of his injuries, jarring him with just enough pain to refocus. “There’s no car,” I told him when I had his attention. “But we’re gonna make it. You know why?”
Viktor dug deep for some English. “Enlighten me.”
“I have your dog.”
“What?”
“Lida.” I wished I had my phone to show him the photos I’d snapped of her living her best life on Orla’s red velvet couch. “Jakov brought her to us a while ago, so he could leave the country to look for you. He gave her to Nash.”
