Kitabı oku: «Taken», sayfa 3

Chapter 6

An hour later, they stopped at a drive-through at the city limits.

They held the Silence for Kyle, none of them speaking unless absolutely necessary. It was to keep his spirit from lingering, but it meant Zach had too much time to think.

It also meant he couldn’t explain much to the new shaman. Not that she seemed disposed to listen. She shrank frantically away any time one of them came near her, and her eyes roved the inside of the van when she thought he wasn’t watching her.

Looking for escape.

He cursed to himself every time he saw her flinch. She had an oil-stained rag clasped to the side of her head. She really was a pretty little thing, curved in all the right places, her hair a tangle of sandalwood curls and those little librarian glasses—thankfully not damaged; Brun had picked them up from the carpet—perched on her adorable little nose, over two wide, pretty eyes. It was too dim to tell what color the pale irises really were. Something too light to be green, and the wrong shade for blue.

He wanted to find out.

Unfortunately, the bruise spreading down the side of her face from hitting the seat didn’t do much to help her looks. But he’d had to shut Julia up before he was tempted to hurt her. So many times now he had glanced over to gauge Kyle’s reaction to the new shaman, to Eric’s driving, to Julia’s soft sobbing in the backseat, curled up in a ball—and found an empty place where his little brother should be.

This is your fault, not Julia’s. He wasn’t hard enough to lead, and especially not to rule a traveling Family without a shaman. You know that. You still let him take the alpha, because … why?

He knew why. Because of the smell of smoke and the sound of Kyle’s agonized howl as Zach held him back, as the fire ate their home and their parents. It was right after a fight with a small wandering band of upir, both the alpha and the shaman wounded, the shaman too deep in a healing-trance to wake up in time. Smoke inhalation could kill any Tribe, and the old alpha had thrown Zach clear with the last of his strength. Dad had succumbed with his last mate, their deaths an agonizing rawness in the center of Zach’s memory.

The fire had left them homeless, without shaman or kin. And it had left Zach with the deep shame of failure. He was strong enough—he should have saved Dad or gone up in flames with the shaman. He’d made the instinctive choice, not the right one.

And an alpha couldn’t ever afford to be instinctive instead of right when it came to choices like that.

Eric handed the bags of food to Brun, who had settled in the passenger’s seat, not daring to comfort his crying twin. The shaman potential, who wouldn’t give her name, perched on the other side of the bench seat, dry-eyed and dazed. She smelled too good to be true, and he had to stop himself from taking deep lungfuls every time the air in the van shifted.

I have screwed this right up, haven’t I? But he hadn’t been thinking, just reacting to the beast’s roar of possessiveness. It had happened so quickly, and she smelled so good, brunette and cold silver light. That smell meant comfort to a Carcajou. It was the shamans who could hold the beast in check, the ice and moonlight in them taking the edge off sharp claws and blood-hunger. Already it was easier to think clearly, even with the numbness in his chest, the part of him that didn’t believe his little brother was gone.

And as soon as she was triggered, she’d belong to them. It wouldn’t take long, not with as strong as she smelled of the potential now. A stray gust of air brought him another load of the silver-smell, and he inhaled gratefully.

Kyle. I wish you were here to see this.

But he wasn’t. And they broke the Silence temporarily to break their fast. Maybe he could talk to the girl, coax her somehow.

“Dead cow ahoy,” Brun said, thrusting three huge wrapped loads of overcooked, oversalted meat and processed bread into his hands. The van started again, Eric wolfing double hamburgers almost whole. The tank was full, courtesy of the stop-and-rob across the street, and they were ready to strike out south. As soon as they finished eating they could keep the Silence again.

“You want some?” Brun had crouched, his head well below the woman’s, submission and conciliation evident in every line of his body. His pheromone wash was submissive, too, tinted with softness. He was the one she was least likely to be terrified of. And the closer he could get to her, the more they could all get their pheromones on her, the sooner she’d trigger and be theirs in truth.

She just blinked at him, holding the rag to her head. “I won’t tell anyone,” she whispered again. “Please just let me go.”

“Don’t worry.” Brun was trying to sound hopeful and soothing; Zach watched carefully, hoping she’d respond. Her scent was alternately far too pale and choking-strong. It could have been shock; it could be that she wasn’t triggered yet. “We’re not going to hurt you. We need you.”

