Page 10

LOKAN

T he modest family home in the Mongolian countryside was a far cry from the luxury living Lokan had grown accustomed to during his time in Beijing.

The single-story structure, with its weathered wood siding and tin roof, sat surrounded by endless grassland that stretched to the horizon.

But it was safe, and that was all that mattered.

"Thank you again for having us," Lokan said in his limited Mongolian.

Their host was a man named Batbayar, who was part of Turner's extensive worldwide network of contacts. He nodded. "Let me take you to your room."

His wife and five children, ranging from perhaps six to sixteen, peered with curiosity at the guests.

After they settled in their room, Carol pulled the box of hair dye from her bag. "I suppose it's time to say goodbye to my beautiful golden locks."

Lokan pulled her into his arms. "You are beautiful to me no matter what color your hair is."

"You have to say that because you are my mate." She kissed him. "I wonder if Oyunaa knows what to do with this. Despite my extensive espionage experience, I've never attempted to disguise my appearance and therefore never colored my hair before."

"Can I help?" He looked at the box. "I'm sure instructions are included."

Carol smiled. "This home has one bathroom to serve everyone. I don't think they would be okay with us hogging it for the time needed to apply the color, and they would be too shy to interrupt. With Oyunaa there with me, they will be less timid."

"You are so wise." He leaned to kiss her forehead.

After Lokan explained what Carol needed, the women ducked into the bathroom, and he was left alone with Batbayar and the children. He attempted a conversation with his broken Mongolian, and the children giggled at his pronunciation.

"You... businessman?" Batbayar asked.

"Yes," Lokan said. "Traveling north. I have business in Russia."

Batbayar nodded, seeming satisfied with the vague explanation. In this part of the world, people knew not to ask too many questions of travelers who paid in cash and came recommended by trusted contacts.

An hour later, Carol emerged transformed. Her distinctive blonde hair had now turned a rich brown, making her blue eyes seem even more striking. She touched it self-consciously, turning to show him the back.

"Well, Ricky?" she said, using the fake name they'd agreed upon. "What do you think?"

Lokan grinned. They'd been amusing themselves during the journey by quoting old episodes of I Love Lucy .

"You got some splainin' to do, Lucy," he replied in an exaggerated accent, earning a laugh from Carol.

Their hosts looked confused by the exchange but smiled politely. The language barrier was both a blessing and a curse—it prevented real communication but also meant fewer questions.

Dinner was a simple affair of mutton stew and milk tea, shared around a low table with the entire family. The children gradually warmed up to them, two of the boys even attempting to teach Lokan a card game using enthusiastic gestures.

"Tomorrow, train?" Batbayar asked as they cleaned up.

"Yes," Lokan confirmed. "North train. Early morning."

The man nodded. "I drive you. Station far."

Later that night, lying on a thin mattress in the guest room, Lokan held Carol close. "I'm sorry about your hair, but you really look beautiful as a brunette, which is not good because you are still too noticeable."

She lifted her face to him. "So, what are you saying? I did it for nothing? I should have just wrapped a scarf around my head."

"You can do that in addition to the color."

She sighed. "At least we're together. Lucy and Ricky, international spies."

"They would have been the worst spies ever." Lokan chuckled. "Lucy would have blown their cover in the first five minutes."

With the thin walls and the family sleeping in the next room, even that little laugh felt like a stolen intimacy. Carol's curvy body was nearly impossible to resist, but Lokan had to limit himself to soft caresses, and once she fell asleep, so did he.

Morning came too soon.

Oyunaa prepared a hearty breakfast and packed food for their journey, refusing Carol's attempts to pay extra for the provisions.

The ride to the train station in Batbayar's ancient truck was bumpy and cold, the morning air sharp. When Batbayar pulled their bags from the back, Lokan left an envelope with extra cash on the driver's seat. It was more than they'd agreed on, but the family's hospitality deserved a reward.

After they said their thanks and goodbyes and walked away, Lokan turned to watch the guy pick up the envelope and take out the cash. He looked up and waved, mouthing a thank you.

"How much did you give him?" Carol asked.

