17 LONDON
The red emergency light coats everything in a glare that has my nerves rattling.
It’s not like me to be so chickeny, but something about red-light bulbs has always given me the yikes.
I put it down to the school darkroom mishap.
Don’t mix fixers with an acid, kids.
I’d impart that wisdom to my current little buddy, but she’s got the eyes of a startled hare, and startled hares are never good at absorbing information.
Or being startled.
Or walking on their own, but that’s OK.
I’ve got impressive faun-muscles and carry her with just one arm. The little hare hasn’t told me her name, but one thing is for sure, it’s not ‘Sky’, sadly.
Shane informed me none of the kids we found are Kitten’s special friend. My stomach bottomed out at the news.
I so wanted to take Kitten her most-wanted present, but instead I’m like a Santa who shops in Poundland instead of a proper elf workshop.
The two little lasses clutching at my calves told us Sky, and the other kids, were taken off the ship a couple of hours ago. They don’t have any more scoop, but I’m guessing Coco and Bozo made off with them.
Those creepy clowns always liked to be in charge of the biggest sales.
Still, now is not a time for memory lane, the little gaggle of poor niblets we have collected are swaying on their little feet. “Cling on to my leg-hair, girls, don’t be shy.”
Girl-one told me her name was Pepper, and girl-two is Sheena.
Ricky sits by my feet.
Little Hare sleeps in my arms. And though my biceps are cozy, this whole scene isn’t the snuggliest place for a siesta, if I’m honest.
Crack, crack, crack.
More gunshots from outside.
Hurry along, Shane.
The ticks are tocking.
Ah! As if I conjured him, which maybe I did, I’m not quite sure about my faun-powers yet, Shane steps out through the waterproof door that leads to the engines. He wipes his hands in a way that makes me think he might have just crushed a skull or two.
Nice!
His dark eyes lock onto the curly hair of the girl cradled against my chest. “She breathing?”
“Yep, just needed a nap.”
The girl’s eyes flutter open for a second, glassy and entirely vacant from the heavy sedatives. “It’s OK, little pea, we’re getting you out of here.”
Four peas in my pod, but none of them a Sky-pea.
But seeing as their wee bodies will take up hardly any room on the dinghy, we decided to bring them along. I’d have been very happy to have been liberated by a marvelous faun back in the day.
But no such luck.
Still, one faun’s loss is another pea's gain. I think that’s the saying.
Nan always said there was no gain without pain, and that’s why we had to do the wooden spoon. I was never sure what I was gaining apart from a sore bum, but I’m sure Nan had it figured out.
The boy, Ricky, who is snuggled on my hooves, gives a shiver. “Can we go now please, sir?”
“Yes.” Shane turns on his heel toward the utility hatch. “Dépêche-toi, putain, London.”
I’m pretty sure that means ‘good job’.
He scoops Ricky off the floor. “Even though we’re removing the children, I still think we should disable the engine.”
Ooh, yes. The sabotage part of the plan.
I point a hoof toward a heavy iron maintenance plate set in the floorboards. “Right under there is the sea-valve intake for the lower hull. Sucks in the ocean water to cool the systems. One little hole and these geezers will get a proper sinking feeling.”
“Down here?”
I nod.
Shane drops to one knee, closes his eyes, and that super weird green-sizzle lights up from his hands. The iron plate stays solid on top, but underneath, I can hear a faint bubbling as his toxic goo eats the internal seals alive. Wowzers.
“That should corrode completely through the metal within ten minutes or so. You’re sure this will scupper them?”
“Sure will, Poopeye.”
Mental note, find out when Shane’s birthday is and get him a tin of spinach.
My sailorman-friend takes off with little Ricky, and I follow, Pepper and Sheena shuffling along between us.
They seem the least doped up out of the four kids.
We sneak through the service corridors like thieving alley cats.
Through the bulkheads, the muffled, booming chaos of the outside world vibrates into my bones.
Keep your head down, Kitten.
When we reach the utility port the doors are still unlatched. I shove the hatch open, the damp fog rolling in, smelling of sea-salt and beautiful, freezing freedom. “OK, mateys, time to jump ship.”
It’s a tight, delicate operation, but the kids don't make a sound. Sometimes when you try to avoid nasty things, being silent is the only way.
I want to let my little peas know that we've got nothing nasty ahead, but I don’t know if that's true. Unfortunately, as far as I know, I don’t have psychic-abilities and things could go a bit wonky before we’re home and free.
OK, we’re all aboard.
Shane tucks the kids into the bottom of the dinghy, covering them with the damp sailcloth, as I take the oars and begin to row in the stealthiest manner possible.
Dip. Sluice. Repeat.
Music still blares from the jet boat, and guns continue to bang, but the pea soup gives us cover, thank you very much Fog-Gods.
Until the wind shifts.
A gust of coastal air whistles through the channel, ripping a hole right through the center of the rolling mist.
My horns nearly leap out of my skull.
Burt is at the helm of the jet boat, throwing up a frantic, foaming white wake as it zigzags across the swells. But it’s not the boat that makes me sweat.
It’s the water behind it.
A black fin is slicing Jaws-like through the waves faster than possible.
No, it has to be possible or it wouldn’t be happening.
“Shifter,” Shane growls and I see he’s right. The shark-thing has human arms that are paddling through the surf in a way only spooky supernaturals can.
Wait.
It’s aiming straight for Rory!
“Shane! What do we do?”
He steps over the kids, and the next second, in an explosion of green whizzing magic, a massive, twisting column of iridescent, emerald-green scales emerge from his skin.
A colossal splash soaks us as old Shivery leaps into the water, then reappears looking like Nessie. His hundred-foot serpent cuts through the ocean as he charges directly into the path of the shark monster.
I’ve known Shane a long time now. I’ve seen him through all his ups and downs, and one thing’s for sure, if Shivery is on the case, the Jaws-monster is toast.
I’d better get back to my part of the operation.
“Anyone know ‘row, row, row your boat’?” I ask, as I start heaving on the oars again. “I’ll teach you the words if you don’t.”
Our little choir needs some work, as it’s mostly just me singing—in fact it is just me singing—but that’s OK.
These little peas will probably find their voices when they’ve had a little mother-henning from Kitty-cat.