The best place to hide is in plain sight. There was no lesson we'd taken more to heart from our years of wandering after the exile, when our very survival depended on blending in, on integrating ourselves into the cultures around us. Sitting at a small table, I watched as men and women filed in and out of Danu International Shipping.

With its wide curving concrete steps and large glass doors, the ten-story white brick edifice looked like any other upscale office building in the bustling downtown district. No one walking by gave it a second look, and no one would ever guess it was the Consulate headquarters and core of Tuathan society.

Not that it was all just a front. The first three floors were in fact, an international shipping company, a highly respected and profitable one that provided the majority of our government funding. It was just the rest that was kept a closely guarded secret.

I'd been almost two hours into my drive to Chicago, with every intention of catching the first plane heading west; California, Washington it didn't matter as long as it put some distance between me and the people I knew were coming, when guilt and paranoia began creeping up on me. Attempting to drown them out, I'd cranked up the volume on a rock station and started singing along, badly, to a Kansas classic. After all, I'd already given them a heads up. I'd done my part, I didn't owe them anything else, I told myself in between choruses of Carry On Wayward Son, but the excuses sounded weak even to my own ears.

I was just south of Joliet when I couldn't take it anymore. Clutching the wheel, I cut across two lanes of traffic, veering onto the exit. It probably would have been quicker to continue on to O'Hare and catch a flight heading east rather than west, but I wasn't quite ready for that level of commitment to a plan that wasn't even half-formed yet and quite possibly insane. As long as I was driving there was still time to come to my senses, change my mind, and turn around.

I took I-80 heading east, my tan focus shimmying as I pushed the speedometer past one hundred. I wasn't entirely sure of my intentions, but I knew I couldn't run, no matter how much I wanted to. I felt responsible for the shifter. I was responsible for the shifter, and I had a duty to do what I could about it. Besides, I was a fugitive now, not just a runaway and that pushed the stakes higher than I was prepared to deal with. Go back now on my own or risk being dragged back later.

Driving all night, I passed the sign welcoming me to Virginia right around sunrise and pulled into a downtown parking deck a little after eight. I'd been determined to walk right into the Consulate and announce to security that I was there to turn myself in, but as my steps brought me closer to my destination my resolve faltered, and I now found myself sitting in a small diner, down the block from the shining glass doors, sipping orange juice with an untouched breakfast platter sitting in front of me.

I'd like to say that it was a sense of responsibility that had driven me this far but to be honest it was mostly fear. Fear of spending the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, worrying that every stranger on the street or knock on the door was someone coming for me. And because it was fear that had gotten me here, it was fear that stopped me from going any further. Maybe life on the run was the better choice after all.

Whatever I was going to decide, I had to do it soon. Around me, the tables were starting to fill up with the morning regulars, and my waitress kept giving me the eye, the one that said I was overstaying my welcome. I couldn't hang around much longer, but I couldn't bring myself to get up and leave either.

"Miss. Cradle?" a voice said from behind me.

I jumped as I felt a shield snap in place, cutting me off from my awen, moments before a strong hand came down on my shoulder. It was the same as what I'd done to the shifter but where it had taken me a couple of minutes to weave a complete shield this one was in place before I even realized anything was happening. The fork I was holding clattered noisily to the table. Swallowing, I turned my head to look over my shoulder.

I couldn't make myself immediately look at the man who held me. Instead, my eyes rested on long fingers with clean neatly trimmed nails. Slowly they traveled past a steel watch to a buttoned white cuff, then skimmed up the length of a pressed blue sleeve to a set of broad shoulders before continuing upwards past a gray striped tie tucked into a dark vest. They moved past a strong jaw, lingered on full red lips that any girl would kill for, before taking in a slightly too long nose, and finally completing their path, making contact with a pair of heavily lashed brown eyes. In his early twenties, his suit was well tailored emphasizing a trim athletic build. Dark blonde bangs hung slightly in his eyes adding a hint of boyishness to a look that was otherwise all business.

He was tall, towering over me, and his stare made me feel like a bug pinned to a cork board; a beetle, not a butterfly. I could feel the warmth of a blush radiating across my cheeks, and I dropped my eyes. Where he was fresh and polished, I was anything but. I still wore the same sweater and jeans I'd put on last night. After nearly a twelve hour drive they were wrinkled and sporting an unidentifiable stain a few inches below where his fingers rested. I was grateful that I'd at least removed the makeshift bandage and brushed my hair before getting out of the car. I'd have been mortified if I'd still had a piece of gauze taped to the back of my head.

