11 TALIESIN
It soon becomes apparent that it wasn’t all bullshit.
London does know what he’s doing.
Thank the Gods.
The kid handles the jet boat like a pro. I say kid, but actually London must be a couple of years older than me. I guess it’s the way he chatters away about nothing that makes him seem young.
“Steady as she goes, me maties!” London babbles, his hands light on the wheel. He keeps cocking his head to the left, as if he can actually hear the water depth changing beneath our hull. “Zip, zap, zoop past the harbor watchmen, bish bash bosh, we’ll soak ‘em with our wash.”
Francois stands at the bow, legs braced against the fiberglass deck, as his black eyes scan the blank horizon. Every few seconds, the air around him seems to shimmer. Does that mean his beast-senses are activated?
If so—good.
I’ve a feeling we’ve a battle ahead. And that’s not just navigating a channel of shifting sand, then trying to land a boat on an unknown island away from the main dock and any cameras. The Grieves aren’t fools. I imagine they have highly trained guards protecting their ‘investments’.
I clamp my hand on the metal rail, watching the dark water churn.
For several minutes all we hear is the whine of the engine, a far off fog horn from something, and London singing about the ‘alley, alley, oh,’ on repeat.
But the further we get out into the channel, the lower and slower his voice becomes.
Until it dries up altogether.
“London?” Aurora asks, leaning forward, her yellow coat a bright spot in the fog. “You OK?”
He doesn't answer her, just stares straight ahead, fingers gripping the steering wheel tight.
The set of his shoulders becomes hunched.
The wolf inside me senses the growing turmoil inside him.
Pack. Pain.
And it’s not just my beast. Those strange starlight bonds that seem to connect us all are also quivering. Something is definitely wrong with London.
“Hey, kid,” I grunt, stepping closer until my shoulder brushes his. “Are we approaching the shallows yet?”
“The shelf…the shallows." His voice is entirely devoid of its usual energy. It’s flat. Hollow. “Left hand, left hand,” he mutters, then shakes his head from side to side violently. “It’s OK, just a quick trip. No sleepovers. Just a quick trip.”
I look from his bleak profile to his white knuckles and the pieces in my head suddenly slam together with an unwelcome click.
Fuck.
The red tattoo of a product number is burned into London’s chest, just like Sky. I knew that. That’s why he’s here in the first place.
But I’d not spent a second considering what revisiting this hell hole would put him through. He’d have been transported across these very waters as a terrified sixteen year old.
And that journey would just have been the tip of the iceberg. The beginning of a tortuous life that I don’t even want to imagine.
London shifts the throttle, dropping the speed until the hull settles deep into the black, oily swells. “Burt,” London mutters, not looking at me. “Silt's coming up, gonna clog the pipes. Not good.”
The jet engine dies with a soft hiss.
The silence of the open ocean rolls over us, thick and heavy.
Do I say anything? Acknowledge what he’s facing?
Or will that make it harder?
I clap a hand on his shoulder, feeling out of my depth. “Good eye, London. Stopped just in time then.” I sound ridiculously hearty. Like my dad when he tried to talk to give me the ‘sex talk’.
“De Vaux, drop anchor,” I call out, but London mumbles something and pushes past me, grabbing the long coil of chain and casting it out himself.
“We’re sailing the rest of the way?” Aurora asks, trying to find her balance in the rocking boat.
“Sail away, sail away,” London whispers, straightening up again, his face pale and eyes haunted.
Shit, should he stay in the boat and just me and Francois head onto the island?
It’s not a bad idea, Aurora could keep behind with him, and that would make sure she was safe. Though I can’t imagine Rory agreeing to that plan.
I look at her. She’s watching London intently.
As he turns, she steps into his path, wrapping her arms tight around his torso. A second later, London collapses into her, burying his face into the crook of her neck, shaking hands clutching at the damp vinyl of her coat.
