Title: Escape
Author: Kelandris the Mad
Fandom: Forever Knight/Mercyverse (gryn!) crossover, touches of Beauty and the Beast/Forever Knight towards the end
Pairing: Nick Knight/Mercy, Nick/Lacroix, Nick/Natalie (implied), Mercy/Charis (both original characters), Mercy/Vincent, and, at the end, Vincent/Mercy/Nick
Rating: NC-17
Status: posted to the page 31 May 2005, written LONG before that
Archive: The traditional places. If you don't know what the traditional places are, you might want to write and ask. And here's how:
Feedback: Kelandris
Series/Sequels: This is the beginning of the "Death and the Maiden" storyline.
Disclaimers: Nick Knight, Lacroix, Natalie Lambert, Vachon, Janette and anyone else I might happen to mention from Forever Knight belong to their respective creators, Sony Television, and now Sci-Fi Channel. I own and retain all rights to Charis, Mercy, and any other original characters I might happen to mention. Vincent remains the property of Republic Pictures.
Notes: Finally tracked this down in an old zip file, but who knows how many parts I'm going to split it into--the original is a *staggering* 136 pages! 136 pages of fanfic...Dear gods, but I do babble, don't I?
Summary: Mercy decides she has to leave London and picks Toronto as a nice calm place to relocate for a bit. Hijinks ensue.
Warnings: Extreme violence, angst, suffering, angst, emotional distress, major body wounds, heterosexual sex, homosexual sex, heavy fang action, angst, and near-death experiences. Tons and tons more than is required of exposition to move (??) the story along. Did I leave anything out? Oh, right. Angst. :)


*Death and the Maiden, or, Knight Enamoured*
"Chapter One (Escape)"
by Kelandris the Mad


*"Where the hell am I?"
"You're the hell here..."
(MST3K)*

Shots rang out in Picadilly Square and the tall woman swore, ducking into a brick-lined alleyway and cursing fluently in Egyptian. She thought she'd be safe during the royal funeral procession; most of her assailants *were* English.

Apparently she'd been wrong. And why not--what did her enemies care about royalty?

**Half of them think they *are* royalty, after all--**

Calmly hooking her bag over her arm, she pulled out the small spring-loaded crossbow from its holster, and slotted two ashwood bolts carefully. She darted around just long enough to see where they were hiding. And there they were--lurking in the shadows of an alley just south of her position.

She crept forward, sighting between a trash bin and the wall, and released the first bolt. As soon as it was away, she sighted and shot the second. Both landed in the chests of her pursuers, who only had time enough to gasp before they fell back, fell dead. She didn't bother to cross the street; she knew, given the current angle of the sun, they'd be ash within the hour.

She stood, brushing off her knees, and re-holstered the bow. She was disgusted, mostly at herself. All because she'd needed her coffee fix this morning, and look who might have gotten hurt. She swept her trench coat over the weapon, concealing it from view, and sighed. It was time to leave England.

***

Two years after the death of Gervase, they still came after her. There were five children in Giancomo's family that especially wanted her dead. There had been more; at the end of the first five months, she'd killed fifty who had thought killing her would solve their problems. Vampires, walking dead, the infected--droves of them, mostly at night, but an occasional lethally stupid few by daylight. Of course, they were by nature less mobile during sunny hours--these last two, for example, must have waited hours by that bin, the odours of rotting vegetable matter and more objectionable things rising as the sun grew high. All on supposition, on the merest hint of possible truth--it was enough for them.

Oh, she'd killed Gervase, true, but there were only four people who *knew* that with surety--herself, obviously; her mindmate Vincent, a continent away; her lover Charis, the former second-in-command of the Giancomo family; and Gervase Giancomo. Who was, of course, dead. Which was, of course, the problem.

Sadly, all but those five perceived her as an intermediary; the one they truly planned to kill was her lady-love, Charis. Most didn't object to taking her out in the bargain; others simply sought to convince her, through drugs, rape or torture, to reveal Charis' location. So far, she'd only been tortured once, partially, by complete amateurs it nearly wasn't worth killing. The rest of their plans had fallen to ash faster than they did.

There were those who had chosen leaving London over extended conflict. Some stayed, but held their lives separate from hers. Some scattered to the four winds, moving to America, to France, to wherever they thought they would be better treated. This had the virtue of dropping the numbers who wanted her blood to that bare, battle-hardened five. The Five Horsemen, as she had taken to calling them. And they were proving bitter enemies, indeed.