She blinked again, as if she was having trouble focusing. It would just cap everything if she had a concussion. “Did … did Mark pay you? Whatever he promised you, please, don’t believe him. He lies.”

What? Zach didn’t like the sound of that. But he had to take it one thing at a time right now. “Just give her some food. You’d better eat, sweets. You look like you need it.” He almost glanced at the passenger’s seat to gauge Kyle’s reaction, stopped himself only by easing forward and snagging a milk shake. Eric slurped at a root beer, flipping the turn signal and setting the drink in a holder with a practiced motion. He was the best driver, but he would have to be spelled about dawn.

Zach didn’t want to stop at a hotel and give everyone time to think for a little while. He wanted to wait until he had some sort of plan in his head. Besides, he felt better when they were moving. When they were on the road and he didn’t have to think about anything other than the next food stop, the next rest stop, the steady revolution of tires. Driving felt more natural than anything else, and if they stopped he might have to face the mess he’d made of everything.

They had a shaman now. But Kyle was gone. The spirits take with one hand and give with the other, the Tribes always said. But still. Why did they have to take so much?

Brun pressed a cheeseburger and a huge clutch of fries into the woman’s lap, ignoring her flinch, and moved over to Julia, bending over and whispering in his twin’s ear. Julia’s sobs were beginning to grate. She had reason to cry, they all did. But the racking sobs were beginning to take on a whipsawing note that meant Julia was working herself up into a fit or literally crying herself sick, and neither of those things would help the situation.

The floor of the van was littered with clothes, the leatherworking supplies stacked in cases behind the passenger’s seat. Here was his chance. Zach made it to the girl’s feet and offered her the milk shake. “Here. You really need to eat something.” He tried to sound conciliatory. Soothing.

Those pale eyes met his, and he found out they were gray, like a winter sky. He got a good lungful of her, spice and beauty overlaid with the hot grease from the bag in her lap. The thread of ice and moonlight was stronger now, twining through the warp and weft of her aroma like a jasmine vine coming into bloom, but the rest of it … she smelled damn near edible. And familiar, in some way he couldn’t quite place.

She smelled like his. It was that simple. It was a mate smell, and that was going to make things even stickier.

Why couldn’t you have come along earlier, huh?

But that was unfair. She probably had no goddamn idea what she’d just landed in. Which meant it was his job to keep this whole train on the tracks for a while, at least until he could make a stab at helping her understand.

And keeping her here until she was theirs.

She shifted on the seat, pulling her knees back, and the fries were headed for the floor until he caught them, his hand blurring. Quick fingers and quicker reflexes, the Tribe birthright.

It was sometimes the most useful part of the animal inside each of them.

Her eyes were very big, and glazed. Fringed with dark lashes, and behind her smudged glasses he saw fear.

“What’s your name?” He kept his tone nice and even. He had until they finished eating to calm her down a little. Eric slurped at his root beer, and Julia made a little hitching sound. Trying to steal the limelight, again.

The woman stared at him like he was speaking German or something. Finally, she stirred. “Sophie,” she whispered.

“Sophie. That’s pretty. What’s the rest of it?” Nice and easy. Good job, Zach.

“Harr—I mean, Wilson. My maiden name’s Wilson.”

Married? Huh. He didn’t see a ring, but he supposed anything was possible. And maiden name usually meant divorce. “Nice to meet you, Sophie. Listen, you really should eat. You just saw an upir kill two people.” He couldn’t put a nicer shine on it than that. And the more he kept a tone of normalcy, the better she might respond.

Or so he hoped.

She shook her head, and tears stood out in those big dark eyes. “Lucy.” Her lips shaped the word, and he had to stop staring. It was goddamn indecent, how soft her mouth looked.

“Was that her name?” Christ. It was her friend. Hard on the heels of that thought came another: Sophie was a really pretty name. He liked it.

Pay attention to what you’re doing, Zach.

She nodded. Her fingers curled around the milk shake, brushing his, and a jolt of heat slid up his arm from the contact. Married or not, hopefully divorced or not, the animal in him thought she belonged to him.

It was a tricky situation if she was married, but it did happen. Especially with “found” shamans. There were ways to fix it.

Lots of ways. Especially if you made up your mind not to be too overly concerned with playing nice.