Over the top of his wild red hair, Aurora’s blue eyes meet mine.
There’s no confusion in her face. No questions. It’s like she was watching and waiting for this. She was ready for the boy to crack.
My sweet, empathic girl.
Rory holds him, her fingers gently combing through the knots at the back of his neck. She’s murmuring things too soft for even my wolf-ears to catch. Slowly, she pulls back just enough to look at him, then, with one elegant finger, tilts his face down towards her.
I watch as she presses a gentle, lingering kiss against his mouth.
Fuck.
I'm watching the girl I love kiss another man.
But it works. Her lips act like a circuit-breaker flipping London back to life.
He doesn't kiss her back but the boy's shaking shoulders settle under her touch.
Pack, my wolf rumbles. Good.
Good?
Pack. Strong.
London pulls away from Rory, the sparkle back in his green eyes. Shit, he does look better, stronger. And I feel good about that.
Fucking wolf-senses.
“Thanks, Kitten,” London grins. “I was getting stuck down the old mole-hole, no good to anyone, especially the fishes. Time to get things ship-shape and Bristol fashion.” He flicks off another couple of buttons on the control panel, then hits a switch that starts a small strobing light on the prow. “Shall we sally forth?”
Francois shakes a duffel bag. “I audited the onboard assets. Two short-range walkie-talkies, a comprehensive medical kit, three bottles of water, trailmix and…” He pulls out a handful of rubber-soled footwear.
“…several pairs of neoprene water shoes. I suggest we put them on. Anything is an upgrade from our current items.”
“I like my slippers,” London whines, “They’re so cozy on my toesies.”
Francois ignores him, passing the smallest pair to Aurora, then a large pair to me. “Thanks.”
“You should wear them too, London. Keep your slippers dry for after,” I suggest, the echo of our bond making me more gentle with him than normal.
London grins at me. “Ooh, you make a very good point.” He grabs a pair and inspects the rubber shoes. “Nice grip, goat-approved.”
Francois hands out the water bottles. “I’ll refill them when you’re done.”
“We can’t drink seawater, silly,” London giggles.
“I do realize that,” Francois sighs. “Nuts?”
We all shove down a handful of trailmix, then disembark onto the dinghy.
Now it’s fully daylight, the painted name ‘Sadie-Mae’ is visible on the boat’s side. I untie the towing line as London sets the sails, and soon we’re moving away from the abandoned jetboat.
Aurora sits up front, trailing her fingers in the water, while Francois and I are seated in the middle.
London has the rudder, and at the same time pulls the sail line as the canvas catches the morning breeze.
“Keep your eyes peeled for sandbanks and pirates, everyone. We need to come in on the lee side of the island.”
London’s green eyes keep scanning the water ahead as he steers the tiller. “The wind is coming off the north flats, see? If we try to hit the eastern cliffs, the surf will smash our little Sadie-Mae into a bean-eating toothpick. So we go around the back, nice and quiet-like.”
“We must also presume the primary perimeter will be heavily monitored,” Francois adds. Having clipped a walkie-talkie to his waist, must make him think he’s a Navy Seal or whatever. Twat.
“Just aim for the cove we saw on the map, London,” I grunt, watching the foggy outline of an island get closer.
“Ready about,” London calls. “Lee-ho!” The boom swings overhead and Francois ducks a millisecond before it cracks him. “Oh, Shane, keep those peepers peeled.”
“Crétin,” Frank hisses back.
The last of the sea fog shifts, and the cliffs of black volcanic rock suddenly seem extremely fucking close. But at the base of the dark rocks is a small, crescent-shaped sandy cove.
“Just what the doctor ordered,” London purrs with satisfaction.
“Indeed,” Francois murmurs, his annoyance forgotten. “Bring us in, London.”
I pull up the centerboard just in time as the wooden hull slides up the dark sand of the isolated cove.
Part one accomplished. I’m over the side before the bow even finishes grinding into the dark pebbles.