Adam Moro was the undisputed leader now, of what remained of the Giancomo family. He was a man nearly as corrupt and black of heart as Gervase had been. His chosen companion was Soni Gellt, a woman proficient in slow ways to kill, be it by poison or by blade. Gunnar Heinrik was Adam's right arm, the man solely responsible for the rise in bombing attacks in Mercy's end of South London. They were followed slavishly by Trace Harper and Michael Erickson, strong ex-army men made brothers by Gervase in 1952. Trace, for all that he was as bright as a box of rocks, had worked his way up to lieutenant in the national army before he was brought across.

Harper was as sadistic a man as she'd met, barring Giancomo. His idea of a good date with a woman generally ended in strangulation, rape, and mutilation by filleting knife--and not necessarily in that order. Soni was much brighter, much harder to defeat, mistress of the quick-kill dart and the tripwire in the dark. The others...their virtue was that she hadn't been able to kill them yet, so they kept coming. They kept coming.

Mercy had fought many battles with those they'd sent, and had fought through rifle fire, bomb blasts, direct attack, and the occasional nerve toxin, trying to protect herself and Charis. It had been an exciting few months in London, a level of almost warlike strife that few Londoners ever saw.

On the plus side, she was in the best physical condition that she'd ever been, moving with an almost catlike grace, supple and taut. She relied heavily on the physical support of Charis at her back, and the mental support of her friend Vincent, so far away, to keep her sane. Still, those five--those unholy, bitter Five--were proving very difficult to kill. Mercy was getting tired of the whole struggle.

***

On the walk home, she watched her reflection in the shop windows. She saw a tall woman, walking with a commanding presence. Her black hair was tied back into a loose bun, wisps escaping to curl around her face. One single streak of platinum graced that hair, tracing from her right temple to the waist-brushing tips. Narrow face, narrow lips, large eyes. Those eyes were still her best feature, thickly lashed, elegantly browed, and a shade of purple seen only in occasional Elizabeth Taylor publicity shots. And not an exact match, even then, as they tended to lighten and darken with her mood.

She looked tired, wrapped in her dark trench, her winter tweeds and woolen skirt. And why not? She'd been running at the limits of even *her* remarkable endurance for months now. It felt as if she'd been living on coffee and willpower for decades, not weeks. And before that--

Well, before she'd killed Gervase, her life hadn't been that bad. She had what she wanted--comfortable surroundings, lovely people to feed her, lovely sights to see. Blood and theatre, there were few better combinations. Of course, she'd been struggling with the new love in her life, and escaping the pull of a love she could never have--

She paused, sticking out her tongue at herself in the bakery shop window. People inside laughed nervously. One little boy stuck his tongue out in return, and she smiled, mood restored.

It wasn't as if that distant love hadn't turned to her eventually. She reached into her heart, into her soul, and across the miles to New York, feeling again that lovely golden presence, smiling in his sleep. Mad fool, to ask her to bond with him, so he wouldn't be alone. Mad fool she, to go ahead and develop that psychic bond, wrapping their souls together tightly. Mad happy fools, though. Gods, she missed him.

The woman reflected in the bakery glass was called Mercy now. Mercy Wallis; she’d thought the name ironically fitting for a Londoner. She had borne many names, of course, in the fullness of time. Again, she made a face in the shop window, at the pomposity of the phrase. But it was true. She had lived as Mercy, as Miranda Greene, as Marta Luran and Mary Colm and Mink and Mischa and even Mykonos Athanasius. In the dim memory of recorded time, she had been named Mereya and lived in a small Egyptian artist's community. She thought that might have been her first name, but it was so hard to remember.

She unlocked the door to her South London home and dropped the day's shopping on the kitchen counter. She walked down to the shuttered basement, carefully pulling back the bed drapes on the bed in which Charis occasionally slept. There'd been no problem sleeping in Mercy's upstairs room, but then Mercy had installed a solar for painting, and now--well, during the night it was an uninterrupted vista of moonlight focused by several small, concealed mirrors, and Charis adored it. But during the day it was a fifty-fifty shot that sunlight would be streaming through, glittering brightly on all the gold-work out in the hall. Which was bad for Charis, as Charis was a vampire.

One of the last remaining Giancomos, in fact.

