21 LONDON
I blink my eyes open and it takes a moment to remember where I am.
Vista View!
My ears twitch, and then I remember I’m a faun.
So many new things to catalogue in the old brain-hole.
When I stretch my arms until the joints in my shoulders give one of the best pops ever. Yes!
Shifting out from under Pepper and Sheena, I step onto the floorboards—one creaks loudly. Ricky scrunches his face a little but keeps sleeping.
That’s the ticket, little man.
Someone else murmurs and stirs. Aha! Kitten curled up in a leather armchair.
Ooh, she smells excellent and the vibrations of the air around her practically quiver with a sexy wibble. I inhale deeply, letting the flavor of it settle in my chest.
Well, well, well.
The wolf got his paws on the prize, and by the vibes, Aurora’s sweet body liked it. Good.
My girl needs a heavyweight anchor. I know that’s not my role, but Burt is definitely burly enough to step up. Speaking of the wolf, there’s no sign of him.
Knowing Burt—and I do know him, we’re besties after all—he’s out and about doing secret soldier things and keeping us all safe. Looking out the window I see the wind is blowing a hooly, as Nan used to say.
I’ll make Burt a hot treat for all his hard work. In fact everyone is going to need brekkie.
“Tally-ho to the kitchen,” I whisper.
Basil Fuckwad’s eyes snap open instantly.
The kid doesn't even blink; he just sits straight up on the rug, harpoon clutched in his hands.
“Easy there, Desperate Dan,” I tell him, giving a reassuring wave. “All quiet on the western front.”
He frowns then nods. My words might have been a tad too loud, because the rest of the little peas start wiggling.
I point a finger at my harpoon-wielding friend. “You seem like just the man to take our little niblets to the loo. I’ll make breakfast while you do.”
Ooh, nice rhyme.
“The loo?” he asks, in a grumbly way as he pokes at his bandaged ankle.
Maybe he’s still half-asleep, so I elaborate for him. “The bog! WC?”
Blimey, he still looks blank. “The khazi?”
Maybe he hurt his head as well as his ankle.
He throws off his blanket and hobbles to standing. “Are you saying take the kids for a slash? Why didn’t you just say that?”
He prods Ricky, telling him to go pee, then taps Sheena’s shoulder and repeats the instruction.
“A nice lick and a promise wouldn't go amiss either,” I call after them.
When I take a sniff of my own pits, I realize I should follow my own advice, but first things first.
Breakfast.
Time for a classic London world-famous culinary extravaganza. I skip into the kitchen, tapping out a cheerful rhythm against the slate tile then skid to a halt.
Truth is, I’m not always sure what I’m doing, but I’ve always found that supreme confidence is an excellent substitute for actual skill.
I begin hauling out treasure after treasure from the pantry. There’s a bag of white flour, a bottle of vegetable oil, baking powder, a canister of sugar, and a bag of rock-hard powdered milk.
Yum.
I dump it all into a stainless-steel bowl, and start mixing.
Hey-oh.
The frisky flour doesn’t want to stay in the bowl and keeps levitating out. We’ll see about that. I add some tap water to settle it down, then stir until a thick, lumpy goo forms. Almost perfect, just needs one more thing.
Back in the pantry my eyes fall on a tin of artichoke hearts.
Is this what the mix is calling for?
Or is it the bag of chocolate baking chips hiding right at the back?
I toss the chocolate and the tin of veg around, trying to weigh up which to use, and fall back on the eeny, meeny, miny method.
Chocolate chips win.
By the time Basil marches the children into the kitchen, now all dressed in the clothes Kitten put out last night, the first massive pancake is sizzling away.
“Take a seat, my friends!”
While they scramble onto the high stools, I take the pan, which is cast iron and not the easiest to use, and flip the pancake. It tumbles over and over in the air, then lands plop back in the pan.
Their stunned little faces are so amazed!
Even Sicky-Ricky.
I need to find a bucket and put it next to his seat in case of more puking.
On the end stool, Lil’ Hare is finally awake and bright-eyed and bushy tailed. I get the vibe she’s a proper trooper. Basil slides onto the stool next to her, carefully balancing his fishing-gun against the table leg.
Not the best idea if he’s planning to repel invaders, but I’m not sure I should interfere—after all everyone learns the hard way.