"Desirae Cradle?" he asked again.

"Yes," I said, my voice squeaking slightly as I turned to look at him again. There was no use trying to lie. He wouldn't have approached if he wasn't already sure.

He wasn't alone. Another agent, his head shaved smooth, stood a few feet behind him. He was a few inches shorter but had ten years and a good fifty pounds of muscle on the blonde. He was dressed almost identically, except his tie hung loose, and the dark head of a bird tattoo peeked out from behind his unbuttoned collar. I found myself shifting uncomfortably as his gray blue eyes seemed to burrow into me.

His hand rested with his thumb hooked on his belt. He had discreetly pushed aside his jacket so I could clearly see the badge and gun resting on his hip. Not that either was necessary. It was obvious who they were, and they didn't need a weapon to make me compliant. The blonde's shield had gotten my attention more than any overt threat could.

"I'm guessing it's not a coincidence that you're here today after your name and picture came across the bulletins last night," the blonde agent said, almost conversationally.

He kept his voice low, and I could tell from the way his partner's eyes kept darting around the room, that they were trying not to draw too much attention. We weren't in a Tuathan establishment, and the Vanguard had no real authority here. If anyone wanted to press them on why two men were harassing a young girl, they would have little recourse.

I thought about causing the scene they were clearly trying to avoid. Was taking me in important enough to risk exposing themselves? Not that they didn't have ways to clean that up, but was I worth it? I quickly dismissed the idea, after all, I had been planning to turn myself in anyways, and there was a strong possibility that they would find taking me in worth the risk.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

"We're going to need you to come with us," he said, releasing my shoulder and stepping back so I could get up. His partner moved in a little closer as if he thought I would try to make a run for it. The thought was laughable, cut off from my awen I had no chance of escaping.

"Am I under arrest?"

"Do you need to be?" the blonde asked.

I quickly shook my head. My hand trembled as I reached down to grab my purse, tucked under the table, but he was quicker, seizing the strap before I could reach it.

"We'll get this," he said, passing it off to his partner.

"I have to pay the bill," I said weakly, noticing the waitress eyeing us.

I had money in my purse, the envelope Ben had given me, but the blonde reached into his jacket and pulled out a wallet. He put down a few bills that were more than enough to cover the tab, at least the waitress was going to get a good tip.

Shakily I stood up grateful that my legs didn't promptly deposit me on the floor; I hadn't been a hundred percent sure they would be willing to support me. Hesitating, I waited until the blonde gave me a nod to go ahead before I moved. I walked out the door, the two of them following right behind, close enough to touch; though neither did. If anyone thought it was odd to see two men in suits, one of them caring a purse, escorting a teenager in a worn sweatshirt and jeans down the sidewalk, they didn't say anything.

Self-conscious to the point of hyper-awareness, every movement suddenly felt exaggerated and unnatural. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think, and I couldn't decide what to do with my hands. Repeatedly I put them in my pockets and then quickly took them back out, lest they think I was reaching for something, only to have them hang clumsily at my sides for a few moments before crossing them in front of my chest and then repeating the whole sequence over again.

My steps became awkward, and the simple process of walking became a near impossible task requiring deep concentration. I'm not a naturally clumsy person, and I was mortified when for the second time the younger agent grabbed my arm to save me from a nasty fall after stumbling over my own feet. I could feel the heat of embarrassment spreading from my cheeks, down my neck.

It was less than two blocks from the diner, but by the time we reached the steps, I felt mentally and physically drained as if we'd been walking for miles. Climbing the broad steps I was amazed when I managed to make it to the glass doors without falling on my face. Once inside and out of the public eye, I expected the show of courtesy to melt away, replaced by steel handcuffs, but neither agent made a move to restrain me as we walked across the lobby.

I had only been to the Consulate twice, once on a civics field trip in sixth grade and the night I ran away. It looked just as I remembered, a bit smaller but no less imposing. The lobby was expansive with white marble floors and a ceiling that vaulted to the second story. The walls were a dark golden color complemented by green accents and the soft light of three large circular chandeliers.

A mahogany reception desk sat near the front of the lobby, manned by two impeccably dressed women whose sole job was to make sure no humans accidentally found themselves in an area they shouldn't be. We bypassed the women at the desk heading behind them, where security guards checked identifications and monitored a row of metal detectors.

