FIFTY #2
Calum started pacing again. “You could say you’re her friend?”
“I don’t get the impression Aly’s allowed to have friends.” Sorcha laid a hand on Calum’s arm, slowing him. “She’ll be fine. She’s clever, and she knows what she’s doing.”
Calum let her comfort him, because there was nothing else to do, but it didn’t relieve the tightness in his chest. Nothing did, not until Aly appeared around a corner, her face pale in the moonlight. Calum hurried over to her and held her to him, kissing her hair as she clung to him.
“Did it work?” Sorcha asked.
Aly nodded against Calum’s chest. “It worked.” She jerked her head at a close behind them. “Come on, we’d best do this quickly.”
Reluctantly, Calum released her, his arms heavy weights as he uncurled them from around her.
Red flashed on her waistcoat as she straightened her coat.
She’d got changed, back into the waistcoat and kilt she’d worn when he first arrested her.
The clothes looked right, in some sense, as though she’d shed the last of the Wulver’s deputy in that flat.
Aly caught him looking and shrugged. “I’ve been wanting to get my own clothes back for weeks.” She said it lightly, but there was real feeling in her expression. She had so little of her own that to be wearing the clothes provided by the man who had abused her must have grated on her.
She led them along the salt-sprayed harbour and into a close, to a pair of tall doors with a heavy iron chain threaded through the handles. Aly crouched in front of it and pulled out a set of lockpicks.
“Where did those come from?” Calum blurted. She hadn’t had them when he’d arrested her, of that much he was certain.
Sorcha gave a cough that sounded an awful lot like a laugh.
Aly just rolled her eyes and ignored him, continuing her work until the padlock gave a loud click.
She stepped back, her shoulders tense and her brow wrinkled in distaste, her gaze on the iron.
Calum stepped forwards and removed the lock, tugging the chains through the handles and letting them fall in a pile to the side.
“I should probably stay out of the way,” Aly said, moving down the close. “In case anyone recognises me.”
Calum inclined his head, reaching for the door handles. The doors were heavy and uncooperative, the hinges shrieking as Calum hauled them open. It was dark inside, and the figures illuminated by Calum’s globe lights all shrank back as he stepped into the close room.
“We’re here to help.” The words sounded flat and dubious even to his own ears. He looked around at the salchs. There were perhaps eight of them, fewer than Calum had feared, most of them young and all of them with the same look of those who had seen far too much trauma in their short lives.
A murmur rose among the captives, scepticism and fear apparent in their voices.
“Look, trust us or don’t, but do any of you want to be here when the Wulver gets back?” Sorcha snapped.
The prospect of the Wulver returning seemed to spur the prisoners on, and there was a sudden scramble for the open doors.
Calum and Sorcha stepped back to let them through, taking in the faces of those who streamed past them.
With a jolt, Calum recognised a sandy-haired lad of around seventeen that he’d picked up several months back for picking pockets.
The lad’s eyes widened as he saw Calum, and he inhaled as though he was going to speak, but then shook his head and carried on.
The tightness in Calum’s chest relaxed. If the boy had announced Calum was a copper, it would have caused panic amongst the captives, who trusted the police about as much as they trusted crime lords—particularly now that the police were the reason many of them were there.
The last of the salchs emerged, tilting her head back to smile at the stars. Calum’s eyes darted from side to side, ears alert for the twang of a bowstring or the mocking tones of Grant’s voice.
“It’s too easy,” he murmured, stepping closer to Sorcha.
The salchs were all dispersing, disappearing down narrow alleys and across canals.
But there was a stone in Calum’s stomach, hard and heavy.
“It’s nearly midnight. Does Grant really care about his reputation more than whatever he’s hoping to get out of the fae? ”
And where was Aly? His heart lodged in his throat as he peered towards the harbour, catching sight of her bright hair at the end of the close.
“Let’s just get out of here,” Sorcha muttered, grabbing Calum’s wrist and dragging him down the street.
As they drew nearer, Calum realised Aly wasn’t alone.
A tall person in a fur cape stood before her, head bowed as they spoke to her.
A shiver slid down Calum’s spine. Something was wrong.
He wasn’t sure what it was, whether it was the way the person stood, or the way they dressed or moved, but something in their demeanour told Calum they were dangerous, even before the stranger turned their head and the streetlight illuminated pointed ears.
Calum’s heartbeat pounded in his head, his legs weakening beneath him.
He pawed at the damp wall at his side, his hand shaking, and stumbled into it, pressing his back into the rough stone.
Sobs heaved through him, choking him. He clawed at his cravat, tearing it off and casting it aside as dark spots encroached on his vision.
“Calum? Calum!”
Sorcha stood in front of him, her forehead creasing. “What’s wrong?”
Calum’s head whipped from side to side, his breath seizing in his throat.
“What is it?” Sorcha gripped his shoulders, her eyes searching his.
“Fae,” he croaked.
Sorcha’s hold on his shoulders tightened, her fingertips digging into his coat. “Where?” she snapped.
The sharpness in her voice jolted Calum out of his panic. He turned his head towards the end of the close in time to see the fae grab Aly’s arm and drag her around the corner, her vibrant hair the last thing Calum saw before she disappeared from sight.