Give the guy credit: he had to be in damn good shape to lug the twitching Ángel through knee-deep snow. Ángel didn’t struggle. He was no match for these guys, and at least one of them was willing to murder him. He forced himself to breathe, to stay limp, to not antagonize Aaron by throwing up on him.

Buy time. Stay alive. Get back to Oberon.

Oberon, he thought. Save me.

Chapter 27

They hauled Ángel over the wall with ropes. That did make him throw up, though he managed not to spray anyone with vomit. He felt pathetically grateful to Aaron for not shooting him. Down-to-murder-elves-but-not-fags Aaron.

They had snowmobiles. Aaron straddled the seat in front of him and said, “Hang on.” The machine jolted to life, and his empty stomach heaved again. He was so nauseated and dizzy that he could barely sit upright and, as the machines lurched and began to move through the trees, he tightened his fingers on Aaron’s parka. In the interests of not pissing off Aaron, he tried not to cling to him. This was rural Montana. They might not kill homosexuals up here, but they probably didn’t want to be cuddled. But as they picked up speed, Aaron growled, “This is a single-man sled. Hang on.” So Ángel wrapped his arms around Aaron’s torso.

They were going to kill him. They had already tried to kill Oberon.

Oberon had been betrayed by someone he trusted. Oberon would definitely be upset. Oberon had killed a man. Oberon might be injured. And Ángel wasn’t there to help him.

He needed to get back to take care of Oberon.

Miserably, he debated the wisdom of throwing himself off the snowmobile. But they were going really fast now, flying through the trees. He was shivering constantly and uncontrollably, from fear and stress and the icy air in his lungs. Plus he didn’t want to be tased again. Or shot. Or left to freeze to death.

He hung on.

Hours passed. The world brightened, and then abruptly a sunrise ignited half the sky, burning gold and bronze and pink, sending golden rays between the black trunks of the trees, bathing the white snow in bands of flamingo light. Ángel’s tears streaked out of the corners of his eyes and froze on his temples.

He hadn’t prayed in a long time, not since the priest told him he would die unloved even by God. Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, he mentally recited, gazing at the golden light. Please help Oberon. Please let Oberon be okay.