Most of the people walking through the detectors continued on their way, but a few were pulled aside for further screening by one of the guards. I could see the faint glowing lines of a detection weave meant to sense any magical items that the conventional detectors would have missed.

They made me think of the bonded weaves I had sitting in a drawer back at the apartment not to mention those still in the pocket of the muddy coat I'd left in my car. I should have taken a minute to unravel them before leaving. Since I only ever brought them with me into Otherworld, I hadn't bothered to tie them to my specific awen signature. Anyone channeling enough energy in their direction could set them off.

I considered mentioning them to the agents next to me, but I was having trouble finding my voice. Besides, by this time my apartment would have been thoroughly searched and the items already found. Whoever was sent to ransack through my things should have been careful, but I'd hate to for them to think I’d left the weaves as some kind of booby-trap. Just add it to the list of things I should have thought about.

Moving to join the queue waiting to pass through the detectors, I was surprised when a hand on my back directed me to the side instead. The Agents flashed their IDs, and the guard waved us through, bypassing security entirely. Clearly, they didn't see me as much of a threat. They hadn't even bothered to frisk me, and now we were ignoring standard security. Of course, with my awen blocked there wasn’t much I could do. The only indication that they had any concerns at all, was when the bald agent waved off a couple of people who tried to join us on the elevator.

We rode in silence to the seventh floor. The second agent trailed behind as I followed the blonde down the hallway, our steps echoing off the gray tile. I felt a chill run down my spine as an unpleasant sense of déjà vu rushed over me.

I don't know what had happened; they wouldn't give me any details. All I knew was that neighbors had reported some kind of disturbance at our house, and my mom was missing. With less than a month left in my freshman year, Vanguard agents descended on my school, yanked me from class and escorted me out in front of what felt like half the student body. They rummaged through my bag and my locker looking for who knows what. From the questions they asked, I don't think they knew precisely what had happened or what they were looking for.

They wanted to know who my mother really was. I insisted she was Carolyn Cradle; she wrote historical fiction and loved quilting. They wanted to know who her friends were and if anyone came by the house. As far as I knew my mom didn't have any close friends, it was just her and me, and my friends where the only people who ever came by. I'd cried and begged to know what was going on, what had happened to my mom. I didn't get any answers, instead what I got was the complete destruction of my entire world.

Once it was clear that I didn't know anything I’d been moved down to the social service offices on the third floor. I sat in the hallway in an uncomfortable plastic chair while they tried to decide what to do with me. Their offices weren't soundproof, and though I couldn't hear everything, I heard enough. While they had been busy interviewing me, several other agents had been digging into every aspect of our lives and what they discovered made my blood run cold.

Carolyn Cradle didn't exist. Well, Carolyn Cradle-Palmer existed or had existed. She had died two years ago, along with her husband and fifteen-year-old son, in a house fire outside Toronto. She was the real Carolyn Cradle, the one whose name was written in the genealogy books stored in the archives. The one who had decided to break ties to the Tuatha community and live as a human. My mother was just the woman who'd come to town fifteen years ago with a stolen identity and a newborn daughter.

Looking back, I guess I should have found it odd that it was only my mom and me. Tuatha families tended to be small but close-knit, generation after generation living in the same area. My father had been little more than a one night stand from college, and he'd skipped out before I was born. Mom was an only child, and my grandparents had died while she was still in high school, or so she'd always told me, but there should have been other relatives, great aunts, and uncles, cousins twice removed but there had been no one. If mom and I hadn't been so close, I might have noticed the absence of everyone else, but I'd never felt like I needed anyone but her.

I'd sat there numb for at least another hour wondering who my mother was if she wasn't Carolyn Cradle and who I was. It didn't take long for my mind to turn to darker questions. Was she even my mother at all? What about my father, had he really left us? Was he just a fake name on a fake birth certificate? Eventually, I couldn't take it anymore. I asked to go to the bathroom and then walked out of the building and never looked back.

I'd planned never to come back, yet here I was. Keeping my head down, I followed the agent down the hall which ended in a large open office space. Desks were arranged in groups of four on a thick blue carpet that did its best to muffle some of the noise. The desks were mostly empty, but a buzz of conversation permeated the room. No one more than glanced our way as I was led along a wall lined with doors leading to individual offices or private meeting rooms. At the far end, the Agent stopped and opened the door nodding for me to go in. Posted next to the door was a sign stating that all interviews were monitored and subject to recording.