by Claire Luana
Ansel and Bran shook hands as Wren sagged against the wall, her hand pressed to her chest.
“What’s this?” Ansel nodded back towards the scene on the townhouse steps. They were leading Killian out now, his gnarled form flanked by two huge Apricans.
“Think one of the shipments got flagged goin’ through the port. The soldiers must have followed it here. I got my last wagonload here and found this. I parked around the corner. I think they’re from customs, doing an inspection. Could be that they don’t know what they’ve really got is the Falconer. Maybe that slick bastard will be able to talk his way out of this.”
“One can hope.”
“What happened in the palace? Where’s Pike? Dash?”
A bubble of deranged laughter escaped Wren’s lips. In her shock at Liam’s bloody suicide, she’d forgotten about Dash. And poor Pike. He was probably back in the palace, being tortured for information right now. Gods, it was partly her fault. She’d told him to go back for Liam.
Ansel put his arms around her shoulders, and unconsciously, she relaxed into his warmth.
“We ran into trouble,” Ansel said. “Dash chose his side. They took Pike.”
Bran shook his head. “Damn. That’s a loss. At least the Imbrises and the others are safe, right?”
Ansel shook his head. “Pike and Dash both know our plans. We haveta assume that if Dash doesn’t spill all, they’ll get the information from Pike with infused foods. No one’s safe.”
Wren felt her resolve crumble even more beneath her. Gods. “The newspaper office,” she said, horror welling in her. Lucas, Callidus...images of Aprican guards kicking down the door to the Maradis Morning lanced through her mind. Lucas and Trick and Ella, blood seeping across the polished wood of the floor. Thom and Callidus, dragged to the palace to be used like laboratory animals. She pressed a hand to her chest, as if the gesture could keep her lungs from seizing.
“Wren,” Ansel said. “It’s all right. Just breathe.”
She was shaking violently now. Ansel and Bran loomed over her with matching concerned expressions, and suddenly, she needed to be away. She pushed past them, farther into the dim of the alley. “A minute.” She gasped, leaning over, fighting for breath.
She had no flaming clue what to do. How to fix this. Their desperate plan was falling apart, the thin slice of hope slipping from her fingertips. As Wren grappled with her racing thoughts, struggling for breath, a memory surfaced. Sable’s words—one of the last things she’d said to Wren the night she died. I can barely see the two steps in front of me, let alone the whole path. All I can do is walk those steps, and then the next two, and the next two. And hope I end up somewhere worthwhile.
The pressure in her lungs eased. Wren could see the next step—the path they must take. After that, she had no flaming idea. She stood and turned, marching back towards Ansel and Bran. In a hushed whisper, she announced, “Bran, get us to the Maradis Morning. As fast as humanly possible.”
The printing presses for the Maradis Morning were housed in a large warehouse in the Industrial Quarter, not far from the Block, the prison Wren and Lucas had had a brief stay in. She shivered as she, Bran, and Ansel passed its high walls, trying to forget the feel of Killian pressing a hot needle under her fingernail. She couldn’t believe they were working with him now—that she was worried for his safety, wondering if the soldiers had found the chocolates they’d stashed in the basement. But everything was upside down, wasn’t it?
When they reached the warehouse building, Wren let out a shaky sigh. They’d caught a glimpse of two Cedar Guards in the distance at one of the intersections they’d passed, but the roads had been blessedly clear. Perhaps their luck was holding—for now.
Wren hurried from the carriage and pushed through the back door of the newspaper building. It creaked audibly, and she winced.
The cavernous space was filled with black beasts of printing presses, her friends around them, shirtsleeves rolled up, smears of ink on their hands and faces. Wren exhaled a deep breath in relief. They weren’t too late. The Apricans hadn’t found them here yet.
“Wren!” Callidus’s pale face popped out from behind one of the glistening machines, his hair flopping over his forehead. “What are you doing here?”
The others emerged too and gathered around them—Lucas keeping his distance, his face impassive.
A lump rose in her throat as she faced the prospect of admitting their defeat to her friends.
Ansel laid a hand on her shoulder. “They were waiting for us. We lost Liam in the fight. Pike was captured.”
Dismayed murmurs and exclamations peppered the room—disbelief warring with anger.
