"Less is more."

Those were Blaise's exact words. I'm not sure what we came up with would qualify as a "plan," but it's what I have to work with, and Blaise, Shilo, Faolan—we all agreed.

I'm in charge of my own destiny, and the less anyone else knows, the better.

In most ways, it makes sense. They'll stick to the simplest story—they think I'm dead. If Ishmael's looking for a more detailed account, they won't have one. They'll blame the dark and the trickery of a vampire.

If I get caught, I'll deny their involvement. The secret won't save me, so there's no reason to share it.

The problem is, I have less than twenty-four hours to figure out the rest of my life. I don't even know what the "big secret" is yet. I've never been a planner. Day to day, week to week, for every month of my whole life, the challenges were blocking my view of what could be if things ever quieted down. They never did, though. Support and resources were spread too thin for the problems at hand. As of today, that hasn't changed. And I fear it never will.

I may know what I want for the first time ever, but Sam may not want me. And no pressure, or anything, and it was said in jest, despite being so essential that it's not funny, and may even take all of the fun out of it. . .

I'm supposed to have sex with her as soon as possible. "Or find someone else to do it for you"—a "suggestion" that was immediately shot down with a growl.

If we're ever reacquired, this won't necessarily save her—even if she's no further use to them. Still, almost any death would be preferable to what's currently in store for her. We wouldn't die on our own terms, but at least it wouldn't be fully theirs.

I'll do whatever I can to win her over, but I can't promise good results. Even if Sam could forgive me for my part in this scheme and is agreeable to a one-time thing, it's not the right environment for anything more, and she'd be stuck with me for a while. Resentment may build...

We'll be traveling constantly and living like animals, something I can handle because I've done it before. Sam isn't like me, though. She doesn't have the same instincts. She'll need outdoor training, and mid-November isn't exactly the ideal time to learn. The lingering summer weather is now gone, especially at night, and the darkness is something we'll be forced to make the most of.

Blaise gave me five hundred dollars in cash, all she had on hand and could spare with Ishmael overseeing her finances. I'm truly grateful, but it won't get us very far. Sam may not even have shoes or a coat.

Even if love prevails and we manage to evade everyone—and I'm being highly optimistic on both counts—where would we go? What would we do? How would I keep her happy in the middle of nowhere? Or protect her from everything we'd bring upon ourselves once Ivy, Ishmael, and Prue are officially our enemies? Honestly, I was jolting at every sudden movement when they had my back. There are worse things out there, and some of them want me dead, too. Others would gladly kill anyone who crosses into their territory. Who we are, or what we are, wouldn't matter.

This is all assuming she's healthy and wants to leave, but if I take a moment to consider what she's been through, I'm concerned, let's just say.

Once again, I'm wasting time, looking too far ahead, considering every possible scenario beyond the frame of my current window.

It's just past noon on the day that'll set everything into motion. Every minute is important, and Sam is not even out of the house yet. The details are hers to decide. Or they'll be decided for us, by circumstances beyond our control...

I've been doing prep work since early this morning, but there's still more to do, and a lot I probably should be doing that I haven't thought of yet. I also need to rest and eat something. It's what my body is screaming for at the moment, and it would be wise to listen. We have a long night ahead of us.

If there's one thing I can thank Brock for, it's my new ability to function on a few short naps a day. I don't know if I can pull it off without regular meals, though. Eating now consumes a lot of time and money, or energy, and I really have none to spare.

Every choice is a tough one. I go down for a catnap, and then look for a quick bite in the woods. I come across an unsuspecting squirrel along one of the many fake trails I'm leaving outside of Ishmael's security radius. My plan is to leave as many as I can while my Impression stench is still strong. Then I'll wash off the excess in the Shenandoah River. When I'm running for real, my scent won't be as traceable, especially if rain is still in the forecast.

Sam's scent is something to consider as well. I'll roll her new clothes around in the dirt and carry her on my back for a few stints. She shouldn't smell like she once did anyway. For someone like Rollin, who isn't as intimately familiar, she could be easily confused with some other human female. I've been in these woods all night and yes, there's enough of this smell to send an unknowing wolf in the wrong direction.

It would make sense to head north, toward Winchester, where Sam was last seen and can get help and support, beyond what I can provide. Or southeast, toward her parents' house. We may change course gradually or abruptly, depending on what she decides and any hazards we come across. First, we have to lose our trackers, and to do that, we'll need water and lots of it.

They may suspect this, too. The river is not the best place to hide, but it gives us a known course and odor protection. We'll only have to worry about being seen. And, well, the current too, I suppose, and the temperature.

One thing's for sure. Dipping in after my final fake run, the water isn't particularly pleasant. It's not only cold. It's also rough from the wind and swelling to almost full because of the soggy autumn we've had.

At about four o'clock, I'm skirting the property line. At a rock perch on higher ground, I get a view of the Maleceks and their security detail. They're parking their black armored Cadillacs like they're the fucking president and secret service. Ivy is the first to greet them. In no great hurry, they flock toward the house.

As nasty as the Maleceks are, their arrival is a boon, and it provides some relief. The whole world is at their disposal. They're no doubt flaky and selfish, perhaps even cruel when it comes to other people's requests. To capture even the faintest glimmer of their interest, Ivy must have told them a whole lot of lies. Even so, and as adept as she may be, I'm honestly still surprised they showed up and on time, no less.

The whole Fowler family will be moving their fake pleasantries from the walkway and porch to the sitting room. Coats will be taken, drinks and hors d'oeuvres will be served, and Shilo and I have timed our meeting accordingly.

