He guessed most of his reserves of strength had been spent saving his life. Now he was stuck with a nearly human rate of healing.
Or my griffin is gone for good. Maybe that eye-flash used up the last of its strength.
He reached for it again, trying hard to think about the wide open sky, and found nothing but black emptiness.
He shut his eyes again, trying to peer down into that darkness—
—only to have the guard shake him by the shoulders.
“Watch it, Dawes. You’re not going back to sleep again. You think I came in here and woke you up just to give you a get well card? You’re moving to the pen at Bergen.”
Stridmont to Bergen, damn, that’s a hell of a drive. I’d hate to be stuck with that one.
Oh, right. He wasn’t the driver, not this time. He was the cargo.
Not that it mattered: the guard had to be confused about the date.
“They can’t move me today. The doctor said—”
The guard shook him again. He didn’t do it as roughly as he probably could have, but he didn’t do it gently either.
“This isn’t a democracy.” He enunciated each word clearly, like Cooper might miss the point. “You’ve got stitches, so you’re not going to bleed out before you get to Bergen. And your ride’s here. Your stuff is already packed up.” He kicked a cardboard box, barely half full of his few belongings from his cell. “Anything’s missing, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
Nothing was missing. He just didn’t have a lot.
He struggled upright and got dressed, trading the flimsy infirmary gown for the worn khaki jumpsuit with his inmate number. They’d gotten him a new coat—just as khaki and just as obviously numbered, but thicker and with a strip of woolly stuff around the collar. It wasn’t much, but it would keep the worst of the chills off for any time he had to be outside.
He stood still and let the guard snap on the leg shackles.
He hated those. He had learned the hard way not to say anything about it, though. There was no real reason for the guards to believe that he wouldn’t try to cause trouble; they had to protect themselves.
He wasn’t a person to them, and he hadn’t been since he’d arrived. He was an inmate. They didn’t like him, didn’t respect him, and didn’t want to get to know him. The good guards were the ones who still had a baseline level of decency in terms of how they’d treat him; the bad guards were both a lot more numerous and a lot more varied in how they could make his life hell. Some of them were consistently sadistic, bullying everyone within their reach. Others were volatile and unpredictable, nice one minute and brutal the next. Still others chose specific targets and vented all their frustrations on an unlucky few.
Cooper had been lucky enough to avoid being singled out by the last set of bad guards, but he’d had run-ins with every other kind.
And even the good ones didn’t like anyone kicking up a fuss about the restraints.
He tried to still think about it from the point of view of the Marshal who would be transporting him. The only prisoner he’d ever let out of the ankle cuffs for the duration of the trip had been a guy with a bad limp. The restraints had kept tripping him up, and the guy hadn’t complained about it; he’d just soldiered on like this was all he could expect out of life.
Cooper didn’t have a limp, and he wasn’t going to fake one just to get some extra leg room. No matter how long the car trip was from Stridmont to Bergen.
We’ll get to see some scenery.
He’d had the faint hope that that idea would stir his griffin to life again, but there was nothing.
Whatever scenery they saw would still be behind glass.
But at least it’s a regular car trip, Cooper said, trying to make himself feel better. If they’d waited to move me with a couple other guys, we’d be in a van with no view.
Over two or three days of travel, he’d get to see a whole lot of sky. He’d get to see the countryside change, smoothing out into prairie.
That was something.
The guard pushed him forward, steering him out into the lot where the Marshal would be waiting for him.
This is my best chance for freedom.
The thought startled him, and Cooper stopped so suddenly that the guard ran into him. That resulted in another, harder shove, accompanied by an elbow to his back.
He’d thought about escape, of course. Even people who’d never been in prison sometimes daydreamed about how they’d pull off a jailbreak.
And it would be so easy for him, hypothetically.
Use the cover of shifter invisibility. And take flight as a griffin.
Get his griffin back.
He couldn’t do it in handcuffs, let alone handcuffs and leg shackles, but he could have done it anytime he had been in the exercise yard.
Only two things had been stopping him.
As a shifter, he had a responsibility to other shifters. He couldn’t do anything that would make it impossible for the world to ignore their existence. He couldn’t bring tons of scrutiny down on everyone’s heads just for his own sake.
The exercise yard had security cameras. He couldn’t just wink out of existence right in front of them.
The other thing that had stopped him was that escaping would put an end to any idea of clearing his name. If he escaped, he’d be on the run forever. There would be no more appeals. He’d never be able to count on having anyone’s help, not when anyone might turn him in.
If he escaped, that was it. He would never be a Marshal again.
For the rest of his life, in everyone else’s eyes, he would be Cooper Dawes, murderer; Cooper Dawes, the man who’d betrayed everything he’d