Artist and friend, former lieutenant of Gervase Giancomo; it still baffled her that they'd fallen in love. Charis was brought across in Chicago in 1932, a perky gun moll with a pixie's face, tied by bonds scarier than blood to one of the gangsters there. But after Gervase had brought her over to eternal undeath, she'd rolled with the punches, updating herself every few years. She'd adapted to modern life with greater ease than Mercy--she lay face-down on the big bed, wearing a black t-shirt with the name of a band Mercy had never heard of, and lacy thong underwear, legs twisted through the silk sheets. Mercy still struggled to remember she was out of the thirteenth century.

Walking back upstairs, she measured the aromatic coffee grains into the filter one-handed, her other hand occupied with the 'phone.

"Hello? Yes, this is Mercy Wallis, you sold me my furniture--oh, thank you, I'm gratified you remember me after so long. Yes. Well, actually, my company is relocating me, and I need to know whether you want to buy back your items or--oh, of course, do send someone around, I'd love to show them the rest of the pieces. I can afford to take very little. If you have the name of--"

She paused, setting the filter in the cone and filling the reservoir.

"Do wait a moment, let me get a pen--all right, now give me that name again? Yes, in the South End, all right--"

She scribbled for a moment.

"And she sells everything...On consignment, you say? Well, naturally I'd prefer outright sales--of course, I'll be here the rest of the afternoon, it's not a problem you dropping by. Yes, I'll see you then."

She put the pen down, watching the slow drip of amber-brown into the pot.

**Good. We can be out of here in two days, maybe three, if I plan this right.**

***

She thought she'd call Bastien, an old fanged friend of her own, from years back. She had saved his life once, during the Inquisition, and had never called in the favor, holding it for unforeseen storms ahead. He might be able to help her finally, and end the debt between them.

There were not many vampires with which she got along. Between the fear her family had instilled in her of the undead Pharoahs, and the eternal pain of Eugenie's death, she did not associate with other vampires much. Bastien, though, had managed to slip through that shell of fearful distance she'd armored herself in, and later, when Eugenie had died, he managed to slip through the shell of unreasoning hatred. She remembered he'd actually managed to make her smile in the depths of the prisons. When they removed her for the stake, and she managed to escape, she took him with her.

It was the only time, she recalled, that he had been afraid. He had hoped for rescue, but honesty and good sense, he said, prevented him from actually expecting it. At the last he had known he was dead, dragged out by several guards in armor, fighting with the last of his strength to free himself. His skin was already beginning to broil under the brutal sun overhead, before any of the Inquisitors ever tied him to a stake.

But he was not to be reduced to ash and screams that day. He said it was the most frightening sight that could be imagined--the glimpse of one's over-solemn cellmate stalking towards the guards that held him, feet charred to cinders, hands tightened-sinew claws, face maddened and hair burnt. He had felt true fear for the first time, he told her. Later that night, after an exhausting dual hunt, they had retired to a high cave in the surrounding French hills, and talked until the sun rose. That was the main reason she hadn't killed him; she had been surprised by how deeply she liked him.

Oddly, he hadn't sounded surprised to hear from her, so many centuries later. He'd sounded cheerful, and helpful, and more than willing to assist. He had had no involvement in Gervase, good or ill, that she could detect. In addition he cared enough about her--and her money--to try to set her up with at least provisional safety. Somewhere the Five couldn't track them down. She chose to trust him.

The morning she called, she'd walked by an exploding van and through gatling-gun fire. It was time to start considering their investment in her death.

***

"Mischa, my darling! How vonderful to hear from you! How is it, your life?"

"Combative," she said, scanning around the corner. She'd gone out again, this time to arrange the sale of the house through an agent. She was pinned between two warring groups of six, and she could swear some of them were ghouls--essentially human servants of vampires--rather than the actual fanged. This was bad.

She turned back to the phone, slotting bolts in her crossbow, and taking her usual careful aim. "I need your help."

"Mischa, vhatever you need--vithin certain limits--it is yours, you know that! Do I hear screaming?"

"Ignore it. Book me a flight? Two days from now, something in a morning flight. Out of Heathrow, obviously."

"You are zho interesting, my lady...Your own name, lovely Mischa, or somezhing exotic?"

