14 TALIESIN
They’ve been ten minutes.
It seems longer, much longer.
My wolf-ears twist toward the eastern wing, and I strain to filter out the coastal wind and the distant slosh of waves against rocks.
There’s a ventilation grate at the base of the mansion's foundation and muffled voices are carrying up from the meeting room.
My wolf focuses on the words.
“…don't care what the Havengard Network is broadcasting,” a voice snaps.
“The Quo breakout is not our problem. Thomas Crankshawe can wave his hundred-grand bounty around all he wants, but it doesn't change our timeline. The buyers are arriving imminently. If I see one of your men staring at a news feed or tracking mainland alerts instead of tending to your duties, I’ll personally see you become unemployable, permanently—understand?”
A chorus of grunted agreements echo through the vent.
Hmm.
There was a vague chance that the Warden could connect the dots between Sky being taken and our escape, but was unlikely. Why would two Elites bother themselves with an Ashgrave orphan? These men have no reason to think that we’d be headed this way.
“How is the product?” It’s a different voice.
“The first officer reports they’re mostly sleeping, locked in the lower galley,” someone else replies. “Said none of them even got seasick, so good work with the roofies. We should do that every time.”
“Nah, some love the fighters.”
I suppress a snarl.
The deep voice speaks again. “Enough. Once The Carnivàle hits international waters, the bidding opens. This place will be virtually empty for the next twenty-four hours. During that time, I want a maintenance team to replace all the window locks. And bleach out the basement. It stinks. Has anyone seen Carl?”
“He hasn’t been answering. Fucker probably got high and is off sleeping.”
“Find him, and bring him to me. What the fuck do you people think this place is? Summer camp? Fuck. I’m reporting to Mr. Grieves in five. He’ll want to know if you assholes are slacking.”
As the main guy continues instructing his grunts on the courtyard security rotations, the wind shifts, blowing a fresh scent straight into my muzzle.
Rory.
They’re on their way, getting closer.
I stay in position and the next words I hear through the grate are unwelcome.
“Meeting adjourned. Get to your stations.”
The heavy thud of boots echoes as the staff scatter. Keeping in wolf form, I race around to the door which I expect our crew to emerge from.
Right on cue, the heavy oak side door clicks open, and out pops Aurora's bright yellow raincoat, flanked closely by London and Francois. Tucked under London's arm is a scrawny, dark-haired kid wielding a loose piece of piping like a baseball bat.
I drop the shift, my bones letting out that wet, heavy click-crack as I spring back up onto two feet.
“Burt!” London whispers loudly across the damp grass. “Looky, looky! We found a brand-new friend!”
“What about Sky?”
His face falls. Oh, she must be on The Carnivàle.
“We need to move,” I sigh, my eyes cutting to the forest then back to the angry kid with the goat.
We need to move,” I grunt, my eyes cutting to the forest then back to the angry kid.
“The meeting is over, the guards will be headed out.” I grab Rory’s hand and start running for the treeline, hoping the others follow suit.
Disappearing into the deep forest of firs is a relief. All the foliage and the remains of the coastal fog swallow us whole.
“No one knows we’re on the island,” I whisper, as I keep my grip tight on Aurora’s small, warm palm.
“But they noted someone called Carl is missing—must be the person you took out, Francois. I imagine search parties will form to find him.” I look at the child that is wriggling in London’s arms. “And they could see the kid is gone any moment. "
The kid elbows London in the gut, then straightens. “Fucking doubt it,” he shrugs. “They won’t give me any food today, or a fucking bathroom break. Probably won’t get checked on until tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry, Basil.” Rory says softly.
Basil. That’s the kid’s name?
Basil sneers. “Save your tears, richy. I was planning to piss on the first person who came through the door, so you idiots got lucky.”
“We must conceal the body of Carl before we deploy. Keep them guessing,” Francois states calmly.
“Agreed.”
We sprint back to the corrugated iron shed, moving silently through the trees.
There is a limp, broken shape of a guard in the dirt.
Working fast, me and de Vaux haul the dead weight behind a stack of industrial fertilizer sacks and heavy timber crates. They won’t find him without a thorough search.
Unless they have shifters with animal scent senses, then we’re fucked.
How to throw them off?
As I straighten up inside the shed, my eyes track to the row of red gas cans. “A distraction,” I say. “That’s what we need. Something big enough to pull every guard away from the water.”
I’ve made a delayed-fire-starter before, basically wax and wood shavings. That burns for several minutes before igniting the gas. “Anyone see any candles? I want to make a fuse, so these cans will go up after we’re out of here.”
“Candles?” The kid—Basil—snorts loudly, while waving his radiator pipe dismissively. “Are you mental? Do you people even know what you're doing?”
I narrow my eyes at the spitfire who can’t be more than eleven or twelve. “You got a better plan, kid?”
