Don’t look back.
Whatever I do, do not look back.
I look back.
For a second I don’t see them.
Relief flashes through me.
Then one of the men steps into view.
And another.
And another.
They’re already out the door.
All three of them, spreading onto the sidewalk. One lifts his head, nostrils flaring slightly, and turns, unerringly, toward me.
Shit.
I break into a run.
Someone shouts as I shove past them. A stroller clips my thigh. A man in a polo shirt curses when I nearly knock hisdrink from his hand. The slope of the street works against me, dragging me downhill faster than I want to go.
Good for escape.
Bad for control.
I veer past a narrow alleyway between two centuries-old buildings and nearly slam into a cluster of midshipmen in crisp white uniforms gathered outside a pub. The domed top of the Maryland State House rises above the rooftops, its gold-tipped spire flashing, catching the last of the evening light.
Somewhere nearby, church bells begin to ring. Six deep clangs. Six p.m.
No wonder it’s so busy here. It’s peak dinnertime. Restaurants and pubs overflow onto the sidewalks. Dinner tables fill the patios, dogs tied to railings as they wait for their owners to finish eating. A Doberman’s ears perk, its tail stopping mid-wag as I move past. The dog lets out a low-pitched whine, and I glance over to see its ears flatten as it swivels its head to stare behind me. I risk another look over my shoulder to follow the animal’s gaze and immediately wish I hadn’t.
The men are there.
Not running. Walking.
Measured and relentless.
They aren’t pushing through the crowd. They don’t have to.
Instead, the crowd parts for them, as if it knows something dangerous is there. Like the people sense in some primal part of their minds that predators are among us.
This is bad. Likereallybad.
I drag my gaze away and move faster, running now as I wind through alleyways and streets, hoping to throw them off my trail even as I understand how pointless it all is. How can you lose someone who can smell you from three streets over? Who can sense the pattern of your brainwaves—or however they do it?
Speaking of which, I reach out for Sorren and find him there, in the corner of my mind. Invisible but permanent. The warmth of a campfire in the darkness. I brush my consciousness over his, seeking knowledge. Comfort. He sends me a vague picture of something familiar.
Water? The ocean?
It snaps into clarity.
The bay!
Maybe it’s harder for them to scent me by the water where so many smells combine? I don’t know. It’s probably just an act of desperation at this point, but I follow the thought anyway. It’s easy here to let gravity do the work. To follow the slope of the street down toward the harbor. Within minutes Ego Alley stretches out before me, lined with sailboats bobbing in their slips, masts clinking softly in the evening breeze. Beyond them, Annapolis Harbor opens into the wide gray-blue expanse of the Chesapeake Bay, the sunset bleeding across it in streaks of orange and pink.