Leaping from my lookout point, I head downhill. We've kept things flexible, so this is our one and only rendezvous.

I arrive in the ditch besides an exposed tree root—our usual spot for anything illicit. It's just beyond the perimeter and out of camera view. The lightly crunching leaves and swift pace suggest that Shilo is veering away from her post and will be arriving momentarily.

Her thoughts are loud before she even arrives—hard to describe, but it's like a string of expletives and troubling punctuation marks. A lot of "????" and "!!!!" and not enough "." This is to be expected under any of our current circumstances, even if everything is going as "planned." Still, it earns itself a what's wrong right off the bat.

Shilo skids to stop against me, and that's not like her. She usually has more grace and control. Sorry. I don't have much time. Rollin's on desk.

Shit.

With Ishmael cooking and schmoozing, we were hoping his desk would go unmanned or given to Faolan. He's more of a tech nerd than a guard dog, and Rollin is the opposite. And Ishmael is no fool to any of this...

Is he on to us?

I don't think so, Shilo answers after she flips through some of her memories, the clues therein. They're for me to see, too.

Ishmael was giving orders, maybe more brusquely than usual, but we've certainly endured worse. Prue looks piously content today, her cheeks all flushed, like she's an ugly, virgin bride-to-be. The witch sisters were bickering during the glimpses Shilo stole, seemingly fueled by chores and laziness, Ivy's ineffectiveness as their boss, and Blaise's subtle sabotage. Faolan seems jumpy, and that's a red flag. Luckily, everyone seems too preoccupied to notice. And Rollin looks terrible.

Shilo takes a moment to explain: He pulled an all-nighter on what was supposed to be his night off. Ivy obviously dumped him at the first Malecek interaction, and I think this is Ishmael's way of cutting him some slack. The good news is, he's tired and bitter, if he's at all normal, and he doesn't really know what he's looking at...

He'll liven up when he sees me. I'm sure he's been warned.

Shilo paces in a tight circle in front of me, like she doesn't intend to stay long, or is expecting trouble. But then she sits, cautiously and uneasily. We all have, but Ishmael didn't seem too concerned. Not about that anyway. He's either overestimating Rollin or underestimating you, or distracted in general...

Or he's a good actor with a trap in place...

Doesn't matter, Shilo replies. We can't chicken out now, so let's assume our plan is better than his. It is possible. He may be a legend, but it's mostly in his own mind.

I really hope you're right. How did Sam do?

She took the note and Blaise heard her toilet flush a few minutes later. As far as we know, she's following our directions.

Great. Anything else I should know?

Bryony is supposedly coming tonight.

Why? I ask as I snarl aloud.

She's part of the family? Sort of? Ishmael loves telling everyone her creation story? She wouldn't pass up an opportunity to get with a Malecek? Who knows? All I can say is that she'll be here soon. Well. Probably. You know how she is.

Self-serving, above all else, and unpredictable. Fucking figures. I'd rather it be a yes or a no. A maybe thrusts a possible fork through every step of my flimsy plan.

Although Bryony's no particular threat on her own, her dedication to both Ishmael and Ivy is unwavering. She's no peacemaker, but I consider her the grease that eases their friction. That's the closest I'll ever get to giving her a compliment. If she joins Ishmael's search team, she'd add her vampire skillset to a full and diverse pot already. That, and she would be a leader, not a follower. And I was counting on everyone to follow someone who would lead them astray—like Shilo or Blaise, or Faolan, in theory...

I expected certain things to come up, but they're adding up quickly. The Malecek two-car entourage may complicate things further. Who knows what foul creatures they employ? They could, quite possibly, have magic with the destructive power of an H-bomb.

If Sam is the evening's "entertainment," wouldn't the Maleceks let their dogs and other ghouls loose, just to see it through in a timely manner?

Oh, and let's not forget the Brock problem. He's a given and we intend to exploit his few weaknesses—his sluggishness, blind loyalty, and thick-headedness. We're counting on him to behave predictably. He doesn't adjust well to any sudden change in his trajectory. Still, he has more weight and muscle than most of us combined and an extremely short fuse. He's used to winning and doling out pain. If we somehow manage to disrupt this tendency, he'll blow his fucking top. Sam and I won't survive unless we get past the very wide blast zone.

You can do this. Don't overthink it, Shilo tells me, no doubt snagged somewhere in the labyrinth of my angst. It's making you stink again.

Sound advice, but, all in all, I should take a moment to say goodbye. It was nice knowing you, Shilo. You made this job bearable, until it just wasn't anymore. Thanks for having my back and seeing that, too. And good luck with Blaise's agenda. I'll be rooting for you. I'll be with you in spirit. Always.    

Shilo emits a wolf grunt and cocks her head at me. Are you done?

Yes. Sorry.

Her head rotates about a quarter-turn in the other direction, allowing her to view my idiocy and hopelessness from a new angle. I'll only accept goodbye if you're on a beach or mountaintop somewhere, your head on the breast of a beautiful woman.

I collapse to my stomach and rest my head on my paws with a sigh. Wow. When you put it like that...

You might actually get your shit together? Please. Try. For me. For Sam.

I am.

Shilo rises to three feet and rests her free paw on mine. Try harder.

I will.

You'd better! I should go, Jay. Sit tight. And wait for my signal.

My head lifts. It's about the best I can do right now. Be careful.

She gambols up half the hill, pauses there, and turns back. You, too.

If something goes wrong, tell Sam I love her.

Sorry, kid. That's a no. She's running now, far and fast away from any reply I might have. You're gonna have to live long enough to tell her yourself.