She took a long pull off the straw and a tear tracked down her cheek. “She wanted me to have a little fun, that’s all. Since Mark …” Another flinch, and his sensitive nose caught the discordant note, an acridity in her scent.

Fear. More fear than she was already in. It smelled like old fear, like prey. Like blood in the water and an easy meal.

He pushed down the anger threatening to bubble up inside him. Slow and easy was the way to handle this. Her eyes stuttered to his face and she flinched, as if she’d read the emotional weather there and didn’t like it.

A swallow, her vulnerable throat moving. “Whatever he’s paying you, please don’t do this. Please don’t hurt me.” She looked away, toward the milk shake, as if she couldn’t quite figure out how it had gotten in her hand.

What the hell? His jaw was threatening to clench down hard enough to break a tooth. The fear in her was all wrong. If she was terrified, it would completely negate the soothing aspect of a shaman’s scent, and that would open up a whole can of worms—not just for him, but for the younger ones, too.

“Get this straight.” He took a deep breath, leashed the animal in him, and continued. “We’re not going to hurt you. We need you, and I’m sorry it happened this way, but from now on, you’re one of us. You’re ours. The sooner you accept it, the better off you’ll be.”

It would take a lot of repeating before that sank in. Might as well get it out of the way first.

“I have to go back to work on Monday.” She blinked again, swallowed hard, and more tears slid down those pretty, curved cheeks. “I’ve got night school, too. I’m studying to be a social worker.”

Well, Christ, honey, we’ve got tons of field-work for you right here. “We’ll settle that later. For right now, you have to eat.” And stop smelling like a downed deer.

She just stared at the milk shake. Zach retreated, settling on the floor behind the driver’s seat, the rhythm of the road soaking into his bones as he tore open a fresh bag and found a burger. The Silence folded around all of them again, and he didn’t think he’d done too badly.

There was no easy way to handle this. But goddammit, she was a shaman. He could smell it on her, the potential some humans and fewer Tribe carried. Once she was triggered, she could be the nucleus of a new Family, a way to rebuild everything. With a shaman they could settle down even in a territory held by others. They were no longer rootless, wandering non-persons, dangerous because they lacked the thing that kept their kind from running amok.

They could be somebodies again, instead of fugitives. She would make them somebodies.

That was worth a little kidnapping, he decided. Whatever life she had back in the city they were now leaving, she would just have to learn to let go of. His little Family needed her too much.

Chapter 7

The van jolted, and Sophie clawed up into full wakefulness, biting back a scream. Someone had draped a coat over her, and it was warm. Thin winter sunlight showed leafless trees, a few ragged pines, not blurring by but merely ambling. The vehicle made a deep turn, braked to a halt, and the engine cut off.

Finally. They were stopping. The eerie quiet in the car was breaking up, too, like ice in a river. Her ears had felt stuffed with cotton wool, but maybe it was the crying.

“Wake up.” The girl shook her shoulder, fingers biting in. Her voice was rusty, as if she’d spent weeks instead of hours not talking. “Time to wash, bleeder.”

Sophie sat up, blinking, and found the tank top had ridden up and twisted around, and the skirt—never very decent in the first place—was hitched up to show her panties, for God’s sake. Her entire face was crusty and aching, and she had to use the bathroom like nobody’s business. Her stomach rumbled.

The side door opened and the van cleared out. It was amazing, how people could fit in here. Clothes tangled across the floor, one bench seat had been taken out, and the back was stuffed with plastic bags. It didn’t smell bad, though, just musky and close.

Sophie clutched the coat to her chest. The girl made a spitting sound of annoyance. “Come on, will you? I’ve got to pee before my kidneys float away.”

You’re not the only one. Mechanically, she pulled the skirt down, tried to straighten the tank top. Lucy’s black heels were on the floor, and the way her back ached she didn’t think she could stand to put them back on.

But she did, because cold air was pouring in through the open side door. Frost rimed the slice of a parking lot she could see, and as soon as she hopped awkwardly out of the van, pulling her skirt down and shivering, she found out they were at a rest stop off the freeway. A brick building housed restrooms, a creek wandered on the side away from the freeway down a short hill, and another building had vending machines behind iron grating, a wall full of maps in plastic cases, and—oh, my God—a Kiwanis booth selling coffee.

