Crance’s voice is a deep, sorrowful croak. “For you, lightning girl. It’s not just the officers and the armies looking for you. It’s us too. Every smuggling ring, every thief company from here to Delphie. You’re being hunted, Miss Barrow, in the sun and in the shadows, by Silvers and by your own. I’m sorry, but that’s the way of it.”
His apology isn’t for me, but Farley and my brother. His friends, now betrayed. My friends, in grave danger because of me.
“What kind of trap did you set?” Shade growls, doing his best to look menacing despite the crutch under one arm. “What are we walking into?”
“Nothing you’ll like, Rabbit.”
In the strange light of Cal’s fire, my sparks, and Crance’s flashlight, I almost miss the flicker of his eyes. They dart to the left, landing on the support beam right next to me. The ceiling above it is cracked and splitting, with bits of dirt poking through the shards of concrete.
“You son of a bitch,” Shade growls, his voice too loud, his manner exaggerated. He looks liable to throw a punch at any moment—the perfect distraction. Here we go.
The three Mariners raise their guns, aiming for my brother. For the fastest thing in existence. When he raises a fist, they pull their triggers—and their bullets cut through nothing but open air. I drop into a crouch, deafened by gunshots so close to my head, but keep all my focus where it must be—the support beam. A blast of lightning splinters the wood like a detonation, charring straight through. It shatters, collapsing, as I throw a second bolt at the cracked ceiling. Cal vaults sideways, toward Crance and Farley, dodging falling slabs of concrete. If I had time, I’d be afraid of getting buried with the Mariners, but Shade’s familiar hand closes around my wrist. I shut my eyes, fighting the squeezing sensation, before hitting ground a few yards down the tunnel. Now we’re ahead of Crance and Farley, currently helping Cal to his feet. The tunnel on the other side of them is collapsed, filled up with dirt and concrete and three crushed bodies.
Crance spares one last look for his fallen Mariners, then draws his hidden pistol. For one brief, blistering moment, I think he might shoot me. But instead he raises his electrifying gaze, staring down the tunnel as it quakes around us. His lips move, forming a single word.
“Run.”
14
Left, right, left again, climb.
Crance’s barked orders follow us through the tunnels, guiding our pounding footsteps. The occasional echoing boom of another collapse keeps us moving as fast as we can—we’ve set off a chain reaction, an implosion within the tunnels. Once or twice, the tunnel collapses so close to us I hear the sharp snap of cracking support beams. Rats run with us, twisting out of the gloom. I shudder when they dash over my toes, naked tails whipping like tiny ropes. We didn’t have many rats at home—the river floods would drown them—and the waves of greasy black fur make my skin crawl. But I do my best to swallow my revulsion. Cal isn’t keen on them either, and swipes at the ground with one flaming fist, pushing back the vermin every time they get too close.
Dust swirls at our heels, choking the air, and Crance’s flashlight is all but useless in the gloom. The others rely on touch, reaching out to feel along the tunnel walls, but I keep my mind fixed on the world above, on the web of electrical wire and rolling transports. It paints a map in my head, fixing over the paper one I’ve nearly memorized. With it, I feel everything with my growing range. The sensation is overwhelming, but I push through, forcing myself to take in everything I can. Transports scream overhead, rolling toward the initial collapse. A few careen through alleyways, probably avoiding sunken roads and twisted debris. A distraction. Good.
The tunnels are Farley and Crance’s domain, a kingdom made of dust. But it falls to Cal to get us out of the darkness, and the irony is not lost on us both. When we dead-end at a service door, welded shut, Cal doesn’t need to be told what to do. He steps forward, hands outstretched, his bracelet sparking—and then white-hot flame springs to life. It dances in his palms, allowing him to grip the door’s hinges and heat them until they melt into red globs of iron. The next obstacle, a metal grate clotted with rust, is even easier, and he peels it away in seconds.
Again the collapsing tunnel shudders like a thunderclap, but from much farther away. More convincing are the rats, now calm, disappearing back into the dark they came from. Their little shadows are a strange, disgusting comfort. We’ve outrun death together.
Crance gestures through the broken grate, meaning for us to follow. But Cal hesitates, one scalding hand still resting on iron. When he loosens his grip, it leaves behind red metal and the indent of his hand.
“The Paltry?” he asks, glancing down the tunnel. Cal knows Harbor Bay much better than I. After all, he’s lived here before, occupying Ocean Hill every time the royal family came to the area. No doubt Cal’s done his share of sneaking through the docks and alleys here, just like he was doing the first time he met me.
“Aye,” Crance replies with a quick nod. “Close to the Center as I can get you. Egan instructed me to take you through the Fish Market, and has the Mariners ready to grab you, not to mention a squad of Security. He won’t expect you to go through Paltry Place, and won’t have anyone on lookout.”
The way he says it sets my teeth on edge. “Why?”
“The Paltry is Seaskull territory.”
The Seaskulls. Another gang, likely branded with tattoos more foreboding than Crance’s anchor. If not for Maven’s scheming, they might’ve helped a Red sister, but instead, they’ve been turned into enemies almost as dangerous as any Silver soldier.
“That’s not what I meant,” I continue, using Mareena’s voice to hide my fear. “Why are you helping us?”
A few months ago, the thought of three bodies crushed by rubble might’ve frightened me. Now I’ve seen much worse, and barely spare a thought for Crance’s cohorts and their twisted bones. Crance, despite his criminal nature, doesn’t look so comfortable. His eyes glare back into the darkness, after the Mariners he helped kill. They were probably his friends.
But there are friends I would trade, lives I would forsake, for my own victories. I’ve done it before. It isn’t hard to let people die when their deaths gives life to something else.
“I’m not one for oaths, or Red dawns, or any of the other nonsense your lot goes on about,” he mumbles, one fist closing and clenching in rapid succession. “Words don’t impress me. But you’re doing a hell of a lot more than talking. The way I see it, I can either betray my boss—or my blood.”
Blood. Me.
His teeth gleam in the dim light, flashing with every barbed word. “Even rats want to get out of the gutter, Miss Barrow.”
Then he steps through the grate, toward the surface that could kill us all.
And I follow.
I square my shoulders, turning to face the echoes and the end of the tunnel’s safety. I’ve never been to Harbor Bay before, but the map and my electrical sense are enough. Together, they paint a picture of roads and wiring. I can feel the military transports rolling toward the fort, and the lights of the Paltry. What’s more, a city is something I understand. Crowds, alleys, all the distractions of daily life—these are my kinds of camouflage.
Paltry Place is another market, alive as Grand Garden in Summerton or the square of the Stilts. But it is dirtier, more harried, free of Silver overlords but choked with teeming Red bodies and haggling shouts. A perfect place to hide. We emerge on the lowest level, a subterranean tangle of stalls crisscrossed by greasy canvas canopies. But there’s no smoke or stink down here—Reds might be poor, but we are not stupid. One glimpse up, through the grated, wide hole in the ceiling, tells me the upper levels sell stinking fish or smoked meat, letting the scents escape into the sky. For now, we’re surrounded by peddlers, inventors, weavers, each one trying to foist their wares onto patrons who don’t have two tetrarch coins to rub together. The money makes everyone desperate. Merchants want to get it, buyers want to keep it, and it blinds them all. No one notices a few well-trained sneaks slip out from a forgotten hole in the wall. I know I should feel afraid, but being surrounded by my own is strangely comforting.