Page 19 of Break Out the Girl

When Rex yanks the heavy canvas tarp back, the freezing Ashgrave air hits my face, carrying a sharp mix of marsh salt and stale woodsmoke. Tally sits up immediately. “Where the fuck are we, Rex?”

I raise my head to see a row of faded, dented aluminum trailers sinking into a patch of weedy gravel.

“My place,” Rex mutters, leaning over the side of the cab, his eyes darting down the narrow gravel lane. “The truck’s running on fumes. I’ve got a gas can here. Thought it was better than stopping somewhere we’d be spotted.” He runs a hand through his graying hair, looking worried. “And I guess I can get you some real clothes too.”

“And it’s safe?” I ask, as I push myself up from the hard steel floor. My joints ache from the cold and over-exertion.

“Yeah, just my old lady inside,” Rex sighs, dropping the tailgate. “Her mind’s mostly gone these days—dementia. She won’t know you from the postman. Come on, while no one's about.”

François slides out of the truck first, landing on the gravel with an elegant, silent grace, of course. London jumps down right behind him, and I realize he’s shifted back into his human form. Definitely a good idea. His horns and hooves are nothing if not eye-catching.

Tally helps me out, then hustles me up a set of rickety wooden steps and into the trailer.

The interior smells like stale food, mold, and cheap lavender soap. Sitting in a worn, floral-print armchair by the window is a tiny, bird-like woman with a cloud of thin white hair. She doesn't even look up when four escaped convicts enter her kitchen. Her eyes are fixed on a small, boxy television screen in the corner, her fingers rhythmically pulling at a shapeless blue blanket.

“Hey, Ma,” Rex says gently, tossing his keys on the laminate counter. “Got some friends over. Just gonna grab some things from the back.”

The old woman doesn’t react, seemingly entirely unbothered by the two giant, brooding men leaning against her refrigerator or London sniffing a bowl of artificial fruit on her dining table.

“Look, guys,” I whisper, my eyes drawn to the television.

The screen is showing the garish graphics of Havengard Network Broadcast News. Rex reaches over and twists the plastic dial, turning up the static-heavy volume.

“…the hunt intensifies for the four fugitives who fled the Quo Reformare facility during last night’s catastrophic security breach,” the anchor’s polished voice rings through the small trailer.

The screen cuts away to a live feed. Taliesin sucks in a breath as a small, weather-beaten farmhouse is shown. Reporters are circling the lopsided stoop.

“I join you outside the residence of the Bevan family,” the reporter says, dodging a stray chicken. “Local authorities claim that Taliesin Bevan, a known gang lieutenant from the Ashgrave district, spearheaded the violent riot that left three guards hospitalized. Neighborhood sweeps are currently underway…”

I look at Tally; his knuckles turn white as he grips the edge of the counter. “Fuck,” he growls.

“That’s your parents place?”

“Yeah.”

“Along with Bevan is another Ashgrave gang member, Imran Haddad, and the mentally unstable convict known as London Finch. But the focus of the hunt remains heavily fixed on the high-profile Elite escapee,” the anchor continues, and suddenly, my own face flashes on the screen.

It’s an old portrait from the Drakeward manor. My hair is long, smooth, and perfect. I’m wearing a sapphire silk dress that matches my eyes, looking every bit the pristine, obedient daughter my father always wanted.

“Aurora Drakeward, daughter of the prominent and recently deceased Conclave leader, Tyrus Drakeward, is thought to be an unwilling captive of Bevan and his crew. Thomas Crankshawe, Drakeward’s betrothed, has offered a $100,000 reward for information that leads to the rescue of his fiancée.”

“You’ve got a fiancee, Kitten?” London whispers, leaning his chin right over my shoulder. “That don’t seem right. You’re not meant for anyone else but us lot.”

“I’ll explain later, London, but let me listen to this.”

My eyes scan the list of names scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

WANTED: TALIESIN BEVAN. AURORA DRAKEWARD. LONDON FINCH. IMRAN HADDAD..

Four names.

I frown, squinting at the text as it loops back around. Four.

I turn my head slowly, looking past London to where François is leaning against the narrow hallway door frame. His arms are crossed over his chest, his face completely devoid of expression.

“You didn’t hit the headlines, François.”

“Thomas,” he replies, the name dropping like a boulder. “He doesn’t want it known that his son and heir is a fugitive.” His lips curl into a bitter sneer. “I’m sure the knowledge of my incarceration in Quo Reformare has been scraped from the internet.” He presses a hand flat against his chest, wincing slightly as his gaze darts restlessly between the three of us.