An old man sat in the booth, reading a newspaper, occasionally glancing out over the empty parking lot. The van, she now saw, was an older maroon Chevy, and her eyes came back to the man in the coffee booth.

The girl—Julia—jostled her from behind. She had dark eyes, long straight dark hair starred with that single streak that turned out to be white, and a sweet face, with the type of clear pale skin only found on the very young. Amazing skin. She was pretty, but there was an unfinished look around her mouth, like she was trying to be hard and not quite succeeding.

And she looked, for some reason, spoiled. Sophie couldn’t put her finger on quite how, but she had the same overprivileged look as the mean-girl cheerleaders from Sophie’s high school years.

“Come on.” The girl slung her arm over Sophie’s shoulders and started hurrying her to the bathrooms. She was a good head taller, and skinny, but strong. Sophie struggled to keep up, stumbled, and almost turned her ankle. And the girl began to whisper, very fast and low, as if she’d been bursting to talk. “Jeez. You are useless. Don’t worry, I’ve got some stuff that might fit you. Zach’ll take care of anything else later today, probably. We had a good haul last night.” Julia took a deep breath, squeezed Sophie’s shoulders roughly. “He was my brother. Kyle.”

What? Last night was distant and dreamlike, receding like the van. Her heels clicked. Her stomach cramped, and her back was made out of aching concrete. There seemed nothing to say.

“The one who got killed last night. He was my brother.” Julia cast a glance back over her shoulder, her voice dropping even further.

“Oh.” Sophie couldn’t think of anything else to say. My best friend got killed, too, I guess we’re even didn’t sound, well, very useful. It was what Lucy would call Not Helpful.

“It’s not your fault,” Julia continued softly, and she sounded magnanimous, condescending, and outright miserable all at once. “I’m stupid. I’ve always been stupid. I just don’t think. Not like Zach. And our alpha’s dead and all we’ve got is a stupid bleeder to show for it.” She paused, and cast another quick little glance over her shoulder. “Even if you do smell like Mom. I never … I was just … I thought I could kill it. The upir. I’m good at that.”

What, you mean you’re good at killing? God, what a thing to say to someone you’ve kidnapped. Sophie shivered. The thing in the white shirt. She’d stuck around long enough to see something awful, something so unreal, her mind even now shivered away from it. She flinched all over, inside and out, and stumbled again.

It was dark and I was just confused. That’s all.

It was, Sophie reflected, a bad time to start lying to herself. She needed to think clearly if she was going to get out of this mess, and part of thinking clearly was figuring out last night.

What actually had happened? The only thing she was sure of was that Lucy was dead, and she had started running, screaming, a confusion of panic roaring through her. Lucy’s white face, the terrible gaping hole where her throat should be, the thing in the white shirt snarling as its face twisted up, white teeth too big for its livid-lipped mouth—

“Watch where you’re going,” the girl said as Sophie tripped, and hauled her up over the curb. “Jeez. Heels. Why didn’t you wear something practical?”

You little … Sophie found her voice. “I didn’t know I was going to be kidnapped.” The sarcasm surprised her. “Or watch my best friend get killed. I kind of forgot to put it in my day planner.”

“Huh.” Julia let go of her. She studied Sophie intently for a long moment, and stopped whispering. “I guess.” She held up her free hand, which was full of cloth. “I’ve got something you can change into. If you want.”

Oh, God. I’ve been kidnapped and she wants me to dress appropriately. “Fine.” The side of her face hurt, but it didn’t seem to be too bruised. She didn’t dare glance at the old man in the Kiwanis booth. If I can get over there—he’s got to have a phone, right? Or something.

The bathroom was cold and industrial, but well-lit and actually clean. The clothes turned out to be a pair of jeans that fit if she rolled up the legs like a little kid, and a long-sleeved thermal shirt that clung embarrassingly. There was a flannel button-down, too, with the same smell of musk and laundry detergent, but no socks and absolutely no undergarments.

The girl steered her toward the handicapped stall; Sophie shivered through changing and spent a blissful few minutes getting rid of the pressure on her bladder. When she came out, clutching Lucy’s clothes to her chest, she looked longingly at the sink. It would feel so nice to wash her face, even if the water was freezing.

