Break Out the Girl (Cruel Convicts of Quo #2)

1 AURORA

I had a recurring nightmare back at Drakeward Manor.

In the dream, a secret exit existed just beyond the heavy brocade drapes of my bedroom. But when I sought the way out, the fabric turned into an endless maze of sodden, freezing velvet. I’d be trapped in the heavy shrouds, unable to move.

Am I dreaming? Can I breathe?

Yes.

A beautiful wind rushes over my skin, while freezing rain drives icy needles into my flesh. I force my heavy eyelids open, to find I’m bundled in the arms of a bouncing, wiry body.

“You alright, Kitten?” The voice comes out in a gasping, ragged pant. “Nearly there!”

London stumbles, tightening his grip on me. “Ouch, this forest is not a happy bunny! Not today, prickles, not today!” He takes a flying leap, and my body becomes momentarily weightless.

Oof, we land with a thud and keep racing.

“It’s like the mud is all moody, so it's poking me back with prickly needles and bony boulders.” He laughs. “Fair play I guess.”

Wait.

Behind us, the facility alarms are still screaming, though the sirens are fading slightly now.

We’re escaping!

Full awareness comes rushing back. Imran dying—then bursting into a mass of feathered wings. Francois unresponsive on the forest floor.

Shit. Creatures leaping out of the dark.

Deep in my chest, a frantic thrumming erupts. With every wonky beat, that strange feeling of threads pulling from my heart increases.

Increases.

Stretching painfully into the blackness behind us.

Somehow I can feel the faint, unmistakable rhythm of Tally and Francois’s life force.

But it’s so weak.

“Wait! London, slow down.” I start to buck in his arms, but he’s holding me too tight. “Stop! We have to go back!”

“No can do, Kitten. Burly Burt told me to run, so that’s what I'm doing. I recognize the captain of a ship when I see one. Don’t want to be keelhauled.” The wild Englishman doesn’t slow his pace.

“S-s-seriously, stop.” It’s hard to get the words out with all the jostling. “They need our help, London!”

“No.”

“NO?” I’m pissed now. “Put me down.” I struggle and his grip on me tightens.

“Wiggly little thing, aren’t you?” He skips to avoid a patch of brambles. “Socks,” he mutters. “I need socks. The world record for the most socks worn on one foot is one hundred and eighty-four. Two of those would be proper handy right now.”

Fuck. He is a lunatic. And he’s taking me further and further from Taliesin.

And not giving me a choice about it. I hate that.

Twisting, I jab at his face, his throat. It doesn’t make him falter one bit. So I do the only thing I can think of—I let go of his neck and drop like a stone out of his arms.

I hit the ground with a painful crash, then keep rolling through the mud and leaves down a slope, finally coming to a halt on the bank of a muddy stream. Blinking the rain out of my eyes, I see trees towering over me, and a second later, a pair of blazing green eyes.

“Bad kitty-cat.”

“We’re going back for Tally and Francois,” I tell him, trying to put as much Drakeward authority into my words as I can.

London cocks his head on one side. “That’s the opposite of keeping you safe, Kitten. And that’s my number one mission.”

I blow out a breath. I have the feeling London is not going to be easy to argue with. “Listen, Tally and Francois have been the ones keeping me safe in Quo. If you want me to be…secure…then I need them. If I have all three of you, then I’ll be safe.”

He swivels his head around, then focuses back on me. “Do you know what a Jack-in-the-box is?”

What? I blink then nod.

London’s expression is strangely solemn. “The tension grows as you crank the handle, round and round the mulberry bush, then…” He takes a deep breath. “Then… Pop! Goes the weasel. I feel a little like Jack at the minute, not going to lie.”

Pushing myself to my feet, I pat London on the shoulder—not surprised he’s so discombobulated—and look around. There are absolutely no clues to which direction the others could be in.

“Urgh. My innards feel like they’re going to explode out of my outtards,” London groans, suddenly bending double and holding his stomach. “Need some more of Shane’s shiveries.” He backs away from me, coming to a dead stop against a rotten tree stump as he starts tearing at his skin. “Itchy.”

The clouds must have a break, because suddenly the muddy clearing is bathed in moonlight. London looks awful, shaking and convulsing.

“Pop goes the weasel,” he groans. “Pop goes the weasel.”

What the fuck?

London’s skin is pulsating. His face looks different. His clothes are…

Evaporating.

I blink a million times. Am I concussed?

No.

I know.

He’s shifting.

He kneels on the floor looking up at me, his eyes filled with wonder. “Kitten,” he croaks.

