Page 27 of The Monster You Made
Lucian says nothing, but his gaze lingers on me, unreadable. Approval? Warning? Both.
We drag the bodies behind the crates and cover them with tarps. The smell of iron lingers thick, but the yard lies still. Two vehicles remain, both half-loaded. Lucian examines them swiftly. “One to the south gate, one toward the river. The south will be tighter, watched. The river, fewer eyes, but slower.”
“River,” I say immediately. “Fewer eyes.”
Rourke groans. “Slower means caught. We don’t have time for slower.”
Lucian straightens, his shadow tall against the vehicle. “Speed kills if it drives us straight into their teeth. The river gives us cover.” His decision is final. Even Rourke doesn’t argue further.
We climb into the nearer vehicle, stacking crates around us to mask our presence. Lucian takes the driver’s seat, shoulders squared, blood already drying on his sleeves. He clicks the reins, voice low. The horses obey, hooves striking the cobbles in measured rhythm.
The gate creaks open ahead. Two Crown sentries stand guard, their eyes sharp, rifles at their shoulders. My heart slamsagainst my ribs. One wrong move, and the yard becomes a trap of fire and bullets.
Lucian doesn’t flinch. He reins the horses steady, posture casual, as though he belongs in the uniform he stole. The sentries glance, but their eyes pass over him. One mutters about the fire still raging in the city. The other spits, bored. They wave him through.
The gate opens wide, and we roll into the night.
I collapse back among the crates, lungs trembling with relief. Above us, Old Vienna still smolders, its glow staining the sky. Behind us, Declan still speaks, his lies echoing even over the fire. Ahead of us, the river waits, black, cold, uncertain.
But for the first time since the opera house, I believe we may live to see another dawn.
***
The wheels rattle over cobblestones slick with ash. I sit wedged between crates, each lurch of the vehicle jarring my bones. The night air seeps through the slats, cold and sharp, but it does nothing to wash away the smoke clinging to my throat. Old Vienna breathes fire behind us. Ahead, the river winds black and silent.
Lucian drives with steady hands, his shoulders hunched against the night. Rourke mutters curses under his breath, counting bullets, recounting the ways this will all go wrong. I press the satchel to my chest and try to drown his voice in my heartbeat. The pages left inside may be enough, or they may be ash waiting for wind. I can’t know. I only know we cannot stop.
We pass through narrow lanes where shadows gather thick as ink. The city is restless. Bells toll in warning, soldiers bark orders, and columns of refugees shuffle through streets carrying what little they could save from the fire. Some glance at our vehicle, but none dare stop us. Fear hangs over Old Vienna heavier than the smoke.
At a fork in the road, Lucian reins the horses hard. “Patrol ahead.”
I lean to peer through the cracks. Lantern light flickers on steel, three Crown riders blocking the street, rifles slung casual but ready. Their horses stamp impatiently, hooves sparking against stone. Beyond them, the lane dips toward the river docks.
Rourke mutters, “We’re boxed. Can’t turn this beast in time.”
Lucian’s jaw tightens. “Then we don’t turn.”
Before I can speak, he snaps the reins. The vehicle lunges forward. Crates crash against my side, bruising ribs. The riders shout, rifles swinging. One fires, the shot tearing splinters from the driver’s bench. Lucian doesn’t flinch. He leans low, urging the horses harder.
The Crown riders spur forward. One draws alongside, reaching for the reins. I rise, knife in hand, thrusting through the gap. Steel bites flesh. The man screams, falling beneath hooves. Another rider fires, the bullet ripping through canvas, grazing my arm. Pain blooms hot, but I don’t stop. Rourke returns fire through the slats, his rifle cracking thunder in the night. The second rider drops, his horse veering wild.
The last gives chase, close enough that I see the hate burning in his eyes. Lucian jerks the vehicle hard right, wheels shrieking as we smash into a side lane. The rider follows, but the narrow walls press close. His horse stumbles, crashing against stone. We barrel forward, hooves hammering, until the street widens and the smell of water rises thick.
The river.
Lucian reins the horses to a halt beside a crumbling dock. Water laps black and slow against rotting wood. Barges creak, shadows shifting on their decks. The city’s glow paints the current in streaks of red and gold.
Rourke spits. “We’ll never outrun them on land. Too many eyes. Too many boots.”
Lucian climbs down, scanning the dock. “Then we don’t run on land.” His gaze fixes on a barge tethered loosely, its cargo covered with tarps. “We run with the river.”
The idea chills me. The current is fast, the night unforgiving. But soldiers will swarm these streets within minutes. The choice is no choice at all.
We unload crates quickly, working in silence. Each thud of wood on wood feels like a drumbeat counting down. My wounded arm throbs, blood slick beneath torn cloth, but I do not falter. When the last crate is stacked, Lucian severs the rope with his knife. The barge drifts free, carried into the current.
We board just as shouts echo from the lane behind us. Lantern light flares, bouncing off rifles. Crown soldiers swarm the dock, too late to catch us. Bullets crack, water splashing high,but the current pulls us beyond their reach. Their voices fade, swallowed by the river’s endless rush.
I collapse against the tarps, chest heaving. Rourke slumps beside me, muttering a half-prayer, half-curse. Lucian stands at the prow, a shadow carved against the burning skyline. His knife glints once before he sheaths it.
