Chapter Thirteen #2
Drake shook his head. “Not even a whiff of the little bird’s shadow.”
Maxen growled low in his throat. The wind lashed at his face as they stalked down another winding lane. Brighton’s darkened corners had never felt so vast. So empty. So bloody useless. “She couldn’t have vanished like this. She’s not trained for it.”
“She’s clever,” Drake replied. “We both know that.”
That word again. He wanted to curse that blasted word. Calliope Turner was clever. Clever enough to know to choose his brother, to get him tied up, to even elude Maxen that very first night. Nothing had ever driven him this damn crazy before.
He stopped abruptly and braced a palm against the nearest stone wall. “Bloody hell.”
“You’re not used to this,” Drake said evenly.
“What?” Maxen pushed from the wall with a scowl. Feeling crazy?
“Losing people.”
He shot him a glare, but Drake didn’t flinch. His brother never did.
“I’ve lost plenty,” Maxen said.
“Not a woman.”
He couldn’t hold his brother’s gaze and snapped it away. Lost a woman. No, he hadn’t. His mother didn’t count. She was his mother. Calliope was just . . . his. And now she’d vanished, and he was left clutching her blasted slipper like some lovesick fool.
“Keep your trap shut and keep moving.”
“I’m not the one who stopped.”
His brother had more nerve than anyone alive. They searched the rest of the Lanes with no result. Prince would’ve been easy to track if anyone had spotted them, but they had no such luck.
Maxen paused as they arrived on East Street. “She couldn’t have come this far on foot without someone noticing.”
“You think she found a carriage?” Drake asked, gaze sweeping the street.
“Either she’s cleverer than we gave her credit for, or she has more luck than Prinny himself.”
“Which way do you think she went? North for the coaches, or south for the Steine?”
Either way, the direction would be a guess. “How much time has passed?” Maxen asked.
“Few hours.”
They spotted Knight approaching, damp locks falling over his brow, lips pressed in a hard line.
“Anything?” Maxen asked, gaze fixed on his brother. Tension knotted his shoulders so tight he had to roll them once to loosen the stiffness.
Knight shook his head. “Not a trace of her or the dog.”
“You searched the inns?” Drake asked.
Knight nodded.
Maxen’s hands curled into fists, pulling apart every damn possibility. What route she might’ve taken. Who she might trust. No clear answer besides John Fitz came up, which meant she might be heading toward London. His, gut, however, told her that wouldn’t be her destination.
“She has to be bloody somewhere,” Drake muttered, perplexed. “She couldn’t have gone far on foot.”
“She’s already where she wants to be,” Maxen bit out. What other explanation could there be?
Knight looked up sharply. “Someone slipped our notice?”
Maxen bit down on his jaw. “It seems that way.”
“Who the hell would she trust?” Drake questioned. “Rollings?”
Maybe. The women from her shop came to mind, but he quickly dismissed that idea.
She wouldn’t wish to put anyone in possible danger.
But there was another name that sat like acid in the back of his mind.
He’d spotted them together on more than one occasion.
But it couldn’t be. Could it? “No, not possible,” he muttered.
Drake arched a brow and muttered, “Everything is damn possible at this point. Just look at us scrambling like headless fowl.”
Saint rounded the corner ahead and slowed when he spotted them. He walked over, the breeze tugging at his hair, his expression grim.
Maxen tensed, his gut already answering before his mouth did. “You found her?”
“She was on foot,” Saint confirmed solemnly, “but not for long.”
Maxen clenched his fists. “You saw her with your own eyes? You’re sure?”
Saint nodded. “Caught sight of her and her hound near the edge of the market district.”
“Not alone,” Knight guessed.
Saint shook his head. “No, not alone.”
Maxen had a feeling he was not going to like the answer. “Who?” Maxen demanded.
Saint met his gaze, expression turning even graver. “Peregrine.”
The name landed like a stone in Maxen’s gut.
Peregrine. Again. A vulture who never seemed to respect boundaries and delighted in testing his.
For a fleeting moment, Maxen imagined his hands closing around the man’s throat and squeezing the life from his eyes.
He gave a vicious curse, forcing the image from his head.
Too damn tempting.
“That miscreant?” Drake asked sharply. “What the devil is he playing at this time?”
Saint nodded. “He stopped his carriage. She got in.”
Maxen’s lungs turned to damn ash. The image of throttling Peregrine flashed again.
Drake swore under his breath.
“Then she is a spy?” Knight tested. “For him.”
“No,” Maxen ground out. “I refuse to believe that.”
“She willingly went with him,” Saint pointed out.
There could be many reasons for that. One of which being that she simply didn’t see Peregrine as a threat. Neither did the hound. But then, the hound hadn’t seen him as a threat either.
“Where is she now?” Maxen asked.
“I followed them to Talon’s.”
“Talon’s? I haven’t heard of the place before.” And that was never a good bloody thing.
“A new inn on the outskirts,” Saint clarified.
Bloody Peregrine. Talon’s? He scoffed. About as subtle as their tavern’s name. He also noted that the blackguard perhaps thought he had taken her out of their territory. He would soon learn a valuable lesson: All that touched Brighton, touched him.
Maxen was already moving.
Saint caught his arm. “There might be more beneath the surface here.”
He met his brother’s gaze. “I know.” People who ran usually had something to run from. She was either fleeing from him or something, someone, else.
Saint slowly let go of his arm. “So long as you know.”
“Even if my judgment is clouded, it’s not bloody lost.”
His brother nodded, stepping back. “Good, then.”
Drake stepped up to his side. “What do you want to do now?”
Maxen’s lips curved. “Now we go retrieve our missing lamb.”
“Christ,” Drake muttered. “Don’t let her hear you say that.”