"Twice what we agreed on." Lokan wrapped his arm around her middle, scanning the busy train station for any sign of an immortal presence. So far, he had found nothing, but he had a feeling that their luck would run out at some point.

They boarded the northbound train, finding their compartment in the second-class sleeper car. It was clean but basic—two narrow bunks and a small table between them.

"At least it doesn't smell like mutton." Carol sat on the lower bunk.

"Give it time." He put their packs under the bunks. "Once everyone starts unpacking their lunches…"

She glared at him. "Don't jinx it."

The train lurched into motion, beginning its long journey north toward the Russian border. The Mongolian steppes rolled by, endless grassland broken only by occasional clusters of gers and wandering livestock.

They'd been traveling for no more than two hours when Lokan felt it—that distinctive prickle of awareness that meant other immortals were near. He kept his expression neutral, not wanting to alarm Carol, but his muscles tensed.

"What is it?" she asked quietly, always attuned to the slightest change in him.

"Company," he murmured. "Stay here. Lock the door after me."

"Ricky—"

"Please, Lucy. Trust me."

She nodded, and as he stepped into the narrow corridor, he heard the click of the lock behind him.

Two immortals were making their way through the train car, checking each compartment as they went.

Lokan reached out with his mind, an ability his father didn't know the true extent of.

Navuh believed his son could only thrall and compel humans.

He still had no idea that Lokan's ability had grown and that he could now also thrall and compel some immortals, particularly those whose minds hadn't been strong to start with and later had been weakened by Navuh's ongoing compulsion.

One of the warriors paused with his hand on a compartment door five down from theirs. Lokan slipped into his mind with relative ease, finding the weakness he expected. Years of being compelled by Navuh had left fractures, gaps in mental defenses that Lokan could exploit.

Turn around , he suggested. You've checked this car already. Move to the next one .

The male frowned, confusion flickering across his features. His partner looked at him questioningly.

"We've already checked this car," the first one said, sounding uncertain.

"No, we didn't," the second protested. "We just got here."

You did , Lokan pressed, expanding his influence to include the second immortal. You're being thorough. The next car hasn't been checked yet. That's where they are probably hiding .

"Right," the second tracker agreed slowly. "The next car. Come on."

As they turned and headed back the way they'd come, Lokan maintained his mental pressure until they were out of his range. Only then did he allow himself to breathe, leaning against the corridor wall.

A soft knock came from behind. "Ricky?"

"It's clear," he said.

When Carol unlocked the door, he slipped back inside.

"Are they gone?" She put the dagger she'd held in her hand back into its scabbard.

"For now." He sat beside her, pulling her close. "We need to get off at the next station. Once they don't find us in any of the other compartments, they will be back, and I will have to repeat the thrall." He kissed her forehead. "I bought us a little time, nothing more."

They spent the twenty minutes or so until the next station in tense silence, Lokan extending his senses for signs of his father's minions returning.

The train slowed as they approached a small town, which was little more than a cluster of buildings around the rail line.

"Let's go." He gathered both their bags.

They disembarked with a crowd of locals, Lokan steering them immediately away from the platform. The town was small enough that strangers would be noticed, but hopefully, they could find transportation before the fighters realized their targets were no longer on the train.

A battered van sat outside the town's only store, its owner loading supplies into the back. Lokan approached him, pulling out a stack of bills.

"Excuse me," he said. "Is your van for sale?"

The man, grizzled and weather-beaten, looked at him like he'd grown a second head. "No."

Lokan showed the man the wad of bills, which represented more money than the van had been worth new. "I need it now, and you can buy a better one with this."

He could thrall the man to agree to sell them the van, but whenever money could do the talking, he preferred to let it do so.

The man's eyes widened. He looked at the money, then at Lokan, then at Carol standing with their bags. He must have realized that they were in trouble and were desperate for a vehicle because his expression softened,

"It runs," he said. "Mostly. The heater doesn't work, and it pulls to the left."

"Perfect," Lokan said, pressing the money into his hands. "Keys?"

Still stunned, the man handed them over. Lokan helped him unload his supplies, then turned back to place a mental suggestion.

You sold the van to a local family, he implanted . A couple with three children, moving to Ulaanbaatar. They paid a fair price, and you were happy to help them.