Catching up the dark glasses, Raven slipped out of her room and moved noiselessly down the hall. It was necessary to guard her thoughts and emotions with Margaret Summers close by. Since knowing Mikhail and using telepathic communication with him, Raven was finding it easier and easier to focus her talent.
She waited until the group had disappeared onto the path leading into the forest. Her heart jumped, nearly stopped for a moment, then began to pound. Her mouth went dry. The path led to Mikhail’s home; she was certain it was the same footpath he had used the first time he had taken her to his house. He was helpless, wounded, in a drug-induced sleep.
Raven began to jog, careful not to catch up with the assassins, or get too close. She would defend Mikhail with her life if need be, but she wasn’t overanxious for a confrontation if she could avoid it.
Darker, more ominous clouds floated across the blue sky.
The wind began to pick up, just enough to signal a slow-approaching storm. Leaves blew across the footpath in a steady stream, lighter branches swayed and dipped as she passed.
Raven shivered in the cooler air, fear clutching at her. Mikhail! Hear me! She sent the imperious demand in desperation, praying as she got closer that she might penetrate whatever barriers the drugs had erected.
She heard the sound of ragged breathing and stopped, shrinking back against a broad tree trunk. Harry Summers had fallen behind the rapidly moving group, stopping to catch his breath. Raven watched as he huffed and puffed, dragging air into his lungs.
They were climbing higher into the mountains. With a sigh of relief, Raven realized they had taken a fork in the footpath and were now moving away from Mikhail. She sent up a silent prayer of thanks and began to pace behind Harry. She moved with the stealth of one of Mikhail’s wolves, astonished that she could do so. Not a twig snapped beneath her feet, not a single rock rolled. If only she had their strength. She was so weak from lack of food, exhausted from lack of sleep.
Raven lifted her chin. These people would not commit another senseless murder. It didn’t matter that the intended victim was not Mikhail—she had to try to prevent whatever they were going to do. Harry was slowing her down, resting every few minutes. She considered slipping through the trees and getting ahead of him, but that would put enemies both at her front and her back.
Half an hour later Raven glanced anxiously up at the sky. There were thick stands of trees in places, long stretches of meadow in others. That forced her to slow down even more. She didn’t dare get caught out in the open. And now the wind was increasing enough to send splinters of cold blasting through her. In her haste to follow the group she had forgotten her jacket. The sun was still a good hour from sinking, but the gathering clouds had dimmed its light. Storms often gathered quickly in these mountains and raged for hours. Over the next ridge, Raven halted abruptly.
A meadow spread out before her covered in green grass, beds of herbs, and fields of wildflowers. A house was tucked into the trees surrounded by lush bushes. Harry had joined the others a yard or so away from the house, circling an area of ground. Harry held a wooden stake in his hand, Hans, a heavy hammer. They were chanting, sprinkling the ground with water from an urn. Jacob was clutching a shovel and a pick ax.
The first wave of nausea hit Raven, then a peculiar sensation, a wave of pain starting in her lower back, spreading around to her abdomen, tightening every muscle. Not her own pain. It belonged to another. She tasted fear in her mind, her mouth. Desperation. Raven was locked mind to mind with another. She needed to get to the surface so her baby could be born.
“It’s the devil’s harlot, she gives birth,” Margaret screamed, her face a mask of revulsion and hatred. “I feel her fear. She knows we’re here and she’s helpless.”