Page 43 of Crow’s Shadow

That night the war room fills with two charters’ worth of hard men, and Loco lays the ride out over a map pinned beneath the founding skull. Two prongs. Wolf’s twelve take the low approach to pull Renner’s eyes wide. Our crew rides the road Shadow found, the quiet one, up the back of the mountain to the house itself while the noise happens somewhere else.

“You’re sure of this road,” Wolf says, one thick finger on the line in Shadow’s hand.

“She’s sure,” I say.

Wolf looks at me a long beat, then at the map, then at Loco. “A road a woman drew in her sleep.”

“A road a witch pulled off the mountain with her own eyes,” Loco says, flat, and the word lands in the room the way it lands everywhere now, and half of Wolf’s men go still. “You rode four hundred miles on my word. Ride a little further on it. She’s the realest thing at this table.”

Wolf holds it, then nods, slow, and there the matter ends, because Wolf came to fight and does not much care what kind of war it turns out to be.

Loco ran the play at church that morning with the doors thin, the way Shadow drew it up. Called a run on Renner’s mountain for two nights out, up the east road through the pass, loud enough for a girl with a glowing phone to catch every word. Sable caught it. Byte watched her carry it down the hall to the office nobody uses and thumb it out to a number we now own.

“She sent it,” Byte tells me, laptop open on the bar. “Word for word. Wrong road, wrong night, exactly what Shadow wrote. Renner’s got our fake in his hand.”

“And?”

“And his people moved on it. Trucks staging on the east road through the pass, right where the lie put us.” He turns the screen, a scatter of pings crawling up the wrong valley. “It worked, Crow. He’s fortifying a road we are never going to touch.”

It worked. So why does it sit in me wrong.

Because Renner is a cleaner too, in his way. A man who takes and tidies and leaves no prints. And a man of my own trade does not hand you a clean win. He hands it to you when the win is the trap.

I find Shadow in the chapel with the book open and a map beside it, the real road marked in her own hand, the one she pulled off a mountain with her mind and a bloody nose. She looks up when I come in, and the pull goes tight and easy at once, a thing I will never get used to, a wire between us I no longer want cut.

“It worked,” I tell her. “He took the fake. He’s digging in on the east road.”

She does not look happy. She looks the way I feel.

“It’s what’s eating you,” she says. Not a question. She reads me the way she reads everyone now, only closer, because there is nowhere in me she cannot go anymore. “He took it too easy.”

“He felt you up on his mountain. He knows you’re awake. He knows what you can do.” I sit across from her. “A man who knows a witch scried his front door does not swallow a lie about the back one without tasting it.”

“So he tasted it. And moved on it anyway.” Her jaw sets. “Because he wants us to come. He told me himself. He left the road open on purpose. We’re not tricking a man into a mistake. We’re walking through a door he’s holding for us.”

“Then we don’t go.”

“We go.” No hesitation. “He’s got a copy of the book. He’ll take my power the second he stops being patient. He’ll hunt every woman in this club once he’s done with me. We don’t get to not go. We only get to go smart, and go together, and make him regret leaving the door open.”

We ride at first light. Which leaves the night, and I have learned in the last few days not to waste a night.

I take her to my room, at the end of the hall. Fifteen years in it, and there’s still nothing but a cot, a footlocker and bare walls. I never needed it to be anything but somewhere to sleep. She looks around, takes it all in, and doesn’t say a fucking word. Somehow that scares me more than Renner ever has.

“Say it,” she says. “Whatever’s eating you. We ride in six hours. Say it now.”

“I lost you once already.” The words come rough. “Twenty years ago I carried you out of one fire and told myself the carrying was the end of it. Then four days ago you walked out a blind spot, and I stood in an empty parking space and felt something tear I didn’t have a name for. I have had you for three days. Three. And tomorrow I ride you up a mountain to a man built to take exactly what you are.”

“You’re scared.”

“I’m terrified.” I have never said the word out loud in my life. “Not of dying. I’ve been ready to die since before you were born. I’m scared of standing in another empty space where you used to be. I can’t do it twice. I won’t survive losing you again.”

Shadow does not tell me I will not lose her. She is not a liar, and she knows what we ride into at dawn. What she does is step in close enough that the bond hums between us, a struck wire, and she looks up at me with her mother’s chin lifted, and she gives me the only true thing there is.

“Then we don’t lose. Not to him. He took her because she was alone and asleep and didn’t know her own name.” Her voice drops. “I know exactly what I am. I know exactly whose I am. And I am done being taken.”

Shadow crosses the room, takes my face in both hands, and she kisses me. There is nothing careful in it. Nothing fragile. I get my hands in her hair and pull her closer, kissing her back with six hours left before we ride and no fucking guarantee either of us comes home.

“Then claim me,” she says against my mouth. “You want to know I’m yours so bad it’s killing you. So do it. Properly.”