Chapter 22 #2
Zara spoke first. “You mean a wolf bite.”
Mirae nodded.
Sera shook her head slowly. “That’s… risky.”
“So is letting him continue operating,” Mirae said. “He’s been insulated from consequences. That’s why he’s comfortable. That’s why his guard is down.”
I rubbed my thumb along the edge of the table. “If we do that, it changes things.”
Mirae met my gaze, her eyes burning with ambition.
“It changes everything.”
Both Zara’s and Sera’s packs left together the next day.
Watching them go was harder than I expected.
Not because I doubted them, but because once they were gone, there was no more staging, and no more waiting for all the pieces to align. What was left was the culmination of everything I’d worked for since London destroyed my home all those years ago.
Mirae didn’t give us long. The night to rest. A morning to prepare. Then she sent her runner—a thin man with copper goggles pushed up into his hair and ink-stained fingers—to tell us it was time to go.
We dressed to disappear.
No insignia. No weapons visible unless they could pass as tools.
Coats patched and mended until they looked like they’d survived years of work instead of weeks of war.
Elias traded his usual jacket for a long oilskin coat that smelled faintly of machine grease.
Griff wrapped his hands in worn leather and slung a sack over his shoulder like a dockworker.
Bishop wore a scarf he could pull up over his nose and carried a satchel that could have held ledgers or knives.
Eamon tucked his medical kit into a battered crate.
Nox dirtied his face until he looked like someone no one would remember five seconds after passing.
“We meet where?” Griff asked.
“Under the old pumping hall,” Mirae said. “Midnight. If you’re late, wait. If you don’t come—” She shrugged. “Well, you just had bad luck.”
That was reassuring.
Mirae watched all of it without comment and after we were fully ready, she led us to a junction where four tunnels became one.
Elias and Griff took the left route with the larger flow of people.
Bishop and Eamon followed a maintenance channel that would put them near the eastern quarter by nightfall.
Nox and I went last, slipping into the stream that fed directly toward the river.
The tunnels thinned as we moved, the air warming with the city’s natural rhythm. Steam hissed through pipes overhead. Gears turned behind walls. Somewhere above us, pistons rose and fell with the patience of a machine that would keep working long after people stopped caring why.
When we surfaced, it wasn’t through a dramatic gate or guarded checkpoint.
It was a side hatch behind a row of boilers.
London rose around us, its skyline jagged with towers that vented steam into the sky like breath. Walkways crisscrossed overhead, linking buildings at odd angles.
People walked everywhere—workers, traders, clerks—boots on stone, carts rolling on iron rims. The noise was constant but not particularly loud.
No one looked at us.
We moved with the flow, crossing bridges over black water channels that carried runoff away from the city’s core. Massive turbines turned slowly beneath grates, powering districts that no longer remembered what fuel was. Everything ran on pressure now, steam, water, and stored heat.
By the time the sun dipped behind the towers, we reached the edge of the river works, a vast complex of pumping halls and pressure chambers that fed half the city. Steam rolled off it in thick clouds, hissing from vents like a living thing.
We slipped inside the last one on the right with a group of maintenance workers changing shifts.
No one questioned us.
Inside, the heat was stifling. The air tasted wet. We crossed catwalks slick with condensation and ducked through service corridors marked only by numbers and chalk scrawls.
At the far end, a door stood ajar.
Elias was already there when we reached it, leaning against the wall as if he belonged there. Griff stood nearby, arms crossed, scanning the hall. Bishop and Eamon arrived a few minutes later, Eamon wiping sweat from his brow, Bishop adjusting his scarf.
“That went too easily,” Griff muttered.
“Don’t jinx us with that kind of talk,” Nox replied.
We gathered in a narrow alcove where the noise of the machinery masked conversation.
I pulled the folded map Mirae had given me from inside my coat and spread it on a crate.
I took a few moments looking it over and memorizing the route to the safehouse Mirae had prepared for us and then put it away.
“Time to go,” I dictated, looking at each one of my men in turn.
Without a word, we slipped down a narrow service corridor behind the main room that opened into a storage space stacked with crates marked for delivery. From there, a second door led to a service alley already alive with the city’s evening shift.
We slipped out one by one.
The alley smelled of damp brick and old grease.
Steam vented from a pipe overhead, hissing softly.
We turned left without hesitation, then right, then cut through a passage so narrow Griff had to angle his shoulders just to fit through it.
