The bond between us pulses.
I jump from the bed and yank on my bra and shirt, then the rest of my outfit.
I learned my lesson getting him out of my school. Sorren’s clothes go into the duffel bag. The last thing I need is to drag a naked man through the Easter egg hunt full of children and end up on the six o’clock news.
I scoop the bunny from the bed, kiss his furry little head, and drop him into the bag with a murmured, “Sorry.”
Hopefully he can breathe in there. Pretty sure the hunters will get suspicious if they catch me speedwalking through a crowd clutching a rabbit like it’s my emotional support animal.
That’s the kind of thing that gets you followed.
And tackled by hotel security.
And tased. Definitely tased.
I’m out the door in two seconds flat.
I choose the stairs over the elevator. They empty into the hotel lobby. The manager I argued with earlier is still there, but he’s not alone.
Three men stand before him.
They’re eerily similar. Same height. Same bland, nondescript features. Like someone took the same man and stamped him out three times. The only thing that stands out is their clothing. Fussy. Old-fashioned. Tweed coats with leather elbow patches. Brown slacks and matching loafers. One wears a bow tie. Another a cap like those old newsboys used to wear, the ones who called outExtra! Extra! Read all about it!
I notice a final, more terrifying detail as I stride behind them, hurrying as fast as I can without breaking into a full run.
One of them shifts, his coat gapes open. and I see it.
The shiny silver flash of a revolver.
My blood chills to ice.
These men might not be from my world, but it looks like they know exactly what it takes to kill here.
When I’m two steps from the door, one of the men lifts his head and takes in a deep, deliberate inhale. His gaze snaps to mine and locks. I feel it then, the foreign brush of something cold and sinister at the back of my mind.
They’re searching for me, for us. Using that strange blend of scent and mind-touch. I don’t know how to describe it. The words for what’s happening don’t exist in my language, in the vocabulary of my world. It’s like trying to name a color I’ve never seen before.
The duffel bag jerks violently against my hip. Sorren thrashes inside it. He senses them too.
No time.
I turn and run just as I hear one of them speak.
“Get her.”
I shoot out onto the street and skid to a stop right before I fly into traffic. A glance left, then right, shows sidewalks bustling with people. We’d chosen a hotel near Main Street, close enough to the harbor to smell salt in the air. Tourists spill from storefronts and restaurants, drifting downhill toward the water in loose clusters.
Perfect.
I merge with them, forcing myself not to run.
Walk. Walk.
Main Street slopes toward the harbor, lined with historic brick buildings and narrow colonial row houses painted in cheerful pastels. Window boxes overflow with flowers. American flags snap in the breeze overhead.
The duffel bag bumps against my hip with every step, Sorren jostling inside the bag. I angle my body to hide the movement and keep going, head down, just another tourist out and about.
Don’t look back.