Olivia’s hands flew to her mouth. “Dash?” Her blue eyes were wide and pleading.
“He turned,” Wren managed, the words as hard as granite.
Olivia shook her head as if to ward against the truth, her face crumpling.
“I’m sorry,” Wren managed.
“We haveta assume Pike is compromised. He knows our plans. He knows where we all are,” Ansel said. “It ain’t safe for ya to stay here.
“But we’re not done—” Trick protested.
“It doesn’t matter,” Ansel said. “We haveta abandon this plan. For now. For all we know, Dash or Pike spilled and there are Apricans headed here right now. We need to get ya somewhere safe.”
“And where is that?” Lucas asked. “If Pike is compromised, so is Violena’s.”
Wren exchanged glances with Bran and Ansel. There was one place they had thought they might be able to lie low—if it was as they’d left it. But that was a big if.
Wren began. “We think—”
It was that moment when a door across the room flew open, kicked down by a powerful blow. A dozen Aprican legionnaires, led by Captain Ambrose, poured into the warehouse, their naked blades glinting in the lamplight.
Ansel, Bran, Lucas, and the others leapt into action, but the resistance was short-lived. Ansel and Bran dashed for the front door, their swords out, trying to clear a path for them. But a dozen soldiers materialized in the front, too, followed by the sneering face of Willings.
Wren stood in shocked stillness, her gaze locked on Willings, her blood roaring in her ears. It was over. They’d be taken to the palace—to Daemastra and the emperor—to whatever twisted experiments the men wanted to perform.
Wren looked at Lucas. Oh, gods. Lucas. They’d execute him. Helplessness flooded through her, as cold as ice water.
“Quite the morsels we’ve caught in our web, eh, Ambrose?” Willings crowed.
“The emperor will be pleased. Pleased indeed,” Ambrose agreed, swaggering forward. “Is this not one, but two...nay, three Imbrises? All that’s left of the royal line, ripe for the picking.” He lingered near Ella, grasping one of her golden curls, examining it before letting it drop.
Ella spit in his face.
Ambrose backhanded her across her cheek. Her head snapped to the side, but she didn’t cry out, didn’t even wince at the blood that appeared in the corner of her mouth.
“Don’t you flaming touch my sister,” Lucas growled.
Ambrose turned a dark smile towards Lucas. “You’re not in a position to be making demands. Now, where are the Gifted? Oh yes.” Ambrose strode up and seized Wren by the wrist, pulling her forward. Lucas and Ansel both tensed, Ansel’s hand on his sword hilt. She gave a little shake of her head. If they drew blades, it would be a blood bath. They were outnumbered practically three to one.
“Those two.” Willings pointed to Thom and Callidus, still standing behind a curtain of soldiers. Coward.
“Come, come.” Ambrose motioned them forward with cocked fingers. Thom and Callidus reluctantly joined her, Thom’s hand lingering in Trick’s grip as long as possible.
“And that one. The middle Imbris.” Willings said.
Trick reluctantly stepped forward, but Ambrose held up a hand. “Not you. Your family line takes precedence over your Gift, unfortunately for you. You stay.”
Unfortunately for him?
Ambrose motioned to his men. “Tie them up.”
Wren watched as the soldiers went to quick work, binding her friends’ hands and feet. She needed to think. She needed a plan. She needed some infused cheese, like they’d slipped her in the Block. No, infused chocolate... Wren reached quickly into her pocket and seized the little wax paper satchel of chocolates, letting it tumble down her skirt onto the floor. Perhaps it was the only help she could give them.
Just in time, for a soldier seized her hands, wrenching them behind her back and tying them tightly behind her. She didn’t even struggle. Resisting this was useless. They were out of help. Out of allies. Alone.
Wren caught Olivia’s wild gaze for a moment, and she motioned with her head to the packet on the ground.
Her friend’s blue eyes widened imperceptibly.
“It was a valiant little resistance you put up here. But the fun is over now,” Ambrose said. He waved a hand. “Burn the place to the ground.”
“No!” Wren cried, lunging forward.
Ambrose caught her with iron arms around her waist, hauling her up into the air, dragging her back. She kicked and screamed as they pulled her from the warehouse while the other soldiers went to work pouring out oil from black canisters.
