“Long story,” I mutter, rubbing my face.
My voice sounds wrecked even to my own ears, thin and frayed, and the relief in it makes me feel weak.
“I’ve got time. In. All of you, before you catch your death.”
If she only knew how true that almost was. And how true it will be if we don’t get to Mexico before the Terrible Two find us.
Hope and dread tangle in my throat. Being here feels like breathing after drowning, but danger’s curled up right behind us like a shadow that won’t stay gone.
We stumble inside—Buff first, towel barely covering his dignity. Froggy reaches the threshold, and Maggie slaps a hand to his chest.
“You clog my toilet again, and I’ll clog your ass, Freddie. And you won’t like it. That I promise you.”
“It was one time,” he mutters.
“Once too many.”
The kitchen is an explosion of cast-iron pans, crocheted potholders, and half a dozen cubs—none of them hers—playing with a ferret under the table. Years ago, she stole three abused wolf pups out from under a commune’s nose—stuffed them into her coat and bolted like a raccoon raiding a trash can. She’s been rescuing strays and shiny things ever since.
The smell of bacon hits so hard my knees almost buckle.
My stomach tightens, from hunger and from sheer relief, like my body can’t decide whether to feast or collapse.
Maggie bustles about like she’s got six arms, muttering about idiots and frostbite and boys who can’t keep their clothes on. Raccoon shifter. Figures.
Every surface is cluttered with half-built contraptions, and the gears, coils, and welded bits of scrap she turns into steampunk art. She sells the stuff at markets to pay for all the orphans she collects.
Her chaos feels like home in a way nothing else ever has, and God, it hits me somewhere soft I didn’t know was still alive.
“Sit.” She points her greasy fork at me. I nearly leap on the table and lick it. (Don’t judge, we’ve burned a thousand calories a minute.)
“Not you, Buff. I don’t need your bits and bobs on my furniture. Laundry room. Now.”
He laughs sheepishly, fiddling with the necklace around his neck, a habit he formed as a child whenever he was uncomfortable or upset. She cups his cheek as he passes, possibly realizing that, too.
I collapse into a chair, and the wood creaks under me, or maybe that’s just my bones. Everything in me sinks, melts, gives in to safety for the first time in days.
“You boys look like you’ve been chewed up and spat out. Who’re you running from this time?”
“Twin alphas,” I say. “Eustace brothers.”
The fork slips from her fingers, clattering and splattering grease. A raccoon darts in, grabs the fallen bacon, and vanishes. Normally, Maggie would skin it for the audacity, but now she just stares, wide-eyed, her deep brown skin gone ashen.
“Ah, hellfire… you’ve really outdone yourselves.” She glances toward the window. “I hoped the rumors were just rumors. They’ve put a bounty on you, sweetheart. Word came through two nights ago. Whole west territory’s lit up. Commune packs, crime crews… everyone’s sniffing around.”
Froggy stills. “So… we can’t go east?”
“No, you can’t go anywhere near Mexico without getting your tails mounted on a bar wall.”
Silence settles, broken only by the pop of bacon fat and the skitter of tiny claws.
The quiet is suffocating, pressing down on my spine and whispering that we were not getting out of this alive.
“Then we go farther north,” I say finally, voice scraped raw.
Saying it out loud is like swallowing glass. Like admitting every other path is already drenched in blood.
Maggie snorts. “To Canada? You planning to freeze your asses off or charm a moose into smuggling you?”
