The clanking of metal draws closer. Mole fidgets with the hem of his black coat. “We really ought to go,” he mumbles.
“Which direction did Bella go, Mole?” Pete asks.
Mole sniffs the air. “She went toward the Thames.” He frowns and sniffs again. “I don’t think she’s alone, though. I smell something else. Licorice, perhaps?”
“What do you mean?” Pete asks, worry wrinkling his face. “Who is she with?”
“I don’t know, but it’s not a Marauder,” Mole says, inhaling. “I think it’s another girl.”
“A girl?” Pickpocket and Jack say at the same time.
“What girl?” Pete says. His shoulders stiffen.
“Not to interrupt you guys, but …” Doc points to soldiers less than a half a block from the café. “Shall we get on with the plan?”
“We’ll see you at the gallery in an hour,” Pete says.
“See you there,” Doc says, extending a hand. “And don’t get caught.”
Pete hesitates but doesn’t take Doc’s hand. “Never.”
Doc frowns.
The Lost Boys exchange a round of fist-bumping. Finally, Pete turns to me, holding his hand up as if waiting for me to knuckle-bump him. I lift my fist, but instead of repeating the gesture he exchanged with the other boys, he takes my hand and kisses the top of it. My heartbeat doubles as I feel his lips touch my skin. With a smile, he releases my still-clenched fist and crawls toward the far end of the counter. Pickpocket and Jack follow him.
Staying low, I wait for a sign to run as Jack climbs on top of the counter and hits a switch on his tool belt. Two copper barrels flip up from either side of the belt. “Argh,” he yells, sounding more like a pirate than a Lost Boy. Pete and Pickpocket glance at each other before following his lead. They throw themselves over the countertop. Pickpocket pulls his revolver from his holster as Pete slips a dagger from his hip. I am not sure if I should laugh, cry, or be worried about their valiant attempt to draw attention to themselves. Instead, I join Doc and Mole as they crawl toward the door.
At first, the soldiers don’t notice the boys jumping through the empty window frame. Finally, Pete, Jack, and Pickpocket dash into the street and stand in front of the army, which has made its way to the front of the café.
Smeeth marches through the ranks of Marauders, stopping in front of the café window. He crosses his arms as an amused look grows on his face.
“Hey, Pickpocket, do you smell that?” Pete says in a loud voice, holding his daggers in front of him. The soldiers turn toward the boys. “It smells like fish—codfish, to be precise.”
“Only one Marauder smells that funny,” Pickpocket says, holding out his gun.
“Let’s get this over with,” Jack growls, his eyes fixated on the soldiers. From this distance, I can see the perspiration on his face, sparkling like raindrops under the street lanterns.
“Well, you’re not exactly who I’m looking for, but I can work with that,” Smeeth sneers.
“Wrong answer,” Pete says. “Speaking of codfish, where is your odorous leader?”
Jack shifts, the scowl on his face deepening.
Smeeth grits his teeth and points the barrel of his gun at the boys. “I’ll make this easy on you. Tell me where your little girlfriend and Bella are, and I’ll put a good word in with the Captain.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. If the Marauders are still looking for Bella, she must be safe, at least for now. Pete seems to make the same assumption, as I notice his shoulders relax.
“A girl? What girl? How about you, Pickpocket? Do you know about a girl?” Pete asks.
“The only girl I know is Smeeth’s ugly bulldog,” Pickpocket says. “Oh wait, that was your mother, wasn’t it, Mr. Smeeth? Mistaken identity.”
Mole snickers next to me. “That was a good one,” he whispers.
“Very funny,” Smeeth says. “Tell me where she is now, or you’ll be tonight’s gruel for the Captain’s crocs. I normally don’t feed them such filth because it upsets their delicate digestive systems, but I’ll make a special exception in this case.”
“What do you think, Lost Boys? Should we become crocodile chow?” Pete asks. “I’ve seen others die under worse conditions, I suppose.”
“This is ridiculous! Enough!” Jack shouts as he reaches for a lever on his belt.
Pete lunges for him. “No, Jack! Not yet!”
