Page 26 of The Monster You Made
My lungs burn with soot. Each inhalation scratches like broken glass, but I keep moving. The satchel digs into my hip, lighter now, nearly empty, yet heavier than ever. Most of its contents scatter in ashes above us. Still, enough remains. Enough, I tell myself, to matter.
Lucian leads. His shoulders tense, his knife still wet. Even in shadow, he moves with purpose, each stride deliberate. Rourke lags behind, muttering curses at every twist in the passage, his rifle clutched like a crutch. We are alive, though the city above us burns. For the moment, that must be victory.
But my mind replays it—the stage, the ledgers, Declan’s hand crushing mine, the look in his eyes. Cold certainty. He was not afraid, not even as evidence rained around him. He was angry. And anger means resolve. He will not retreat. He will hunt us until the story is his again.
A narrow junction opens before us, the passage splitting in two. Lucian halts, crouching low, his hand brushing the floor. He studies the prints pressed into the damp clay. “Crown patrols,” he mutters. “Two hours old, maybe less.”
Rourke groans. “Wonderful. Rats above, hounds below. Where exactly aren’t they looking?”
“Nowhere,” Lucian replies flatly. He gestures right. “But this way leads deeper. Toward the river.”
I glance left, where the passage narrows into shadow. Marta’s maps flicker in my memory, their edges smudged with her blood. “Left leads to the vehicle yard. If we reach it before the Crown locks it down, we can disappear into the city.”
Lucian’s jaw tightens. He does not like choices, not when both carry death in their teeth. His eyes flick to me. “Decide. Fast.”
My heart pounds. River means escape, but pursuit. Yard means exposure, but chance. Both roads lead to fire. Still, hesitation is more dangerous than either. I square my shoulders. “The yard.”
Lucian nods once, sharp. No argument. That frightens me more than resistance would have.
We turn left. The tunnel lowers, ceiling pressing close. Drips fall against my neck, cold as knives. Every sound is magnified, the rasp of Lucian’s breath, Rourke’s muttered curses, my own heart battering my ribs. I clutch the satchel tighter, willing its remnants to hold weight enough to topple Declan’s throne.
At last, faint light seeps through a grate ahead. Horses whicker beyond, their hooves striking stone. The vehicle yard. Relief flares, fragile as glass.
Then, a voice, muffled but clear. Crown orders. Boots scrape. The yard is not empty.
Lucian raises a hand, signaling silence. He kneels by the grate, peering through. His face hardens. “Six men. Two vehicles. They’re loading supplies. Not diplomats, soldiers.”
Rourke hisses, “So much for slipping out quiet.”
I press forward, my hand brushing Lucian’s arm. “If we wait, more will come. We need to move now.”
His eyes catch mine, steel meeting flame. For a heartbeat, the chaos above melts away. He nods. “Then we move.”
Lucian studies the yard through the grate, his body still as stone. The six soldiers move with casual precision, unaware of the shadows watching them. One smokes near the vehicles, the glow of his cigarette bright in the dim. Another adjusts the straps of a supply crate. Their rifles lean within easy reach.
Rourke shifts behind me, his nerves rattling like loose cash. “Six against three. Not exactly pretty odds.”
Lucian doesn’t look back. “Odds are what we make them.” His voice is steady, a blade drawn but not yet swung. He tests the grate with careful fingers, then turns to me. “When we strike, it has to be clean. Fast. No survivors to sound alarm.”
The words tighten my chest. I’ve killed before, but each time leaves a mark I can’t wash away. Still, hesitation now would doom us all. I nod, forcing the bile down.
Lucian eases the grate free, silent as breath. Cold air rushes in, tinged with horse and smoke. He gestures, me first,then Rourke, then him. I slip out into shadow, crouching behind a stack of crates. Rourke follows, heavy-footed but quick. Lucian emerges last, closing the grate without sound. We are ghosts in the yard.
The soldiers laugh at some crude joke, their attention fixed inward. Declan’s world burns above, and they have no idea the fire has already reached their boots.
Lucian signals. Three fingers. He points: smoker for me, supply man for Rourke, the farthest two for himself. My pulse quickens, every nerve set alight. The satchel shifts against my hip, a reminder that truth is as deadly as steel.
I rise when Lucian’s hand drops.
The smoker turns too late. My blade slips beneath his ribs, muffled by his own gasp. His cigarette falls, glowing ember snuffed beneath my boot. I lower him gently, but my hands still shake.
A crack echoes to my left, Rourke’s rifle butt smashing across a skull. The soldier drops with a grunt, teeth scattering across stone. Not quiet, but not loud enough to raise alarm. Lucian is already moving, two guards felled in swift arcs of his knife, throats spilling red in silence.
But the last soldier, half-hidden near the tires, wheels at the commotion. His rifle jerks upward. Time slows. My body reacts before my mind, and I fling the satchel forward. It strikes his chest, knocking the rifle wide. The shot cracks skyward, ringing against stone but missing flesh. Lucian is on him in a breath, steel flashing, the man crumpling with a strangled cry.
Silence crashes down. The horses shift nervously but do not bolt. Rourke wipes blood from his knuckles, eyes darting toward me. “Your satchel nearly got us all killed.”
I retrieve it, shaking, clutching the strap tight. “It saved you.”
