Page 55 of Kings of Sherwood

“I mean, dunno how much good it’ll do,” he says. “But y’all are on the right side of things. On the side of the right people.”

“Really?”

“Sure,” Zayn says. “Besides, Lord knows I’ve got the time on my hands.”

He’s just agreeing to come back with us to the house when Will returns, looking irritated.

“Damn ATM’s outta cash,” he gripes.

Zayn laughs, a little incredulous. “What, you need me to spot you or something?”

“No, no,” Will says, face morphing to a smile. “You misunderstand. I’m thereasonit’s out of cash.” He flashes a wad of twenties, discreetly. “Got like sixty texts from our overseas bank to confirm the transactions, but we’re good.” He nods at Zayn. “You gonna say goodbye to your cousin?”

“Huh? Oh, sure.” Zayn cranes his neck around the diner and spots her off in the corner, wiping off a counter. As he strides off, Will folds a bunch of twenties—one, two, three, four, five—and slides them under his coffee cup. Then, with a quick glance around the dining room—where the other patrons are two in total, one of whom looks old enough to have learned the ABCs in hieroglyphics—he sidles up to the cash register and hits it hard with his fist.

“Will,” I hiss, as the cash drawer springs open. “What are you doing?”

“Relax, greasemonkey.” He leans over and fills each of the register compartments with bills, slams it shut, and slides his hand into his jacket pocket, smooth as ice.

“Ready to bounce?”

I want to groan, but don’t want to risk the attention. Zayn’s back from his goodbye, having noticed nothing, apparently.

“So y’all driving, or what?”

Will jingles his keys. “Naturally.”

I wince, thinking of the sad beige Chrysler.

“Just don’t judge us on our ride, okay?”

Chapter Fourteen

LJ

The fox moves first, quick and low through the brush. Then me.

It’s funny. When I fight, I’d rather be in a standing stance more often than not—bipedal. Hate putting my hands on the ground to steady myself even when I have to. Feels wrong, I guess.

But shifted? Easy. Normal. Like my brain shifts to match my body—I move different, I think different.

Up on the bluff, you’d have to look to even see us, let alone really notice us. We’ve been nosing around this construction site, subdivision of new houses going up around some man-made lake. It’s ugly. Glass and steel in what used to be a valley. But looks don’t matter so much as the copper wiring, rolls of insulation, custom fucking tiles that are rolling in by the freighter. Flippable. Copious.

Rob stops near the edge of the fence line, his fur bristling once before he shifts back.

“Debrief,” he says.

I nod. That’s the downside: animals can’t talk. So I shift back too, the feeling like stretching out and snapping back all at once, and try to find a comfortable seat, and now we’re just two guys sitting around buck-ass naked discussing grand larceny. You know, normal shit.

“That pallet?” He nods, indicating. “Smart tech. Thermostats, doorbells, that kind of shit.”

I nod. “But no cameras up? I didn’t see any.”

“There’s one at the work entrance off the feeder road.” He points through the dusk. “But it looks low-res. Not night-vision, I don’t think.”

“Weekend shifts?”

He scratches his chin. “I doubt it. They’ll be thin if there is anyone. Easy enough to get by.”

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