On the other side, the city opened up again.
It was crowded and noisy, but the people were indifferent.
We walked with purpose but without hurry. Past a row of stalls selling tools and fittings powered by hand-cranked presses. Through a knot of foot traffic thick with workers changing shifts.
No one looked at us twice.
After several blocks, the buildings changed. The stone gave way to patched brick. Most of the windows were barred or boarded up.
“This is it,” Nox murmured.
The safehouse sat between a pawnshop and a shuttered dye shop. It was three stories high and narrow. The door looked like it hadn’t been opened in years. I pressed the latch in the way Mirae had shown me, and it yielded.
Inside was warm, cramped, and deliberately unremarkable.
A common room with mismatched chairs, a table scarred by use, and a kettle already steaming.
The windows were covered with heavy cloth.
It looked abandoned, but the fireplace had been stacked with fresh wood, and the kitchen counter was covered with supplies.
We set our packs down and took positions by habit. Bishop settled near the front. Nox checked the back door. Elias stood where he could see the stairs and the street through a sliver in the curtain. Eamon dug out his medical kit from one of the crates and Griff started a fire.
“Sit,” Elias finally said, his voice gentle.
I realized I’d been standing in the middle of the room with nothing in my hands, waiting for the next decision to make. I nodded and took the chair nearest the hearth, the heat already easing the chill from my bones.
Griff glanced over his shoulder. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I said.
He smiled like he’d been expecting that answer and turned back to the fire, feeding it another split log until the flames caught and settled into a steady burn. The light softened the room, casting warm shadows across it.
Nox rummaged through a crate on the counter and came up with a can of black beans, a bundle of herbs, and a small tin of salt. “We’ve got options,” he announced. “They’re limited, but options all the same.”
Eamon stepped in beside him. “Let’s keep it simple,” he said. “Make it something warm.”
Bishop rolled up his sleeves and joined them without a word, already filling a pot with water from the pump. He caught my eye briefly, gave a small nod, and turned back to the stove.
I watched them move around each other. They passed tools and ingredients to each other without asking, the rhythm familiar enough that it felt comfortably and implausibly domestic.
“You don’t have to supervise us all the time, fearless leader,” Eamon joked lightly, glancing over his shoulder at me.
I smiled. “I’m not. I’m just enjoying the show.”
Nox snorted. “Careful. She’ll start taking notes.”
“Already did,” I said. “If this Accord thing fails, I’m opening a restaurant and I’ll be head chef.”
“That would explain the knife,” Griff replied, his voice deadpan.
The beans went into the pot along with some herbs I didn’t recognize. Bishop sliced a smoked sausage into neat rounds. Nox chopped onions with more enthusiasm than skill, and Eamon quietly corrected him by nudging the cutting board a fraction to the left.
“Like this,” Eamon said. “You’ll be less likely to cut off a finger this way.”
“You always ruin all my fun,” Nox replied with a grin, but he complied.
Elias hovered near me, one hand resting on the back of my chair.
“You’ve been holding things together all day,” he murmured. “Let us take care of you.”
I didn’t argue. I leaned back slightly, letting his knuckles brush my shoulder, and felt the tension drain a notch.
Everyone relaxed in silence while the pot simmered. After a good hour, Griff set out bowls and bread, tearing the loaf with his hands and arranging the pieces like he’d done it a hundred times. The fire popped and crackled, the room warming until I could finally shrug out of my coat.
Bishop brought the bowls over, placing one in front of me first. “Eat,” he said simply.
I did.
The food was perfect. The beans were soft and savory, the sausage smoky, the broth rich enough to make my eyes close for a second. Across the table, Nox watched my reaction with a grin.
“See?” he said. “Domestic bliss.”
“Don’t get used to it,” I replied. “We’re still in London.”
“Even better,” he quipped. “Adds some extra spice.”
Eamon sat beside me, checking my posture with a glance. “Drink some water,” he reminded, sliding a cup closer.
“Yes, Doctor,” I smirked.
He smiled anyway.
When I finished, Griff reached for my empty bowl without comment and took it to the sink. Nox leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, satisfied. Bishop wiped down the table, and Eamon set the leftovers aside for later.
I realized then how rare it was, how long it had been since I’d sat still while someone else made sure that I was taken care of.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
They all looked at me like it was obvious.
Elias gently squeezed my shoulder. “Anytime.”