15. Elena
Lance’s hand clamps around my upper arm, fingers digging in as he steers me away from the mouth of the tunnel.
“We need to get you secured.”
“I can’t leave her…” My feet drag, fighting his pull.
“I already sent Braydon.” His grip tightens instead of loosening. “You can’t stay here. It isn’t safe.”
“She’s family.” The word rips out of me.
Lance steps fully into my space, blocking my view of the tunnel, of everything that matters. “Let us do our job, Your Majesty. We will bring her home.”
His mouth keeps moving, but all I can see is Hannah’s face, mud-smudged, defiant, grinning at me through a split lip after our first scuffle with some of the bigger kids at the orphanage.
They hadn’t taken too kindly to newbies invading their territory.
Times were simpler then, two kids with nothing but borrowed blankets and stubborn promises.
I’ve got you. Always. My promise to her.
I can’t keep that promise from the inside of an armored vehicle.
“Pull the car around,” Lance snaps into his comm.
He stays planted in front of me until the tires squeal nearby. The car skids to a stop, Blake behind the wheel, eyes already scanning.
If I get in, this ends. Wendell disappears underground, and Hannah disappears with him.
Lance opens the door and presses a hand to my back, ushering me forward. I duck inside and freeze.
None of my security team is in the vehicle.
They’re scattered, holding back the crowd, shouting into comms, searching faces.
An idea sparks—reckless and bright. An idea that breaks a promise I made to Alexei.
I slide across the seat toward the opposite door, heart thudding hard enough to make my vision pulse.
Lance lifts his leg to climb in.
“Lance!” I point past him. “There—Wendell!”
His boot slams back onto the pavement. His weapon comes up in one smooth motion.
“Stay here.” He shuts the door hard, sealing me in. Trapped.
“Forgive me,” I whisper.
My fingers tightens around the handle.
Blake catches my eye in the rearview mirror. A warning. A plea. Don’t make me stop you.
I give him a tiny shake of my head.
“Elena, don’t?—”
I yank the door open.
“Elena!”
I’m already moving, feet hitting pavement, the roar of the crowd swallowing Blake’s shout. I have seconds, no more than that.
I rip off my hat as I run, tug my glasses free, and fumble with the buttons of my coat until it slips from my shoulders, clutched against my side. My elbows pump with each stride as my breath burns with each exhale.
I don’t look back.
I know they’re close. Lance and Blake don’t hesitate the way civilians do. The people scatter before them, parting like water. They’re gaining.
The street ahead opens up, familiar. I recognize it in flashes, the same storefronts I browsed earlier, windows I lingered in.
A clothing store. Two doors down.
My gaze catches on two girls standing to the right, laughing, phones raised as they snap photos and take videos of downtown.
Another spark of an idea.
I surge toward them, forcing a smile despite the burn in my lungs.
“Please,” I gasp, gripping one girl’s elbow. “I need your help.”
The sound around us fades, both girls staring at me quietly, before recognition hits. One of them goes pale, eyes widening. The world narrows to a ringing silence, sound rushing from my ears as though someone has slammed a door inside my head.
“Please,” I say. “Hurry.”
They don’t hesitate. They fall into step instantly.
I steer us into the shop and slam the door shut behind us.
“I’m sorry, we’re closed—” The woman behind the counter trails off, staring.
So much for anonymity.
“Oh my stars,” she squeals. “Queen Elena Novak of Zurdonia… I can’t believe—” She rushes forward, then stops short, excitement draining as she looks past me. Toward the door. Toward the voices outside.
Lance’s voice cuts through the glass, sharp and commanding. “Split up!”
I instinctively angle my body away from the entrance. Six pairs of eyes lock onto me.
I lift my hat, glasses, and jacket. “Please. A trade.”
The shop owner blinks. “You…want to trade?”
“I know it isn’t much?—”
She practically shrieks. “Are you joking? Do you know what I could sell clothes worn by a queen for?”
Heat floods my face.
“Wait! She meant us,” one of the girls interjects, stepping forward eagerly.
“This is my shop!” the woman snaps.
“Please,” I interject quickly. “One of you wears the jacket and glasses. The other wears the scarf and a hat. Walk out calmly. You can keep them.”
They stare at me like I’ve grown a second head.
Then they grab the items and put them on quickly, checking their reflections in the mirror to make sure the most important facial features are covered. Moments later, the door opens again.
I duck behind a mannequin just as Lance strides past the window, his gaze slicing into every shop he passes. The owner crosses her arms, watching me watch him.
“I’m willing to make another trade,” I say softly, noticing the way her mouth flatten, her lips pressed into a thin line as her gaze hardens, steady and unblinking.