But Julia was still in a stall, humming something off-key. Sophie clutched the sad, small scraps of clothing and the heels, hugging them, and caught a glimpse of herself in the scratched piece of metal passing for a mirror. Wide eyes, her smudged glasses, and a wild mop of hair. She probably looked like a bag lady, though the side of her face wasn’t that badly discolored. There was just a tender spot under her hair and puffy redness down her cheek, and she’d had worse.

Much worse.

She stared at the mirror for a few seconds, trying to clear her head. A rattling sound echoed in the depths of her memory, and she shivered. But it made her start moving, impelled by the sure intuition that had saved her more than once. It didn’t happen often, that tingle along her nerves. Since leaving Hammerheath, it had always been accompanied by the rattling buzz of copper-bottomed—

Did I feel it last night, and just not pay attention? She pushed the question aside and took the first few tentative steps.

Her purse was still in the van. Stupid, stupid, stupid! she chanted inwardly as she edged, heart hammering, for the entrance. Cold tile gritted under her bare feet, and she eased out of the hallway and into the chill of a winter morning. Without the heels, her footsteps were silent.

She set off for the Kiwanis booth, not daring to look over her shoulder. Don’t act guilty. But walk quickly. Walk determined. Catch his eye.

Her stomach rumbled. If she could catch the man’s attention and ask him to call the police, she could get free, she could … what? Give a statement?

What statement could she give? She hadn’t seen anything she could swear to, just things out of a nightmare. Things with fangs, and a confused impression of something leaping, something covered in hair like a …

Like what, exactly? She couldn’t put it into words. And the rattling in her head got louder.

Forty feet away, the man coughed behind his newspaper. Her feet were numb; she stepped on a pebble and winced. Going barefoot at home was nothing like this. The jeans were raspingly unfamiliar, and she really wanted nothing more than her own kitchen, her ratty chenille robe, and a hot cup of coffee. And a Danish. A warm one, dripping with icing and with chunks of brown-sugar-drenched apple.

She could almost taste it, and hurried up. Thirty feet. Twenty-five.

The air was still except for the hum of traffic from the freeway. What was she going to say? This isn’t a joke. I’ve been kidnapped. Please help me.

She practiced it inside her head, clutching the clothes to her chest. Cold morning wind touched her hair, and the sky was still orangeish in the east from dawn. If she was at home she’d probably still be in bed, and if Lucy stayed over—

Pain jabbed through her chest. Oh, Lucy. Luce. God.

The rattling in her head got worse. Fifteen feet. Ten.

She opened her mouth—and let out her breath in a sigh when the man looked up, his hazel eyes caught in a net of crinkles, his smile immediate and genuine.

The buzzing rattle stopped.

A heavy arm fell over her shoulders. “Cup of coffee, sweetheart?” Zach said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

Everything in her cringed away. She stared at the old man, willing him to realize she’d been about to ask him for help. The sore spot under her hair throbbed, and her cheek was on fire.

The old man grinned even wider, if that was possible. She saw the glasses dangling on a chain at his chest, and her heart sank. “What a pretty young miss. I call all the young girls ‘miss.’ Hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” Zach’s arm tightened. “Make that three coffees, please. And probably a doughnut for her, too. We’ve been driving all night.”

“Family trip?” The man eased off his stool and shuffled around the small booth. “Reason I ask is, I heard your van door.”

Zach grinned easily. “Yeah, heading south. Warmer down there.” His arm tightened again, and he—of all things—bent down and kissed the top of Sophie’s head, inhaling deeply. As if smelling her. She writhed inwardly with embarrassment; what was she supposed to do? Start screaming?

What would he do if she did?

A sudden crystalline image from last night, right before she’d run off like a panicked idiot, burned through her brain. It was the thing that had killed Lucy, snarling and champing its too-big teeth, while Zach’s shape changed like clay under running water.

Growing fur.

Sudden certainty nailed her in place, the chill concrete biting into her feet. I didn’t imagine that. I saw it. That’s what made me run. I saw it all.

“Oh, I hear ya, I hear ya.” The old man shrugged inside his jacket, setting out three foam cups, putting a pink bakery box on the small counter. “Honey, why don’t you just peek in there and see if there’s a doughnut you like? I got apple fritters, and Bismarcks, and all sorts of good things. Fresh this morning, too.”

Sophie swallowed hard, her throat making a little clicking noise. Zach bumped her, gently, and she was suddenly very sure that if she didn’t try to act normally, something would Happen.

Like something “happened” to Lucy? He said they weren’t going to hurt me.