“Tippety, tippety tin, give me a pancake and I will come in,” I grin at Lil’ Hare, who blinks back at me, then at the sizzling pan.
Basil rolls his eyes. I think that’s what the kids do these days instead of finger-snapping at poetry.
Food time. I pile the plates high and the kids attack the grub like a shark feeding frenzy.
Aww. Shark.
My heart sinks down to my toes. If Shivery doesn’t make it back, I will have to cut off a horn, to always remember him by. I make a mental note to seek out a hacksaw, just in case.
Now, food for Kitten and my favorite Burly-man.
Timing!
Rory drifts into the kitchen, looking beautifully disheveled. Her eyes are half-lidded as she sniffs the air.
“Is that... chocolate?” she mumbles, rubbing her eyes.
“Only the best for my peas,” I tell her, planting a kiss right on the crown of her head. “And for my next act…”
I quickly stir two mugs of the only coffee worth drinking—instant.
“You're a lifesaver, London,” Kitten smiles.
“Can I have one?” Basil Fuckwad grumps.
“Absolutely.” I fill another mug. “Here you go, put hairs on your chest.”
Kitten’s eyes go all soft and gooey as she watches the kids stuffing their faces. I put a plate in front of her. “Eat up. I’ll go take stuff to Wolfie before he decides to chew on the furniture.”
I grab Burt's plate and coffee mug, then head out the French doors.
Hmm, would he prefer it in a bowl? Or maybe I should search around for some kibble?
Standing at the edge of the deck is our burly wolf. His coat is beaded with little diamonds of morning moisture.
“Breakfast, big boy,” I call out, setting the plate down on a wicker table.
The air shimmers, and bones click-crack until he shifts back. Burt looks at me for a second then lunges for the pancakes, wolfing (ha, see what I did there) two of them in a single, monstrous bite.
“Fucking starving,” he grunts, grabbing the coffee mug. “The roads are quiet. No sign of any search parties.”
“Or big snakes?”
“Sadly not.”
I stretch out my senses but don’t pick up any slithery vibes either.
Drat.
We both become a little gloomy, so I do my best to cheer us both up. “I once sat up all night to see where the sun went—then it dawned on me.”
Burt looks blank.
Poor woofy.
I guess he doesn’t have a sophisticated sense of humor like me.
Hmmm. I do know one thing that is guaranteed to put a smile on his face.
I punch him in the arm. “Kitten’s vibrations were very fizzy this morning, she smells like happy honey—and you.”
Burt looks a bit bashful, which is silly. He looks out towards the churning ocean. “Can we perhaps not talk about happy honey?”
“Sure thing, buddy.”
He munches down a third pancake then sighs. “We need to get a clue as to where the traffickers might have taken Sky. Any ideas, London?”
Even though I hate going down that rabbit hole, I put my whole brain into thinking about the past. I can do it for Kitten.
But I can’t come up with a single idea. I bang my head against the wooden siding, trying to knock some sense into my noggin.
“Anything at all,” Burt says. “I know this isn’t easy for you, but I’ve no fucking clue how to find Sky’s trail.”
“I’ve a thought.”
Burt and I both wheel around to see Mr. B. Fuckwad himself standing in the doorway. “Other places kids were taken to, right?”
Moving towards the boy, Burt nods. “Yeah, can you help?”
He shrugs. “The older girls talked about going to a house for some kinda fucked up sport. Not the little kids, just the teens. I don’t have anything fucking concrete, but I remember one girl said the house had a moat around it.
” He spits onto the porch floor. “Only half the girls who were sent there made it back to the island.”
I can’t stop the shudders but Burt’s eyes narrow. “So this house with a moat was on the mainland?”
“Duh. And I don’t think it was that far away. The girls were only gone twenty-four hours.”
Burt’s fists clench at his sides. “Thanks, kid. A moat is pretty fucking unusual. Let’s see if this place has local maps.”
I push down my belly-worms, then follow him and Basil inside.
A house with a moat.
Built to keep out invaders.
But we’re the Kitten-gang—and I’m getting more and more convinced that Nan was right.
I’m like a cigarette-butt; dangerous, dirty and probably going to set the whole bloody house on fire.