So intent was her focus that she never slowed at the sound of her own voice being called out, hazy, indistinct, and far away. It didn’t matter, for she was nearly there, the wide-open maw of the doorway beckoning. The ancient wooden beams of the pub groaned out to her, and Silva readied her body to throw itself over the threshold.
When she was engulfed in strong arms, pulled from her course, from the safety of the bar, she screamed. Screamed and fought, the prey instinct that had told her to run now instructed her tofight, to channel her fearsome ancestors, to fight with tooth and claw as if her life depended on it.
"Silva!"
Tate's voice broke through the panicked fog that enveloped her, and the fight within her died as quickly as it had sparked. She fell forward into his arms, allowing him to support her, cradling her to his chest as she gasped like a fish, flopping on the banks of that perfectly still moonlit pool.
They were in the alley behind the bar. Paved concrete and blacktop, just beside the neatly tied bale of cardboard next to the dumpster. Tate was there, unhurt, with arms around her, looking no worse for wear, despite her panicked attack. Above their heads, the streetlamp buzzed. A sob erupted from her throat, barely able to scrape out, for as winded as she felt.
"Dove, are you hurt? Are you all right? Silva?"
Silva felt his hands moving over her carefully but quickly, down her back and arms, gently poking and prodding and squeezing, as if he were attempting to ascertain that she hadno injuries, no broken bones or scrapes that he could not see. They were in the alley, the alley that was meant to be there, that had been there all along. Suddenly, she couldn’t get close enough. Flattening herself against his chest, Silva wrapped one arm around his back and another around his long neck, pushing her fingers into the haphazard remains of his topknot, now loose and lopsided, sliding down his head in a glossy black avalanche.
For a long moment, she could do nothing other than wheeze against him, attempting to catch her breath. She was freezing cold and exhausted. A heaviness pressed down on her, tendrils of fog seeping into her mind, like a hazy cocoon. All around them, the night was full of the familiar sounds of Greenbridge Glen, and high above, a gibbous moon hung in the sky, cold and remote and appropriately sized.
Silva squeezed her eyes shut against his chest, feeling as though she could sleep for a hundred years. Rubbing her nose against the firm expanse of him, she inhaled deeply, her heart tripping for only a moment as her nose was invaded by a misty forest smell, quickly overtaken by Tate’s familiar sandalwood warmth.
“I-I'm fine,” she mumbled into his shirt, struggling to remember why they were in the alley in the first place. “Really, I'm fine. I'm not hurt. I’m justsotired.” She yawned hugely, barely able to keep her eyes open.
Tate gave her a little shake of frustration in response to the yawn, dislodging her from his chest. Silva pushed up just enough to raise her head. There was a gouge beneath his eye, she saw now, a drop of blood welling at the tip, from where she had clawed at him.
“Well, that’s a relief after having me spend the whole bleedin’ night looking for you,” he snapped. “Whathappened? Do we need to take you to the hospital? Silva—” Tate’s voice cut offas he swallowed, raising her head again and cupping her cheek. “Dove, if someone’s hurt you—”
“No!” she yelped, her sluggish mind struggling to keep up with his words. “No, really, I’m fine! I-I’m not hurt. No one — no one did anything to me.”
“Then wherewereyou?” he shot back, voice bristling with frustrated solicitousness. “Help me to understand why I’ve been kicking through bushes all night looking for you, Silva. I've been ‘round this fucking lake a dozen times calling your name. I rang the police and they said they couldn’t do anything until morning. I was just on my way back to dive in.”
He gripped her chin gently until her eyes met his once more. Silva felt trapped in his pointed, honeyed gaze, her stomach executing elated somersaults within her. She couldn’t remember where she’d been and didn’t know how to answer his question, but his vehemence was a testimony to how much he cared. If she hadn’t been so exhausted, she might have preened at his attention.
“So,” he went on, his voice managing to be airy and light and still convey the deadly seriousness that only Tate could manage, “if there’s someone or something out there that’s hurt you, someone who’s threatened you, something that’s offended your delicate sensibilities to the point that you were left catatonic from the discourtesy and unable to answer when I’ve been calling your bleedin’ name for the last five fucking hours, you need to tell me. You need to tell me so that I can find them and kill them. I’ll necromance them back to life for the pleasure of killing them twice, because I love these boots, dove, and now they’re wet. What happened? Who were you running from? Where were you?”
The world narrowed and her mind reeled. Her mouth dropped open, jaw working, but nothing came out.Where were you?She was so tired, and as much as Silva might have been happyto bathe in Tate’s concern any other time, at that moment, she couldn’t force her eyes to stay open or her mind to cooperate. She had been racing Tate out of the building when the door stuck, and the next thing she knew, she was trying to claw his eyes out. What happened?
“Didn't you hear me calling you, Silva?”
Didn't you hear me calling?His words jiggled something loose in her brain, and she heard an echo of herself crying out, calling Tate's name.Didn't you hear me calling?She had gone out the Pixie’s back door and he had not followed. She had been racing him out to the alley . . . and the alley had been gone. She breathed him in, smelling that wild forest smell.The forest!The forest!
In a rush, the confusing events of the previous half hour washed over her like a wave, cleansing her mind of the heavy fog that had settled over the last thirty minutes. The alley behind the Pixie had been gone, and in its place, a forest had stood. Silva's eyes filled with tears, panic crowding her chest once more.
“Didn't you hearmecalling?” she challenged, pushing off his chest to gaze up accusingly. Tate’s dark eyebrows came together in a furrow, and she felt the muscles in his lean arms tense. “I was calling your name! Over and over, but you never answered. You left me alone there!"
She began to cry in earnest, frustrated tears tinged with residual terror, even though she still struggled to put together the picture in her mind of what had happened. Tate cupped her face in his huge hands once more, thumbs wiping at her tears.
“Where, dove? Did you bang your head?”
"I was calling you and calling you and you never answered,” she burbled, too aware that she was an inelegant crier and that her face was probably already blotching like a blueberry. “And I kept getting further away."
"Silva, where—"
"The forest!" She dropped against him as soon as the words were out, feeling overcome by exhaustion once more, although the picture in her head had finally come together, the fog gone. Silva knew how preposterous she would sound if he made her explain every little thing. The moon was wrong, and the ground kept moving and you never answered. He’s right, she considered for the first time since she’d stumbled out of the Pixie’s doorway.You probably banged your head.
Beneath her, Tate had gone stiff. “A forest.”
Silva nodded miserably. "The alley was gone. There . . . there was a forest instead. With crooked trees and a little pond. It was beautiful, but I was afraid.” Silva paused to sniffle, realizing he’d not moved a muscle. “I-I was calling your name, but you never answered. Didn't you see me?" Her voice was small, and her words were petulant, using up what was left of her energy as she dropped against him once more. That's it.You must have fallen. Stumbled out the door and banged your head on the way down. You're probably concussed.“Tate? I-I think you're right. I think I must've banged my head. And I’m so sleepy . . .”
She could barely feel him breathing beneath her. If she weren’t clutching a handful of his shirt, Silva might have persuaded herself that she’d been embraced by a finely chiseled statue, at least until Tate’s stupor broke.
"It's fine, dove.” His voice was soft and careful, and she nearly mewled when he stroked the length of her hair.