He points his pipe at an old vehicle emergency kit in the corner, then down at the concrete floor.
“Road flares and motor oil. I bet the trench under this grate is a storm sluice—it’ll run straight downhill under the lawn to the mansion's foundation. If we drip the gas down there, the fumes will roll right into the basement intake vents.” He rolls his eyes, grabbing a pair of old denim jeans from a pile of rags.
“Look, it’ll smolder for at least seven minutes before it blows. Just trust me, you hairy twat.”
Francois coughs, and we exchange a look. The kid is either cocky or a genius—or both. Terrifying street smarts.
“Get on with it then,” I grunt. “De Vaux, keep look-out.”
I puncture the bottom of a gas can with a screwdriver, positioning it over the drainage grate as the fuel starts a rhythmic drip down into the dark stone trench. Basil is already wrapping the jeans around the magnesium flares like a seasoned pro.
“Let’s do this,” he mutters.
I spark the magnesium tip. It begins a low internal hiss, eating through the fabric with a controlled, slow burn.
Good.
“Fingers crossed,” I say, standing up. “Let’s move.”
We burst out of the shed, leaving the ticking time bomb behind us, and sprint toward the cliff path.
Descending the sharp, jagged shale and slick, moss-covered boulders is brutal. The fog is fully back, making the drops invisible.
I lead the way, guiding Rory down the steepest ledges. London holds the rear, his hooves clicking nimbly over the rocks. But I realize Basil is barefoot, his feet getting cut to shreds. I offer to carry him but he tells me to ‘fuck off, perv’.
But halfway down the rock face, his foot catches on a loose wedge of slate.
“Whoa—!” He lets out a cry as he tumbles backward, rolling hard over the jagged rocks before slamming into a thick clump of gorse bushes. The iron radiator pipe clatters out of his hand, bouncing down into the surf below.
“Basil!” Aurora gasps, trying to scramble down toward him, but I catch her arm.
“I’ve got him. Keep moving to the shelf.”
I drop down the ledge, landing heavily beside the kid.
Basil is sitting in the dirt, his face pale underneath the mud and grime. His hands are clutching his left ankle, which is already swelling. He’s cussing up a storm—vicious, foul words that should never come out of a kid’s mouth—but his eyes are brimming with hot, angry tears.
Yeah, I know that look.
He’s furious that he’s crying, and slams his fist into the dirt in pure frustration.
My heart hurts for him. He looks so small right now; a child who has been through too much.
“Get away from me,” Basil chokes out, his voice cracking as he tries to wipe his face with a filthy sleeve. “I can walk. Don't touch me.”
I don’t argue with him, just reach down, slide my arms under his knees and shoulders, and hoist his scrawny frame effortlessly against my chest. He stiffens, his fingers instantly gripping my flannel shirt. “I’m fine,” he growls, at the same time as shivers wrack his malnourished body.
“Shut up, Basil,” I mutter softly, keeping my stride steady as I carry him down the final stretch of the rocks. “You don’t have to play the hard-ass with me.”
He scowls but doesn’t reply.
Better.
The Sadie-Mae is bobbing in the surf, her lines taut against the anchor as the tide has come in during the last couple of hours. Basil’s slight body goes rigid.
“A boat?” he croaks.
“How else did you think we’d be leaving here, kid?”
“I don’t like boats,” he mumbles. “They… they take you to the bad places. They don't bring you back.” His breathing quickens as we get closer to the dark water.
Fuck. There is no time for a freak out.
I’m not sure what to do but then London’s voice cuts in.
“Listen to me, little captain!” He slides down the final rock, landing in the foam next to us.
“The Sadie-Mae doesn’t do bad trips, not like that blotting paper I ate once.
We’re setting sail for freedom, young Fuckwad, so perk up.
If you’re a good boy, I’ll let you steer the rudder. Only the very best people can do that.”
London's chaotic charm seems to snap the kid right out of the spiral. Basil blinks. “Weirdo,” he mutters, but the terror leaves his eyes.
I hand him up to London, who hauls him aboard, tucking him safely next to Aurora. Francois is already at the bow, heaving up the anchor line with heavy, fluid pulls.
THOOM.
An explosion rattles the teeth in my jaw, echoing from the top of the cliffs.
We all look up. Billowing plumes of black smoke pour into the sky, followed instantly by the high-pitched, echoing scream of the estate's emergency sirens. In the distance, I pick up faint, chaotic shouting of guards.
“Anchor’s free!” Francois calls out over the roar of the surf.
I dive into the freezing water, shoving the hull of the Sadie-Mae out past the breakers before hauling myself over the side. London is already pulling the sheets, the canvas catching the wind with a loud snap.
The boat heels hard, cutting cleanly through the frothing waves as we leave the burning island behind us.
Next stop, the jet boat, then Sky.
This might actually fucking work.