Page 73 of Break Out the Girl

Tally leans on the vehicle, his amber wolf-eyes narrowed. “Because the little fucker didn’t listen to a word I said,” he growls.

Basil shrugs. “I asked Pepper’s dad.” His chin lifts like he’s challenging us to criticize. “The mom was boo-hooing her head off, and the dad was, like, almost stroking out, so I pulled him to one side. Told him I needed info, money and a phone. He shoved his wallet at me, but his phone was a basic piece of shit with no internet, so I told him to keep it and just took his cash…”

“But the address?”

“The second I told him we were trying to rescue more kids from a local house with a moat, he gave me the location of Ménage Manor. He’s going to get the kids to safe homes and promised not to tell anyone how they got rescued. Started freaking out about me being a kid, but I told him I was just a messenger for a whole crew of mercenaries, and that shut him up.”

I blink, a little stunned, but London claps him on the back. “You’re a proper legend, Fuckwad.”

Tally rolls his eyes, then tosses the keys in the air. “Ménage Manor is about an hour drive from here, so let’s get moving.”

The LandRover rumbles back to life, and I slide in the back next to London. Resting my head on his hot chest, I try to keep positive.

Sky, hopefully, is only an hour away.

And François?

He’s so fucking clever and capable. I convince myself that he’s probably already sitting in a chauffeur-driven luxury limo somewhere, tracking our trail across the country in perfect, pristine comfort.

25: FRANCOIS

Putain de vie.

I lie coiled in a weed-choked ditch behind a timber yard. For the last two hours, I’ve been trapped in the miniature, three-foot coil of my basilisk form—digesting.

Surely this has been long enough?

I guess I will soon find out. The transformation back to a man is strangely agonizing, the grind of expanding bones and stretching tissue several degrees more severe than is usual. Pressing my human palms flat against the muddy gravel, a wave of black, acidic bile fills my mouth.

But the true horror of the shift doesn't hit me until I am completely upright.

Rattus rattus.

Knowing the proper scientific name does absolutely nothing to lessen the disgust and the memory of unhinging my jaw to swallow the thing. The slow, chemical burn of my own gastric juices working through fur, bone, and dirt registers with absolute, vivid clarity, making me want to claw my own abdomen open.

Beyond that, I am covered in grit and blood, my skin itchy with sticky dried salt spray.

Forcing myself to breathe through the disgust, I pull back the hem of the destroyed blue sweatshirt.

The deep, jagged punctures where the monstre requin had clamped his jaws are no longer weeping. The flesh has closed, replaced by tight, puckered tracks of smooth, silvery scar tissue.

Interesting.

And my magic is slowly returning to a steady, rhythmic simmer in my veins.

And with the magic comes the thread.

My awareness sinks beneath the ambient noise of the mainland. The golden vibration under my sternum is no longer a microscopic spark; it is a live, humming wire. Aurora is moving. I can taste the distinct flavor of her safety, drifting miles ahead in a sharp, northern trajectory.

She is heading deeper into the interior.

Hmm. Looking down at my ensemble, it’s clear a comprehensive change of wardrobe is required before I go any further. I don’t have the power, currently, to spare for transmogrification.

So I walk on.

Ten minutes later, I am standing on the shoulder of the regional transit highway.

A luxury sedan purrs down the asphalt towards me, its polished chrome grille looking like a satisfied smile.