I look down at my blouse and pants, worrying my bottom lip.
It’s my favorite blouse, one I don’t want to part with, but Hannah needs me.
“My blouse and pants for something less… noticeable.”
Her arms relax. Her eyes sweep over me, calculating. “What are you looking for?”
“Simple. Jeans. A shirt. A small jacket.”
She smirks. “The opposite of a queen.”
I nod. “I don’t have time.”
She gestures down a hallway. “Back there. I’ll bring something.”
I peek through the window, clear from my men before I hurry to the fitting room, shoving aside the curtain and peeling off my clothes.
New fabric appears over the door moments later. Everything I’d asked for—and somehow exactly to my taste. My things vanish seconds later.
The clothes fit as though they’d been waiting for me.
“Um, you still there?” I ask.
“Yes,” the woman calls.
I step out. She studies me, satisfied.
“Thank you,” I say. “I won’t forget this.”
She smiles gently. “Everyone deserves to disappear once in a while.”
“May I use your back door?”
She hesitates, then nods. “It opens into an alley.”
Perfect.
I pause, hand on the knob. “Is there another way to reach the tunnels from here?”
Her brow furrows. “The tunnels? Why would?—”
The ground shudders beneath us. The wall vibrates under my feet. My hands shoot up to the wall to steady my balance.
“What was that?” I ask.
Fear flickers across her face. “I—I don’t know.”
My pulse spikes. Wendell. It has to be Wendell.
“The tunnels,” I repeat.
She hesitates, then laughs weakly. “Unless you plan to go down a drain, I only know of the gates where they do tours.”
I don’t laugh.
Her eyes go wide. “You’re serious.”
“Where is the nearest drain?”
“There’s… there’s one outside the shop. In the alley.”
“Thank you…”
“Kay,” she says softly.
“Kay.” I meet her eyes once more.
Then I pull the door open and run.
“Hold on, Hannah,” I whisper as I disappear into the alley. “I’m coming.”
I skid to a stop, taking in both directions down the alley.
A murmur of voices carries from a tunnel entrance to my left.
I glance to my right. There’s a storm drain a short distance from a grooved dumpster that reeks of rotting fruit and old oil.
My pulse thunders in my ears as I shove the lid of the dumpster aside and dig through the debris with bare hands.
If my royal court, the Zurdonian people, or Wendell could see me now, a queen rummaging through garbage.
My fingernails scrape against the cold metal. Soggy cardboard. Something sharp that nicks my finger. I try not to think about what I’m touching, fighting back the overwhelming urge to vomit as I dig further.
I grab a rusted length of pipe instead, heavy and slick with grime. It will have to do.
I turn to the bolted drain cover, age and repeated repairs having loosened its grip over the years. I wedge the end of the pipe that is bent into the seam and lean my weight into it. My arms tremble. My flats slide across the damp concrete.
“Come on,” I breathe.
The metal shrieks with each scrape; long, aching, and then finally the grooves catch, and it gives.
The cover shifts enough for me to jam the pipe beneath it and lever it open. A rush of cold air rises from below, cold and rank, carrying the scent of stagnant water and stone untouched by daylight for decades.
I grunt, the weight of the lid too heavy for me to lift on my own. As soon as half of the lid pulls away, I use the pipe to angle beneath until I can lift the lid on its side, drop the pipe, and prop it against the wall, praying it stays.
The voices at the end of the tunnel grow louder. I see a royal guard run past, black suit, crisp white shirt, and don’t hesitate.
The ladder rungs are slick the moment my foot lands on the first one.
My hand grips a rung coated in years of mud that smears across my palms. I descend slowly, every movement purposeful.
If I fall now, it will be a slow, painful death.
After what feels like hours—though it’s only minutes, my flats touch brick.
The tunnel opens beneath me.
The cold still bites at my skin, but something warm settles beneath it, steady and unshakable. The sensation is unfamiliar, unnerving even, but it anchors me like my visions do all the same. My feet don’t hesitate. They align.
Hannah was here. She may still be.
The thought tightens into something solid inside my chest, and I move forward without doubt.
Red brick walls stretch in both directions, their color deep and warm despite the gloom, rich browns darkened by moisture and time.
The bricks glisten where water seeps through mortar lines.
In the center runs a channel of murky green water, sluggish and alive with soft gurgles and hollow plops as the drainage system exhales.
New pipes snake along the ceiling, sleek, gray, industrial, bolted beside the older, sealed-off passages. The past and present stitched together in stone and steel. This has to be it. This has to be where Wendell took Hannah.