"Tch...Something *old*; book me as Mary Colm, would you? Tell them I'll present my passport at the airport for verification. And arrange for cargo on the same flight--let's say, I'm taking my sister with me, the recently deceased Charity Colm. That should satisfy." And it would be easy enough to alter Charis' passport in her small basement studio.

"But of course, my lady. I look forward to zeeing you--and your friend."

She turned back to the battle, routinely staking those that could be staked, and walking away from the rest, shaking her head. She *had* to get out of town.

He was good--within an hour, an agent at Heathrow had called, confirming a 9:00 am flight. She'd confirmed, then set to packing. She wanted everything she intended to save stored for travel before Charis woke up, and she had to tell her they were leaving.

***

Two days can go by so quickly.

Charis pillowed her head on Mercy's shoulder while she read the packing crate instructions for the third time. The girl was naturally tired--it was six in the morning, after all, the curtains tightly shuttered against the light--and the cab would be here any moment.

"You know, if you'd let me buy a big pine box as I'd suggested--"

Charis mumbled something indistinctly uncharitable, and Mercy just sniffed.

She slotted the walls of the box together, feeling fairly satisfied with herself nonetheless. All the furniture had gone well, for good prices, and she'd only taken a loss on the house, selling it at 70% of value in a direct release to an agent. With all the work she'd done, especially on the back garden, she deserved to net at least a 40% profit, maybe more--but she didn't want ties back to London, especially realty. So she'd gone for quick sale to the third name in the book.

Ah, well. A few clothes, some personal knick-knacks which traveled well, and this damned box. If the instructions weren't so badly translated--she spoke twenty languages fluently, another ten well enough to ask for basic needs and read signage; unfortunately, Korean wasn't any of them.

Finally, the box was ready. She nudged Charis awake, helped her lift her new coffin, elaborately carved in ironwood into it, and then closed the box lid tightly when Charis had secured the inner coffin lid.

Just in time--that was a cab horn outside, wasn't it?

She opened the door, the sun hitting her face like a hammer, and gestured the man inside. He frowned, but stepped gingerly in, and looked at the box in the center of the floor.

"Eh, now, I wasn't told about this--"

He looked askance at Mercy, swathed in mourning black, looking tall and frail.

"It's all right, sir," she said softly. "If you'll pick up the other end--" She walked over, toeing a corner up and lifting the box. He gulped, but propped up the other end.

"I was used to lifting my father out of bed in the morning, you see, and caring for him during the day. I'm stronger than I look."

"That you are, miss," he said, sliding the box as gently as possible into the back of the van. "But you let me summon some carriers at Heathrow, you hear? I won't have you liftin' nothin' you don't have to."

"I understand, sir, and I thank you." And off they went. The rest of the trip was uneventful by comparison--disembark at Heathrow, pass her bags and passports over, pass her medical papers over when the customs agent frowned at the odd, brownish powder in the mylar bag. Passports stamped, she'd sailed through the rest of the procedures, ending up on the plane, in the back of the first class section. Now, all she had to do was wait.

Once in the air, though, she couldn't stop fidgeting. The seat tray in front of her had flyers from a dozen different realty companies, several 8x10 color photographs of various buildings, a wide assortment of street maps, and four little bottles of vodka. Three of the four were empty, and she was feeling a bit dizzy. And still she couldn't stop fidgeting.

She drained the fourth bottle into the tumbler of ice on the tray. It wasn't Toronto, she realized, sipping her drink. It wasn't even Canada. It was that she had really *loved* London, and leaving it made her twitch. Even with the car bombs and the unexplained fires, it had been home.

**And let's be honest with ourselves, shall we, old girl?** She sighed. **If we're really traveling to the Americas, we'd rather be going to New York, wouldn't we? Only we can't take Charis to New York, because Charis would not understand.**

Charis, in fact, would be upset.

But, oh, she missed Vincent. He always put things into perspective for her, from the moment she met him. Took her worries, took her qualms, and calmed her heart and mind. And he did it with a rare kind of understanding, and a complete honesty. He would never lie to her, never sugar-coat the truth. By the same token, he would never unnecessarily hurt her. It was a rare gift.

She counted the bottles, shrugging, then gestured to a passing steward for another round of drinks. Good thing she was in first class.

It made her nearly insane, this cat-and-mouse game played for life and death stakes. She had wanted to remove her ancient enemy, had sought to prick him with enough deaths of the corrupt ones serving under him to make him careless; she had not anticipated that those she found too unstained to kill would turn and come after her, and after Charis. Soon, too soon, she would have to pick a battlefield, and decide the issue permanently. Then, once again, the blood of innocents would be on her elegant hands.

