Page 136 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

I push forward, jaw tight. The wind bites, a stinging whip, and my hair fights me like an enemy combatant. Just a spring storm, I remind myself, squaring my shoulders. And I ain’t made of sugar. No one’s melting on my watch.

A shiver skates down my spine, cold and sharp—like someone just tiptoed across my grave. I blame it on the wind, now carrying a distinct chill.

Xavier picks up on it instantly. A soft, questioning brush across the bond—a feather-light caress, cautious but insistent. The question is clear, even without words:You good?

I grit my teeth and shove down the tangle of anxiety before it can bleed through. I send back the mental equivalent of a thumbs up and a forced smile—a burst of false cheer.I’m fine. No big deal.

The connection fades, reluctantly, leaving behind a ripple of doubt and concern. I lock the bond down tighter. They don’t need to worry. Not over a smart kid and a hyper puppy.

I suck in a breath and stretch out my gift—invisible tendrils of awareness unfurling ahead of me, sweeping through the weed-choked lane.

Nothing. No flicker of sentient minds. No impetuous puppy energy.

A sharp gust rattles the fencing, and my heart thuds harder.

Then I hear it.

A thin, desperate voice, carried on the wind from the field to my right.

“Sumi, please… stop running!”

The knot in my gut twists hard. I pivot, eyes narrowing. The grass here is tall and wild, whipping back and forth as though it’s trying to tear itself free from the earth. The sharp scent of damp soil and ozone curls around me, cloying and electric.

Then the rain hits—no warning, no mercy. The sky opens up, dumping the weight of the heavens in one furious, unrelenting torrent. The first drops sting like needles against my skin, and within seconds, it’s a solid wall of water, hammering down and churning the ground into a slippery mess of mud and debris.

I break into a run, my feet sliding with every step, shoes soaked through in an instant. My pulse roars in my ears, a frantic drumbeat pushing me forward.

The fence line looms ahead, barbed wire sagging between weather-worn posts. The wind tears at my hair, strands sticking wet and cold against my face. I glance back toward the shop, but it’s already swallowed by the gray edge of the downpour.

Mishka’s worried voice echoes through my mind.

There’s no time to turn back. The faster I find them, the faster we’ll be warm, dry, and probably covered in wet-dog smell—but safe.

I drop to my knees, fingers slick as I grip the lowest strand of wire and lift it just enough to squeeze through. As I duck under, a barb catches my forearm. A sharp sting blooms, a thin line of blood beading up, vivid against the rain-slick skin. A shiver dances over me—a faint, electric tingle as I cross the wards.

The sensation fades, but the weight of leaving safety behind settles like a stone in my stomach.

I hiss at the sting of my cut, more annoyed than hurt. The rain, now a thin drizzle, washes the blood away in lazy rivulets. I press my fingers to the wound and straighten, my breath misting in the damp air.

The world holds its breath—a tense, dripping pause, like the storm is waiting to see what I’ll do next.

I shove the feeling down.

It’s just a fallow field. Just a runaway puppy.

Holding my hair back with one hand, I squint at the tangled stretch of grass and half-collapsed fence posts ahead. The ground is soft and treacherous underfoot, still slick from the downpour. Water drips from my clothes, each cold rivulet a sharp reminder of how soaked through I am. A shiver curls down my spine, but I press on, my eyes flicking toward the still very unfriendly-looking sky.

“Mishka!” I yell, but the wind snatches my voice, carrying it away.

Nothing. No sign of Mishka or Sumi. Just the field—a sea of grass, twisting and rippling, concealing and revealing in turns.

Another gust, harder this time. The grass convulses in erratic fits, shadows flickering and shifting. For a heartbeat, I’m certain I see a small figure darting through the green. I blink, and it’s gone—just the wind playing cruel tricks.

Each step forward feels like a battle, the grass parting only to close behind me, conspiring to keep them hidden. The knot of anxiety in my gut pulls tighter, looping harder with every heartbeat. My breath turns sharp, my skin prickling with dread.

I stop, chest heaving, water trickling down my face.

“Shit,” I mutter, the word barely a whisper of realization. “He must have shifted.”

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