I freeze.

Two small, velvety horns are peeking through the mass of warm chestnut hair that falls across his brow.

Below his now-naked torso, his skin gives way to a dense, coarse russet fur. His legs are bulging with muscle and…bent backwards?

And his feet are two sharp, cloven hooves that gleam like polished obsidian.

“Uh, London?”

He giggles, because of course he does, and gives a grin that is wide and delighted, showing white teeth that look just a little too sharp. “Kitten?”

“You’ve shifted?”

He leaps up with a fluid, unnatural grace, then holds a hand out to me. I grab it and he pulls me into his chest. He’s noticeably taller.

“Are you a satyr?” I ask, looking up at where his ears have elongated into points at the tip.

He pauses, giving one of his horns a stroke, then raising both eyebrows. “Satyr? I don’t think so. My inside voice claims I’m actually, one hundred percent faun.” Still holding me, he gives a playful skip, hooves click-clacking against a boulder.

I push against his furry chest and step backwards, out of his embrace. I need to think and this whole faun transformation is completely messing with my head. “Where is Tally, London? And Francois?”

“Tally and Francois?” London looks puzzled, like he’s forgotten they existed.

“The men we escaped with?”

“Oh, right. Those blokes.” He tilts his head, ears rotating. “Huh. That’s weird, it’s like someone messed with my dial. I don’t hear them.”

Considering his new ears, that doesn’t seem like a good sign. “OK, so when was the last time you saw them?”

He steps closer, putting his warm, still-human hands on my shoulders. “When we legged it from that drafty dungeon, love. I didn’t look back because you’d gone all flippy floppy and Captain Burt told me to run.”

Once again, a desire just to dissolve into London’s warm arms overtakes me.

No, I can’t.

I shake my head, trying to rattle the cobwebs loose. “Tally must have stayed behind to help Francois,” I mutter, the memory finally solidifying. “He’d collapsed. Using that magic to coat us, dissolve the wall. I think it drained him. Wait! The creatures! They were going to attack.”

The thought of Taliesin being hurt makes my chest tighten.

And de Vaux?

My heart gives an uneven thump.

We wouldn’t have escaped without Francois. Even though I hate his father, Francois has done nothing but help me.

It’s complicated.

London tilts his head, his swirling green eyes go wide, catching the starlight. “I’ll go look for them,” he whispers, his breath warm against my hair. “I’m catching the whispers of the trees, they’re worried.”

“I’m coming with you.”

He pulls back just enough to look me in the eye, his expression shifting into something uncharacteristically solemn.

“Me, Shivery-Shane and Burt are made of hard things. Like rocks and old grudges.” His fingers trace the line of my shoulder, sliding down to the sleeve of my rough, gray jumpsuit.

“But you, love,” he says softly. “Are sugar and spice and all things nice. All the things this topsy-turvy world wants to bake into a pie.” He pauses, looking up at the night sky. “I hear you,” he says.

“Hear who?”

“The moon. She’s beaming us down a warning. Silver-alert, Kitten. We don’t want to ignore it.” He squints again then grins. “Naughty, naughty. She just informed me that if I go, you’re going to try and follow and that’s definitely a bad idea.”

“We are not taking instructions from the moon, London.”

“No, sweetpea, we’re not. But I am.” He looks thoughtful for a moment, then nods. “Yep. Agreed.”

What he’s saying seems so ludicrous, but do I argue with a man who just turned into a mythical beast? I climb on, putting my arms around his shoulders.

London takes off with a bounding leap, but the next second we aren't moving forward—oh no, that would be far too simple. We are scrambling up a massive tree, a towering redwood or something similar. My stomach swoops as London bounces from branch to branch like a mountain goat.

Oh right.

Goat.

When we’re almost at the top, he slows to a stop. “Here we go. Grab that branch, Kitten.”

And that’s when I realize I don’t like heights. At least, I don’t like being three hundred feet in the air on a bendy tree limb. My knees feel weak as I hold onto the thick branches for dear life. “OK, so what now?” I ask, trying not to yelp as the wind buffets the canopy.

“Now, my little tree-cat. You keep watch. I’ll be back soon.”

And with that, he disappears.

“LONDON!” I yell. “GET THE FUCK BACK HERE.”

But he’s already vanished from sight.

Motherfucker.

There is no way I can climb down this thing by myself. Very gingerly, I edge myself down to a sitting position, leaning my back against the massive trunk.

I’m cold, nauseated, and soaked to the bone.

While trapped at the top of a redwood.

Fuck.

My.

Life.