Page 12 of Looking Grimm (Marionette #4)

Sitting in the Porsche with the engine idling, I glared up at the sign across the front of the drab little store called Pour Decisions Wine time I was wasting standing in place while my brain churned through bad plan after worse.

If they caught me, I’d go to jail. If I went to jail, I’d never get out. Staying here meant fighting my way out and killing anyone who got in my way. How many investigators would it take to win my escape? How many officers with assault rifles and riot shields could I face down before they overwhelmed me?

I tested my fingers, wondering if I could somehow feel the pull of the puppet strings tattooed on every digit. How many more would it take before I was done? Before I could stop? Before it was over?

I looked toward the distant tree line, then started to run.

My legs and lungs burned as I slumped against the tree trunk, scrabbling at the rough bark in need of support to hold myself upright. The tall grass had whipped against my shins as I raced through it and now lay bent in a visible path behind me. The investigators would have no trouble tracking me to the woods in which I’d taken shelter. I needed to lose them from here.

Sirens wailed, and the black sky flashed with red and blue as reinforcements arrived. I glanced back at the strip center, expecting to see cops filing after me like ants in a line. No one gave chase, and I wondered why until I heard the faint yips and howls of dogs in the near distance.

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” I said between panted breaths.

Sweat slicked my face and dampened my clothes, making every whip of the night air like a frigid blast. I shivered between gasps for air. The whiskey bottle remained hugged against my side, heavy as an anchor, but I’d be damned if I went through all this and had nothing to show for it.

The dogs bayed at one another, not needing a trail in the grass to pick up my scent and run me ragged through these woods and into the neighboring county. As if I could make it that far.

I needed shelter or a goddamned vehicle. I had no chance of outpacing hunting hounds, especially the kind the Capitol employed. Jaxon Rhodes wasn’t the only shapeshifter in town, and witches wearing animal skins were far savvier than mundane dogs.

Panic surged, but I stuffed it all the way down to my feet where it could maybe give me the boost I needed to try this. Trees dotted the ground on three sides, with the field of no return making the fourth. Venturing into the woods and away from the road that brought me here risked becoming hopelessly lost. I decided I would rather stay parallel to the two-lane highway with the intention of nearing civilization and better options for this high stakes game of hide-and- seek.

I cut my rest short and broke into a loping jog. Zigzagging between tree trunks, I tried not to stare at the strip center that must have been crawling with cops. The barking scared me more. Shapeshifted hounds were no taller than the grass and able to race toward me silent and stealthy until they sprung out with gnashing teeth and claws. I’d been dogpiled once already this week, and I had the feeling a second onslaught would end far bloodier.

My feet pounded against the cold-hardened ground, crunching dead leaves while I ducked slightly deeper into the cover of the trees. The distant sparkle of streetlights led me on. Buildings. Businesses. Hope… of what?

It was laughable to assume a Superman-style phone booth would be parked on a corner. Most everywhere was closed this time of night, and even if they weren’t, I couldn’t exactly burst through someone’s door and ask if their desk phone dialed out. Borrowing a stranger’s cell was equally out of the question with conscientious citizens on the lookout.

Also, I was a little ashamed to realize that I didn’t know a single phone number by heart. Not Ripley’s, or Nash’s, or even Donovan’s…

One of my rapid breaths stuttered, and I thought I might choke. I couldn’t call Donovan if I wanted to. He was gone and, for a second, I’d forgotten that. Tears sprung to my eyes, but I pushed them down alongside the panic and kept running.

The trees thinned ahead. No, not thinned. They ended.

A country road cut across the landscape, intersecting the distant highway and creating a dividing line between the woods and the next field .

I skidded to a stop on the last row of trees. My chest heaved and my nose ran from sucking down cold air. Wiping my sleeve across my face, I glanced over my shoulder at the liquor store and the grass obscuring the ground between me and it. Hiding the hounds, too, who I’d barely heard over the sounds of my own labored breathing and the wind whooshing past my ears. Now that I was stopped, their yelping cries were terrifyingly close.

No chance of outrunning them. No choice but to try.

I bolted into the open beyond the trees, racing across the narrow farm road where a car with its headlights off nearly crashed into me.

Brakes squealed and I lurched backward, hitting the ground on my ass and cradling the bottle of whiskey in my lap. Gasping, I looked up as the driver’s door flung wide and a tall man jumped out. Instinct screamed to mentally grab the new arrival by the throat and shake him until he went ragdoll-limp. I could steal his car and drive away. It was almost too good to be true.

But, when I stretched my hand toward the stranger, his shout stopped me cold.

“Fitch, wait!”

I knew that voice.

Blinking, I examined the car with its bug-eyed headlights and split windshield. The familiar old Woody Wagon parked before me with its engine rumbling low. And that made the man standing beside it…

“Nash?” I squeaked.