Digging my heels into the loose shingle I pull with everything I’ve got. The heavy wood of the Sadie-Mae groans, sliding another few feet up the narrow slope until she’s high enough to hold.
“Everyone out,” I murmur. “Keep your head down, Rory.”
Francois steps over the gunwale first, then stretches his hand out to Aurora, like the perfect French gentleman. Whatever. He doesn’t let go until she’s out of the surf and on the shore. London helps me pull the boat up another couple of feet, then I take in our setting for the first time.
A jagged, dark treeline looms over the rim of the cliffs, but the rockfall looks like something we can scramble up.
Aurora steps closer, her jacket dripping with salt spray. Her eyes meet mine under the shadow of her hood, wide and focused. “Which way, Tally?” she whispers.
I point a finger towards the rockfall, but then notice a dark, narrow split in the cliff face just before it. It looks like a steep, half-collapsed track winding upward through the shale. Maybe a deer trail or something. “There. I’ll go first. Follow my footsteps.”
The climb is miserable. The volcanic rock is slick with frozen salt crust, crumbling into sharp, slate-like fragments beneath our rubber soles. By the time we scramble over the final lip of the ridge, I’m fucking relieved.
It would have been all too easy for Rory to slip and fall.
The cliff edge gives way to a manicured forest of fir trees, planted in precise, geometric lines that feel completely wrong, like a fucked up Christmas tree farm.
I beckon the others and we huddle in the shadow of the nearest trunks. “We don’t rush the main house, surveillance first. I’ll shift and go. Anything I should be aware of, London?”
“There were always the men in black,” London whispers, and makes spooky fingers. “Gotta be careful we don’t get zapped.”
I figure he’s talking about a patrol and tasers. “How many?”
“How long’s a piece of string?”
OK, he doesn’t know.
Check.
“Let’s get a little closer, then I’ll go.”
We move through the trees, heading toward the first structure detaching itself from the mist. It’s a low, open-fronted shed made of rusted corrugated iron—likely an old tractor barn or a marine equipment garage.
I incline my head to Francois, and he steps inside. A second later, his face reappears. “Clear.”
Good. It’s a relief to be out of the biting wind.
The interior smells of stale diesel oil and rotted wood. Tools are scattered across a long wooden workbench, and a massive, grease-stained generator sits dead in the corner.
Safe enough for now. They can stay here while I hunt.
Turning back to the group, I see London has shifted into his faun-form. “I'm coming with ya, Burt. Maybe I’ll know where the nasty places are if I see them."
Having London with me isn't a bad idea—but it’s one less protector for Rory.
Francois steps closer to Aurora's shoulder, his jaw still discolored from my fist. “I’ll keep her safe,” he says, like he’s reading my mind. “Do not take unnecessary risks, Bevan.”
“I won’t. And if you hear anything—anything at all—you pull out deeper into the woods, agreed?”
London points a finger toward a row of red plastic jerrycans tucked under the bench. “Or you can use the petrol to make our enemies go whoosh.”
“Don’t engage,” I reiterate to Francois. “Just get to safety.”
The Frenchman nods. I can feel how much he cares. He won’t allow any harm to come to her.
Aurora grabs the fabric of my sleeve at the same time as taking London’s hand. “You two be careful. Watch each other's backs.”
"Always do, Kitten. And his front!"
“I won’t let anything happen to him, Rory.”
She smiles a sad, worried smile. “Come back to me safe.”
I press a kiss to her forehead then move out of the corrugated barn, London at my heels.
As we plunge into the dark green mass of trees I invite the shift.
My bones let out that wet, heavy click-crack and I drop to all fours, my clothes dissolving into the rush of thick, heavy russet fur as my paws hit the frozen dirt.
We run, London clearing the undergrowth with the massive, silent bounds of his agile faun legs.
Together, as wolf and faun, we melt into the mist, hunting for the girl we came to save.