Page 133 of Scarlet Wars
We pushed off from the dock, paddles dipping in careful rhythm, each stroke meant to cut sound, not make it. The river stretched ahead like an endless sheet of obsidian, swallowing light, swallowing noise, until even the night itself felt like it was holding its breath.
“You should stay down as much as possible.”
My tone came out dry, but Emma ducked anyway, the motion quick and obedient in the dark.
Keeping her hidden from humans was imperative, and with every push of the oar, my conviction to bring her along slipped another inch. The night felt too wide, too exposed, like the water itself was waiting for us to make a mistake.
Emma sat low in the dinghy ahead of me, shoulders tight and rigid, tension radiating through the narrow space between us.
The farther we drifted, the quieter it got. Even the water seemed to lose its sound.
Somewhere ahead of us lay the invisible line. The one that separated Canada from the US.
And, more importantly, the edge of the bubble.
We slowed without speaking. The paddles dipped softer, shallower, until their sound faded to a whisper. Even breathing felt intrusive, too loud for the stillness pressing in around us.
Crossing this line meant losing our powers, with no way of knowing when—or if—we’d get them back.
Emma turned her head, eyes catching what little light remained. “On your mark,” she said.
“Almost there,” I murmured back, though my voice came out rougher than I intended.
Her shoulders had gone rigid, her head tilted slightly, as if she were listening to something I couldn’t hear.
Then she stiffened. “Did you hear that?” she whispered, the words so soft they barely disturbed the air between us.
I leaned in, close enough to catch the faint scent of her skin, making sure the two others in the boat couldn’t hear. “Hear what?”
A distant thrum rose under the river’s hush, mechanical and insistent. Then a pair of bright, hunting beams split the black ahead of us and a voice cracked over a loudspeaker: “Unidentified vessel. This is the US Coast Guard. You are about to cross the national border. Stop your craft and display lights. Repeat, stop.”
The wordstophit like a stone. Everyone stilled.
I felt the current tugging us forward, and for one furious beat I considered translating us out of there, vanishing into the dark and abandoning the mission entirely.
But that would mean breaking the promise I’d made to bring my brother’s husband home.
Nope.
“Low and slow,” I said, the command more for myself than anyone. “Keep down. Don’t move unless I tell you.” I kept my hands on the oars but didn’t stroke, letting the boat drift with the eddy. Emma flattened herself, chin to chest, breath so quiet I could barely hear it. The others obeyed, faces pale in the starlight.
A spotlight swept over us like a tongue. The beam found the boat and held, searing white, turning everything into stark, exposed shapes. I raised both palms slowly, nonthreatening, visible. “US Coast Guard,” a man barked from the lights, the accent tight, practiced. “Identify yourselves. State nationality and purpose for being on the river at this hour.”
Before I could answer, the beam shifted, sweeping past me and landing square on Emma’s face.
She froze. The light pinned her there, merciless and blinding, and then a voice broke from behind it.
“Holy shit, that’s Emma Thompson! The terrorist! Arrest her!”
“We’re still in Canadian waters, you cannot arrest her,” Campbell barked back.
Someone cursed. The beam quivered but didn’t move off Emma’s face.
And then, the Coast Guard vessel drifted closer.
Closing the tiny sliver of water that still technically separated their jurisdiction from ours.
They didn’t care about the border. They didn’t care about the deal between Canada and the US.