It’s too late. Jack flicks the switch. Dozens of small trajectories burst from the miniature guns. Each ball bearing bursts, crackling as it hits the street, creating a thick smoke screen.
Pete releases his dagger. It flies through the air and lands in the thick, meaty leg of a soldier. Blood bursts from the guard’s thigh as he crumples to the ground with an agonizing scream. Jack pulls a small knife from its sheath on his belt and plunges it into the left shoulder of another soldier, sending the man to the street howling in pain. Snatching his revolver from its holster, Pickpocket fires several rounds into a group of Marauders. They run for cover as they return fire. The blast of gunfire and the ping of metal weapons rings through the evening air echoing off the tall buildings.
Smeeth fires three shots into the cloud of smoke. The boys dodge his bullets. Pickpocket dives to the ground, firing a shot at Smeeth. The Marauder falters but doesn’t fall. He lets loose a manic laugh and rips the brass buttons open on his black leather jacket, revealing a bulletproof armor.
“Run!” Pete yells. The boys stumble to their feet and sprint away. Jack whirls around and starts to run. Smeeth raises his gun and fires. As Jack steps forward, his back arches and he falls to his knees, collapsing on the wet pavement. He clutches his side, curling in on himself in a fetal position as agony grows on his expression.
“Jack,” I say with quiet urgency, stifling back a scream with my hand.
“Let’s go!” Doc says, climbing over the countertop.
Mole follows, holding on to Doc’s waistcoat. I swing myself over the counter behind him. Something catches on the cash register, but I tug until I break free. There is a metallic clink behind me. It isn’t until I have climbed through the empty window frame and started to sprint down the street that I realize what the sound was. I clamp my hand on my chest, searching for my father’s military tags, but they are no longer there. I spin, rushing back to the café.
“Gwen!” Doc yells. He chases me down and grabs me by the back of my jacket as I throw a leg through the window.
“My dad’s tags,” I say, trying desperately to pull myself from Doc’s grasp.
The silver chain lies on the floor, the tags scattered among the menus. From the corner of my eye, I see Jack writhing in pain on the street. Soldiers whip their heads our way. My mind swims in a whirlwind of choices, but none of them seems right. My instinct is to run to him, but I know that I’ll be caught if I do.
“It’s the girl!” Smeeth yells, pointing straight at me. “Get her!”
Every soldier abandons his place and runs toward us.
“There’s no time,” Doc says, pulling my arm. “We have to go!”
Mole’s voice quivers as he shouts, “Gwen. Doc. Hurry!”
I struggle in Doc’s grip, trying once more to retrieve my father’s tags. As I scramble through the empty frame, I misjudge the size of the entrance and slam my head against the brick just above the window’s opening. Pain ricochets through my skull as stars bloom in my vision.
“It’s too late,” Doc pleads, pulling me from the window. “You have to let them go.”
My eyes blur with warm tears and my heartbeat pulses in my ears, its rapid cadence competing with the shouts of the soldiers and Doc’s voice begging me to come with him. I stumble, my hand in Doc’s, as my surroundings spin. Every beat of my heart aches, taking my breath away. A gentle breeze drifts in the air, carrying with it the sulfuric scent of gunfire and the metallic odor of blood, but all I can think about are my father’s precious tags, the only thing I have left of him. My legs go weak and my ears ring before I plunge into a
midnight-black chasm.
What do you mean Bella’s gone?” I scream, fury seething so intensely that I can feel every capillary in my face burst red. This isn’t possible. “There was nowhere for her to go. She must be here!”
The officer fidgets with the grip of his gun in his holster. “We’ve spent over an hour checking everywhere she could possibly hide. She’s just disappeared.”
Strolling down the center aisle of the chamber of the House of Lords, I take in the ashen and splintered furniture. The glimmer of the lanterns held by the Marauders casts a golden radiance on the red upholstered wooden benches on either side. “Search the grounds outside. She can’t be far.”
“Yes, sir,” the soldier says. He shouts orders, sending a group of guards to the courtyard, but I know he won’t find her. Like always, she’ll have ducked away unnoticed.
“And you, Mr. Smeeth,” I say, glaring at my right-hand man. “You lost the girl again?”