**And all the perfumes of Arabia,** she thought sadly, **cannot sweeten this little hand.** Not that any of the Five were such innocents.

Bastien's tickets flew them to his beloved Novosibirsk, in Siberia, where she couldn't buy enough sweaters to make her warm. He had moved to Russia in the 1930's, and had never left it for sunnier climes. He loved the people, he said, loved their ideals and their innocence too much to leave. Bastien told her he wanted to conclude some business here, then take her someplace warmer to discuss their dealings. She nodded through shivers, staying in her hotel room with the steam heat blasting--when it worked, which it rarely did. Charis, of course, damnable girl, loved Novosibirsk's big block buildings, stunted black trees, and barren landscapes. She went to all the clubs, usually with Bastien, sampled all the late-night coffeehouses, only occasionally with Mercy, and licked her lips whenever she told Mercy of the hunting. Mercy, for her part, did *not* hunt in Novosibirsk. She waited most of the three days in the hotel, reading or sleeping, subsisting on 'emergency rations'--that little mylar bag. It contained dried whole blood and dehydrated protein base, and looked more like rust in silver than anything even remotely edible. Once rehydrated, it tasted more like rust in a glass than anything else--far from filling and far from healing.

Bastien, for his part, adored Charis, treating her like a favored niece. They didn't complement each other--apart from her pallor, she looked and acted more like a California-grade beach bunny, and Bastien was of that imperious "Velcome to my castle" breed of vampires, ancient clothes and ancient manners and an old-world courtliness and charm that, at times, was hard to resist. Still, it made her life easier that they got along.

The day Bastien returned, he presented the flight plan to them, and her eyes crossed, looking at it. Novosibirsk to Habarask, *then* to Toronto, Canada--why? By all the gods, *why?*

"Can't we just fly there directly?" she asked, her teeth chattering.

"Here, throw zhis on," he said, throwing a heavy mountaineer's parka at her. She shrugged into it, zipping it up, feeling as if she'd been wrapped in six pillows. Six cold pillows.

"From here, no," he explained. "If ve vere in Saint Petersburg, vell, ve could go anyvhere--but from here, ve have to fly into Habarask, and stay zhe night, and zhen fly to Toronto zhe next morning."

"You're talking about two morning flights! Haven't you thought of that?"

"Vell, for you it's no problem, is it? For us," he said, smiling at Charis, "we vill ride cargo, yes?"

She sighed, exasperated. "This country..."

"Cheer up," Bastien said brightly. "At least in Habarask you'll be varmer!"

Mercy shook her head. **I'm never going to be warm again!**

"Bastien, I give up. You can make even the simplest thing convoluted; why would I have expected less?"

He beamed. "Thank you! Now, pack up--ve leave at eleven tomorrow, and I'm notifying our *hotelier*."

"Eleven tomorrow. The planes will still be frozen--the roads will still be frozen!"

"But zhe limo von't be frozen, and it's driving us zhere. Trust me, Mischa-lady--everything vill be fine."

She shook her head once, then again. The thoughts refused to settle properly.

"The mind boggles, Bastien."

"Pack up."

***

The next morning brought Bastien to her door far more early than she wanted, and it was all she could to to crawl out of bed and into clothes. Cold clothes. She spent some time crating Charis up, then walked back to Bastien's room with him, where he bowed formally to her, and crawled into his own coffin inside the pine crate. It was a huge, cherrywood affair, ornate and regal. Could she have expected less?

**He probably still sleeps in his,** she thought, grimacing as she pounded the last few nails in, then called the hotel staff, asking for help with the two crates. She stayed until they were loaded into the large grey van Bastien had arranged, and watched as the van pulled out into traffic, on its way to Novosibirsk's little airport.

Thankfully, there was coffee in the limousine, and she wrapped her shivering ice-chip fingers around the steaming mug and huddled into her parka. She spent two hours traveling at a crawl down ice-slick roads, neither the driver nor herself much in the mood for talk. Mercy was bone-tired, not so much from the previous weeks of flight and battle with the last tattered remnants of Gervase's army, but from the three days of bitter, intermittent cold in the hotel. She did little more than sink into the layers of wool and cotton and down that swathed her slim form, thinking.