He could have been lying. She’d heard “I’m not going to hurt you” before. If she had a quarter for every time she’d heard it, she wouldn’t have to worry about scraping together rent for a year.

Zach used his free hand to open up the top of the bakery box. “See anything good?” He sounded concerned. Morning light was kind to him, running over the shadow of stubble on his face, the thin nose, dark eyes a lot of women probably liked. His hair was a soft mess except for the wiriness of the white streak. One stubborn wave of it fell over his forehead, and he actually grinned down at her like he was having a great time.

Sourness rose in her throat. He’d kidnapped her, and had the effrontery to smile and put his arm over her shoulder like he owned her?

“I’m not hungry,” she managed through the stone in her throat. “But thanks.” She stared at the old man, her eyes burning. Look at me. Please see me. Please help me.

“Dieting? Never did anyone any good, honey. First three letters of diet are a warning, that’s what they are.” He wasn’t looking at her; he was pouring the coffee, frowning a little. She tried leaning away from Zach’s arm, but it was useless. Her feet went numb, aching from the cold. “My wife used to say that. Cream and sugar?”

“Only in one.” Zach peered into the bakery box, pulling her with him. “And I think we’ll take two of these apple fritters. They look nice.”

“You go ahead now. That’ll be three dollars for the coffee, young man. You just take those fritters as a gift from me.”

“Why, thank you.” He sounded so normal, so nice, as if he hadn’t kidnapped a woman and killed—

Oh, my God. He killed that thing, didn’t he? “Upir,” he’d said. Her head hurt just thinking about it, spikes of glassy pain through her temples.

Nobody would miss her for another twenty-four hours, and by then, who knew how far away they would have taken her? Her ferns would die, she wouldn’t be at work Monday morning, and Battle-Ax Margo, the office manager, would have a conniption. Nobody knew she’d gone out with Lucy, and Luce was between boyfriends. What was happening right now? Were the police trying to find her? Trying to find Lucy’s car keys?

If I hadn’t divorced Mark someone would be missing me right now—but if I hadn’t run away in the first place I wouldn’t have been out last night. God.

Zach moved again, and she almost flinched, but he was handing her two monstrous apple fritters wrapped in a napkin, tucking them on top of the clothes she clutched to her chest. “Here. Hold these, sweetie. Why don’t you head on back to the car, and I’ll bring your coffee?”

The old man chuckled. She realized he was not just shortsighted; he just really wasn’t interested in anything she might say. “My wife was like that. Bit of a bear in the morning without her coffee, God bless her.”

“Go on, now.” Zach gave her a meaningful look, and when Sophie snapped a glance over her shoulder she saw the two other men at the open van, watching intently. They all had those weird pale stripes in their hair, like a dye job gone wrong. Maybe it was a gang sign?

Yeah, like the badass Lady Clairols. Come on, Sophie. Think of something!

There was nobody else around, and what could the old man do?

Nothing. She was just as helpless now as she’d been last night.

“Fine.” She backed up as Zach’s arm fell away. Her feet felt frozen, and if she stepped on anything sharp now she’d probably be too numb to care. Each step was another jab of freezing pain up her legs, and her toes felt clumsy.

The younger boy, sitting crouched just inside the van door, eyed her. He was a male copy of Julia, but instead of looking spoiled and unfinished he had a perpetually worried grin and a way of hunching his shoulders as if he was painfully uncertain. “You okay?” he asked, softly, tilting his head to the side. His eyes were red-rimmed and his nose a little chapped from crying.

The other one, bigger and broad-shouldered but not as tall as Zach, had odd, piercing blue eyes. He regarded her warily, hunching inside his tattered leather jacket. He had one hand raised, and as she glanced at him his strong white teeth worried a little at the leather cuff of his sleeve.

No, I’m not okay. How could I be anything like okay? But some instinct made her hold out the fritters with one hand freed from the clothes, despite the way her stomach growled. “Here. These are for you.”

“Hey, thanks!” The younger one grabbed one, took a huge wolfish bite, and grinned. The blue-eyed one took the other more slowly, but at least he stopped snacking on his sleeve. “I’m Brun. This is Eric. He’s our cousin. Gee, aren’t your feet cold? Come on up.” He moved aside, and Sophie mechanically climbed into the van. It still held a ghost of warmth.