“They split up,” Smeeth says with a quiver in his voice. “My men went after them, but they vanished. They turned a corner and when we pursued, they were gone.”
Poking a finger into Smeeth’s chest, I loom over the burly officer, peering into his glassy dark eyes. “You incompetent, insignificant, worthless excuse for a soldier. How many times have you let them get away? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re working with Pete. Or maybe you’re still in allegiance with the Crown of England?”
I grip Smeeth’s throat. My grasp tightens around the soldier’s flesh until the muscles in his neck grow taut beneath my fingertips and his face pales. “Mr. Smeeth, I showed you preference over your fellow Englishmen,” I say, glaring at him. “While the lords and ladies of Buckingham Palace were disposed of, I granted you favor, although right now the reason seems to escape me.”
Smeeth tries to speak, grasping at my hands, but only manages some small gasps.
“Ah, now I remember,” I say, lifting Smeeth by his neck. His boots kick wildly as they rise off the ground. He struggles against my clutched hand, his pink complexion paling to white. “You looked pathetic in your red coat and silly bearskin hat. Some Royal Guard you were, cowering beneath a table in the Queen’s formal dining room. When you begged me to spare you, I realized then how useful you could be. Any English brat would know the ins and outs of the city, but what better one than a soldier. Perhaps I was wrong about you?”
Smeeth’s face turns blue as the blood drains from his cheeks. His eyes turn up, disappearing behind his lids. As he quivers in my grip, I release him, sending him crashing to the floor like a rag doll, wheezing on the blue-and-green carpet. He coughs, sputters indecipherable words, and finally his gaze meets mine. I recognize that expression, and I reel back in horror as the man in front of me transforms into a younger version of myself, trembling at the feet of my mother. Burning embers flare within my gut and I can’t look at him. I can’t face that expression of terror on his face. I spin, ready to bolt for the door, when his voice stops me.
“Captain?” he chokes. I turn toward him, keeping my eye shut. When I open it, Smeeth’s trembling hand reaches into a pocket on his jacket and pulls out a silver chain. Two military tags dangle from the necklace. I snatch it, inspecting the rectangular metal pieces. My finger runs along the engraved name.
“G. Darling,” I read aloud. “Where did you find this?”
“It was the girl’s,” Smeeth says through coughs, the tint of pink returning to his lips. He points to the entryway. “A prisoner,” he gasps.
At the entryway, two soldiers lead the tall boy into the room. His long, dark hair hangs in his face, curtaining his glaring eyes, an expression I’ve become all too familiar with. Bright red blood stains the side of his shirt and waistcoat.
I can’t help the wicked grin that grows on my face. It wasn’t a matter of if but when I’d see him again. “So good to see you, Jack,” I say, regarding the Lost Boy.
“Wish the feeling was mutual, brother,” Jack sneers, holding a hand over his wound. Blood seeps between his fingers, but it isn’t the worst injury I’ve seen him endure. While my mother was cruel to me, she was monstrous toward Jack, especially after his father met an unfortunate end. It’s a wonder Jack lived to see his last birthday.
With his hand still clasped at his throat, Smeeth peers up at me, confusion lacing his peaked complexion. “He’s your brother?”
“Stepbrother and traitor,” I say with disdain. I stride over to a nearby officer, seize the lantern from his hand, and smash it against one of the long couch-like benches, setting the red upholstery ablaze. Immediately, the acrid fumes fill the room. The fire catches on nearby curtains and races toward the ceiling.
“Change of plans, boys,” I say, before storming out of the room.
Is she dead?” Mole’s voice cuts through the thick fog in my head. Stubby little fingers poke my ribs and cheeks. “Blimey, Doc, I think we might have killed her.”
I swat the prodding hand away, my thoughts muddled and disoriented.
“She’s alive!” Mole exclaims.
“Of course she’s alive,” Doc says.
I blink, trying to focus on the dark shapes in the narrow room. The subtle smell of smoldering wood draws my attention to the figure kneeling in the corner. The flames of a small fire built in a metal rubbish bin dance wildly, casting bright yellow light on Doc’s face.