She spent some time thinking of Charis, thinking how much easier it would have been had they both disappeared into the night after Gervase's death, rather than stay to face the questions. She spent a longer time thinking of Bastien, though. Not once had he mentioned who, exactly, his contacts in Toronto were; only that they were locals, and had part interest in one of Bastien's many businesses.

She cast a glance out of the smoked-glass window, her memory reconstructing him with accuracy as the snow drifts slouched by outside. He was pleasing to the eye, was Bastien, with shimmering black hair nearly as long as hers, when it was free of the perpetual jeweled leather sheath he wore it through. His eyes were blue, nearly silver at times, especially if his main environment consisted of ice and snow. His mouth was narrow, his nose aquiline; if anything, he resembled the typical English vampire fetishist, they of the bleached skin and the perpetually offended sensibilities.

He possessed a greater pallor than hers, for two reasons: he powdered his face at important gatherings, and he ingested a daily dose of arsenic, bringing his veins into prominence and his skin to its unnatural translucent white. Even with his affectations, however, he was attractive; moreover, he was genuinely good for the soul, possessed of a smile that never truly died, with his humor and wit ever at the ready. She thought that might have explained why she was willing to spend three days in the heart of a snowflake.

**Anything,** she thought, turning the heat up a notch, **to get Charis and I out of harm's way.**

That depressing trip was followed by a haul through customs that should have taken one-tenth as long, as she had only one bag and only one suspect item, the bag of rust-colored powder. It was easily explained by her papers, and by items clipped by her personal physician into her passport, as vitamin powders for an incurable blood condition, but the Novosibirsk customs official would not be swayed. Several times he threatened to confiscate it, until he came to the page with the 500-pound note paper-clipped to it. Something in U.S. dollars would have been better, but it had been all she'd had on her, and she hadn't thought he would have needed it. He took it, however--muttering dire threats about bribing 'official officers' the while--and they boarded late, Mercy by the side door and her two fanged companions as cargo, after a quick trip into a back room where their crates were stored. Thankfully, it was a nearly empty flight, but none of it helped her mood.

Then they had landed in Habarask, where Bastien had made arrangements for herself and the crates to be delivered to one of the larger hotels. Again, Bastien and Charis chose to go out and invigorate themselves with the local nightlife, dancing until early morning and hunting nearly until dawn. Again, Mercy stayed swaddled indoors, where the steam heat blessedly worked. She had two strong reasons; one, she was bitterly cold, and had been for longer than she thought was good for her. The second was simple: she tried not to take any life in a dictatorial environment. They were too rigid in thought to let the killer slip through their grasp, and would think nothing of who she was, nor how she killed. In this part of the world, vampires were still treated as a common danger.

She set a wake-up call for an hour before the plane's departure with the front desk. Then she pulled off the parka, unpacked a long woolen cloak, wrapped up in that, and fell into sleep gratefully.

When the phone rang, she dove off the bed, reaching for a dagger that wasn't there. She shook her head as she stood, unwrapping from the tangled cloak.

**I have got to relax.**

She mixed a quick rusty pint, drank it down with a grimace, and rinsed out the glass. She smiled ruefully down at the crates filling the room, still unsealed from the night before. She checked on her sleeping companions, then made quick work of hammering the lids shut, calling for strong arms from the front desk to deliver them to the airport. Russian was one language she *did* speak.

Packing everything else into the bag and holding the heavy parka over one arm, she made her way to the concourse and located the Toronto flight. She passed her boarding ticket to the smiling steward, and gratefully sank into the narrow airline chair. The flight was cold, or maybe she just was, and she found she couldn't sleep, watching the day grow brighter by the hour through the small window. She finally gave up and signalled the stewardess, asking for coffee and a pillow. Might as well be comfortable. She waited, sipping innumerable cups of coffee, until she saw the approaching lights of Toronto beneath the wing.

**Out of London,** she thought, relaxing for the first time since the hectic trip through several countries had begun. Charis was safe, and she'd see her soon; Bastien was with her, and would see them safely off...somewhere. She didn't care anymore where. All that mattered was that they were safe, and soon, they would be somewhere Adam would never think to look for them.

**Toronto,** she thought. **It's finally time I saw Canada.**

END
***************
Kelandris the Mad
the bird feeder is broken but it's full of snow anyway


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