Wren collapsed into the corner of the carriage they shoved her into, tears leaking down her cheeks. Thom and Callidus were shoved in next to her while Willings climbed in across from them with an Aprican guard next to him.
She wanted to scream at Willings, to rail and shout and scratch his face with her nails. But her body had gone weak, numb with the realization of what was happening. Lucas was going to die. Lucas, and Olivia, and Ansel and Trick and Ella. Four little chocolates weren’t enough to stop the might of the Aprican empire. A sob escaped from her throat.
“Don’t cry, little Wren,” Willings said gleefully.
“The Huntress take you,” Wren swore, turning away. She couldn’t look at his smug face anymore.
“I don’t envy you,” Willings said. “Before long, you’ll be wishing you had let King Imbris have his way with you. A lifetime in a cell making chocolate for Imbris will seem like a dream vacation compared to what Daemastra has in store for you.”
Chapter 40
Lucas wanted to scream. He hadn’t come this far just to be outmatched by flaming Willings.
The heat from the flames was beginning to reach them, now just the warmth of a crackling campfire. But they were spreading quickly and held the promise of more—a blistering inferno that would destroy all they held dear.
“Anyone got any bright ideas?” Ansel asked. He and Bran were tied the tightest, back to back.
“I got a knife in my boot,” Bran said. “If someone can get to it.”
Ella was closest. “I can.” She rolled onto her knees and slowly scooted forward, her pale blue dress leaving a trail through the dust. She thunked onto her side next to Bran’s feet, almost teetering over before righting herself.
“My lady,” Bran said with a grin as Ella leaned back, trying to fumble her way into Bran’s boot.
“In your dreams,” she said, rolling her eyes before letting out a smile of victory. “Got it!” She awkwardly pulled a small dagger out of the boot, holding it askew in her bound hands. “Now what?”
“Now give it here,” Ansel said, sticking his hands out to the side. “I’ll cut through our ropes.”
Ella maneuvered the knife into his hands.
The flames were growing taller around the perimeter of the room and had almost reached a giant stack of paper piled next to the printing press. “Hurry up,” Lucas said. “If the fire reaches that paper, we’re done for.”
“Oh really?” Ansel snapped. “I was goin’ at a leisurely pace, but I guess now I’ll pick it up a bit. I mean, I’m supposed to go on break in a few. Hope I finish up before then.”
“Shut up!” Ella and Olivia shouted at the same time.
“I agree, mate,” Bran said. “Less talking, more cutting.”
“I can do both.” Ansel sulked under his breath but sawed harder. The bonds snapped free, and Ansel turned, working his way quickly through Bran’s.
The flames were licking the piles of papers now, which lapped up the fuel greedily. “Come on,” Lucas said under his breath. Not that he knew how they were going to get out of this. The Apricans had barred the doors—he had heard the leader give the order himself.
Bran’s hands came free, and Ansel handed him the dagger, unsheathing his own sword. They quickly freed their legs and raced to free the others.
When Lucas’s hands were free he threw an arm over his mouth, breathing through his shirt. Thick, black smoke filled the room, stinging his eyes and turning everything blurry.
“Where to?” Ella asked, breathless, clinging to Lucas. He put a protective arm around her.
“Up there!” Trick pointed to a stairway leading to the balcony. It wasn’t yet covered in flames. “Maybe we can get out on the roof.”
“Wait,” Olivia cried as Lucas took her hand, pulling her up. “Wren dropped something!”
“Leave it,” Lucas hollered, but Olivia broke free and scrambled across the floor, shying away from the flames licking towards her. She grabbed a little white pouch and ran back. “Go!”
The group pounded up the stairs, running through the burning building.
Sweat beaded on his brow. The heat was intense. Lucas’s instincts cried for him to run, to flee, to get out of this place.
Ella stumbled on the stairs and he was there beside her, pulling her to her feet. Tears were streaming down her face, from the smoke or fear, he didn’t know.
They summited the stairs and came onto a wide balcony. Offices lined the back wall of the warehouse, flames reflecting in their glass walls.
“Look.” Trick pointed. “A ladder to the roof.”
