Page 19 of Chaos

“Not enough.” Rey slices her hand through her hair, her motions jerky, rangy. “I’m not sending my crew out with empty guns. I won’t do it. They’re fucking dying.”

“Language,” Church barks. “We are still an army Rey, and you will respect senior officers.”

Her nostrils flare.

“You won’t have to send them out. Not if we get Frankie back. We can pull everyone off the grid and get them restuffing shells,” I say, avoiding looking at all of them. “And beyond that, if you look further out, Duffy will go about his news-spreading way with two facts about Thornewood—we keep our word, and we care about our people.”

Colleen says sharply, “They’ll also know we burn down the towns of our enemies and beat people to half to death.”

I keep my head down, my eyes on the map. Frankie’s out there. She’s coming home.

“Only the ones who fuck with us.”

5|It just found home

FRANKIE

Present day

THE LIGHT COMES.

It slips through the floorboard, thin and bright and finding dust motes, and reminding me of Jee and the pigeons and Saint Theresa, and that creepy, smiling, murderous angel standing over her.

I’ve gone over my plan a hundred times since Renata’s visit.

Escaping this cellar is only the beginning.

I’ll still need to get warm clothes, food, water, and get back to Thornewood without a map or a compass.

But those are problems for later.

For now, it’s just me and whoever is coming.

One problem at a time.

I move into position in a half-crouch beneath the stairs, my hands ready to grab an ankle and yank, my feet light, knees bent.

Everything happens like I knew it would.

The walls creak, and distant voices echo as my captors wake across the old farmhouse.

I ignore the dull throb echoing from my scraped elbow. Ephie’s ointment fixed my knees, but the infection in my elbow has worsened, which is another problem I’ll have to deal with.

Later.

There’s a scrape at the door above me, a click of the lock, a creak of the hinge.

The first footstep hits the topmost riser with a hollowthump.

Then a second.

But the boots are wrong when they slide into view.

It’s not Ben.

“I brought you soap,” Scraggle hisses.

My lungs spasm with the force of trying to keep my breathing quiet.

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