“Where are we?” I ask, rubbing my throbbing head.
“The National Gallery,” Doc says, breaking down the remains of a wooden bench and feeding the pieces into the fire. “That’s where we said we’d meet everyone.”
Priceless paintings hang on the walls; disapproving eyes stare down at me. I prop myself on my elbows and rub my head, wincing. “How’d I get here?”
“Doc carried you,” Mole says. “Man, oh, man. What I wouldn’t give to have two good eyes to have seen the whole thing. I’d even take one good eye. Can you imagine? Doc threw you over his shoulder while he was dragging me behind him. The soldiers shot bullets at us. Lucky for us they want you alive or they wouldn’t have aimed at our feet. I am glad I was on your team. Otherwise I might look like Swiss cheese if I had gone with the other Lost Kids.”
“You carried me?” I ask, grimacing as I sit up.
“You wouldn’t be the first patient I’ve had to carry,” Doc says, still feeding the fire.
A dull ache throbs from my forehead. I run my hand through my disheveled hair, which is sticky and matted. When my fingers graze a golf ball–size lump, I wince.
“Careful,” Doc says. “It took a while to stop the bleeding. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a slight concussion.”
“I fainted?” I ask, trying to recall my last memory.
“Yep,” Mole says. “Good thing Pickpocket fired on those awful soldiers or we’d have never gotten away.”
The last moments prior to blacking out flood back to me: the standoff with the Lost Boys, gunfire, and running. “What about the other Lost Boys? Did they get away?” I ask.
“I believe so, but I don’t know for sure,” Doc says, brushing my hair over my shoulder. “Since we split up, the Marauders were confused, hopefully for long enough to let them run.”
“And Jack?” I ask, thinking of the boy on the street.
Doc frowns and shakes his head.
My heart sinks and I place my hand on my chest, stilling the ache. “My father’s tags,” I whisper, grasping for the chain that had been around my neck. My hand touches the collar of my shirt but comes up empty.
“They’re gone,” Doc says, scooting next to me. “I’m sorry.”
I feel a hot tear slide down my cheek. “They were the only thing I had left of him.”
Doc rubs his thumb over my cheek, wiping away the tear. “Let me see your head wound,” he says.
I lean forward while Doc inspects my injury, his touch gentle.
“Those Lost Boys are brave,” Mole mumbles while poking at the fire with a piece of wood. “I wish I could be like them.”
/> “What are you talking about?” Doc says. “You could have stayed behind in the Lost City where it’s safe, but instead you’ve chosen to be here with us. I think that’s extremely brave.”
Mole smiles meekly, appearing unconvinced.
Doc pulls a canteen from his rucksack. “Lean over. I’m going to wash the blood out of your hair.”
“No,” I protest. “That’s your water. You need it.”
“We’ll get more. Now quit arguing and lean your head over,” he says.
I remove my jacket and drop my head. The cool water brings goose bumps to the skin on the back of my neck as it streams through my hair and pools on the floor in front of me. In the dull light, I can see the red tint to the liquid.
“How bad is it?” I ask, worried by the amount of blood washed from my hair.
“A concussion is not great, but you’ll live,” Doc says.
“Isn’t that the truth,” Mole interjects. “I was always banging my head on stuff when I was little, especially when I was tall enough to whack my head on the kitchen counter. I cannot tell you how many bumps and cuts my mother patched up. She used to say it was a rite of passage, that when I was tall enough to hit my head on the counter instead of running right underneath it, I was officially a big kid.” Mole sighs and frowns. “I miss her.”
I place my hand on his leg. “I miss my mother, too.”
“There you go. It won’t take away the pain, but at least it’s clean.” Doc caps the canteen and returns the container to his rucksack, this time pulling out a package of biscuits. He offers me one, but my stomach churns at the smell of them. I turn away and hold my breath.
“The nausea will pass eventually,” Doc says, offering the biscuits to Mole, who eagerly takes a handful.
I run my fingers through my hair before squeezing the excess water from it. When I look back up, Doc’s stare is fixed on me, and one corner of his mouth is turned up in a lopsided grin.
Everland Page 15