They ran for it, and Ansel scaled up the iron rungs, twisting the handle that opened the trapdoor up to the roof. It wouldn’t budge.
“Sower’s balls,” Bran swore.
“It’s stuck,” Ansel said. He leaned into the handle, his corded muscles straining, his face red from the effort. It didn’t budge.
Ella let out a little sob.
“No go,” Ansel said. “We need another way.”
They turned, fleeing back towards the stairwell, but it collapsed before them in a shower of sparks and crackling wood.
Lucas shied back, clinging to the balcony. He hissed, pulling his hand back. The metal was as hot as a stove.
Olivia was fumbling with the little pouch she had picked up.
“What are you doing?” Lucas cried as he spun around, his mind whirling, his eyes searching for an exit. Anything. Could they go out a window?
“Eat it.” Olivia shoved the pouch under his nose.
“Ain’t really time for a snack,” Ansel shouted over the roar of the flames, but Lucas ignored him, his eyes latching on to the contents. Chocolate. Completely melted—but still chocolate.
Lucas’s and Olivia’s eyes met, and they both dove in, scooping the molten chocolate out with their fingers, shoving the pieces into their mouth. Lucas shoved past her with sticky fingers—back to the ladder on the wall. To the trapdoor to freedom. They just needed a little luck.
He wrenched the handle, pulling with all its strength. And it moved. Slowly at first, just an inch. But then more. It moved, twisting in his grip, freeing itself. Lucas threw open the trapdoor, gasping in the fresh cool air that poured in from above. He scrambled out of the opening onto the roof, reaching down to help the others come through.
Ansel was the last one, and as he moved to climb up the stairs, the ladder gave way, the entire balcony they had been standing on collapsing with a groan.
Lucas shot his hand out and made contact with Ansel’s wrist, grasping the other man. The mercenary’s weight pulled at him, Lucas’s shoulder straining in its socket. Below Ansel—below both of them—was nothing but a sea of flames. “Hold
...on...” Lucas grunted. “Bran!” he cried. Ansel’s wrist was slipping in his sweaty, chocolate-covered grip. For a moment—a flicker of time—Lucas thought Ansel was going to fall. That he couldn’t hold on. But the moment passed, and Bran was there on the other side of the opening, grabbing Ansel’s other wrist. Together, with gritted teeth and straining muscles, they pulled the man up onto the roof, all collapsing in a pile together.
“Come on.” Trick pulled Lucas to his feet. “This roof won’t hold much longer. Ella found a fire escape.”
Together, they fled down the rickety iron stairs, the sound and heat of the inferno radiating through the brick walls of the building.
Lucas could have kissed the ground when his feet touched it.
“We need to get out of here,” Trick said. “The fire department will be here soon. We don’t know whom they’re loyal to.”
“We can’t go back to Violena’s,” Ansel said.
“So where?” Lucas asked.
“The Guildhall?” Olivia offered.
“It hasn’t been long enough for the infusions to have worn off yet,” Trick said. “It’d be risky.”
Ansel exchanged a look with Bran. “I know a place. It’s been a few years, but if it’s still there...we’ll be safe.”
Lucas sighed. He hated trusting this man, but it seemed they had no choice. They were covered in ash, and all wanted fugitives. They needed to get off the streets. “Lead the way.”
The Wraithhouse turned out to be an abandoned warehouse full of dust and ghosts. It was easy enough for Ansel to break the padlock on the rusty doors and let them inside with an ominous creak. The interior wore a thick coating of dust that swirled up with their steps.
Olivia sneezed.
Ansel and Bran had strange looks in their eyes as they surveyed the place, the remnants left behind of a life lived: a bundle of worm-eaten clothing, a moldy blanket, some cans of food petrified on a little shelf below the window.
It struck Lucas, then, that Wren had lived here too. For two years of her life she had scraped and scrounged in this dark underbelly of the sparkling city he had grown up in. True, his childhood hadn’t been a dream. His constant terror of his father had seen to that. But this...it made him wonder if he would ever truly know Wren. All the way through. He watched the redhaired mercenary as he looked over the old building as if surveying his kingdom. Lucas wondered if he could ever know the part of her that Ansel did.