I couldn’t fathom how he’d found me and couldn’t reconcile the feelings churning in my gut. More than just relief. I was grateful, impressed, and a little turned on .

The barks and howls of the dogs closing in goaded me to my feet while Nash waved frantically toward the passenger side of the car.

“Get in!” he exclaimed. “Hurry!”

I darted around the vehicle, mentally opening the door before diving inside. Clutching the whiskey to my chest, I leaned across the front seats to see Nash lingering outside.

“What are you doing?” I hissed at him. “Let’s go!”

He held a bottle of his own, almost as large as the liter of alcohol I cradled. Ahead of him, a trio of hounds broke clear of the woods. I remembered Donovan’s body, gutted open by Jax’s claws and gurgling blood.

I said Nash’s name again, louder this time, and frantic. I couldn’t watch that happen to him. Seeing him hurt or killed would kill me, too.

He uncorked the bottle but kept his feet planted while the dogs charged forward in a V-formation. Closing fast.

“Nash!” I yelled.

Rearing back, he let the bottle fly. It spun through the air, leaking fluid that dotted the ground with licking flames. The vessel shattered on the ground right in front of the pursuing hounds.

Fire exploded with a blast of heat I felt even inside the car. The Woody Wagon rocked on its wheels as Nash ducked inside and shifted into reverse. He slung an arm across the top of my seat and craned his neck to see out the rear windows as we sped backward along the bumpy road.

I should have been watching the inferno left in our wake, but I caught myself staring at him instead. His face was drawn in concentration, and his skin glistened with sweat. He maneuvered the wagon like a stunt driver, slinging grit as the tires spun through a 180° turn.

We faced forward and continued speeding away from the disaster I’d narrowly escaped, and I almost couldn’t believe it. It was too good to be true, even more so than I’d first thought. Nash settled into his seat, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel enough times to make it clear he was chockfull of adrenaline.

It took a few minutes for me to catch my breath enough to speak in full sentences before I asked, “How did you—?”

“You made the news,” Nash cut in. “Big break in the citywide manhunt for the infamous Fitch Farrow.” He said it in a mocking tone of voice, like an announcer for a live show.

I grimaced at the thought of more press coverage and wondered what kind of drivel they were feeding the hungry masses. An interview with that dopey clerk would be just the thing to entice viewers. A real public opinion piece. Some average Joe doing his part to ensure the safety of his community. Bet he pocketed my twenty dollars, too.

“And you just happened to be watching TV?” I asked.“It’s always on at the bar these days,” he said. “Helps with the quiet.”

Guilt twinged at the implication of his statement. Quiet was one of my least favorite things. It gave space for thoughts and fears to fester; it made me feel alone. Quiet also meant business was not improving at the Bitters’ End. I hardly expected it to. For a place that had been established as a haven for the likes of the Bloody Hex, the client base was limited to criminals or those who wanted to associate with them. Nash’s decision to ban Grimm had a ripple effect I wasn’t sure he’d counted on. Now, even criminals wouldn’t darken his door for fear of repercussions from the Bloody Hex. The bar had been cut out and set on a steady decline, one it stood little hope of recovering from.

Nash reached across the center console and squeezed my knee. “Don’t scare me like that again, okay?”

“I scared you ?” I snorted. “If you’d given those dogs another second, they would’ve ripped your fucking arms off.”

He arched a ginger brow. “Were you worried?”

“Yes, I was worried!”

A smile teased his lips. “Cute.”

My heart thrashed inside my ribs, and I recalled the whiskey pinned between my thighs. The cracking sound as I unscrewed the lid drew Nash’s attention.

His look of interest shifted immediately to one of scorn. “You can’t be serious.”

I thrust my hand toward him. “Hi, my name is Fitch. I have a problem.”

He nodded. “Admittance is the first step.” Rather than accept my offered shake, he made a grab for the bottle. “Quitting is the second. Hand it over.”

I snatched the whiskey back, clasping it to my chest. “I nearly died for this.”

“Which says a lot about you,” he quipped.

“Nothing you don’t already know.”

He chuckled.

When we’d put enough distance between us and the cops, Nash flipped on the headlights. We drove past farmland and fields, sticking to back roads on our way to an unknown destination. I finished opening the whiskey and took a sip. I paid for quantity, not quality, and I suffered for it now. But I wouldn’t give Nash the satisfaction of seeing me gag on the stuff, so I gritted my teeth through a hard swallow.

I should have thanked him for saving my ass. Or gushed about how sexy he’d looked hurling a magical Molotov cocktail at the trio of shapeshifters ready to run me down. At least, it would have been sexy if I hadn’t been too caught up in PTSD panic to appreciate it.

Rather than doing either of those things, I sat silent, fueling that quiet I hated so much until I asked at last, “Where are we going?”

“Joyriding for now,” Nash said. “Making sure we didn’t pick up a tail.” He reached over again and caught my hand in his. “After that, I’m taking you home.”