by Joe Ducie
Irene’s heart hammered in her chest. A shiver rushed through her, but it was only nerves – good nerves, not oh-God-this-plane-is-crashing nerves. What will I say? How can I explain?
She got out of the car and pulled her jacket close around her shoulders. The skies were blue and the sun shone down on the little street, but it was a cold day. She brushed her hair back from her face, trying not to think too much about her scar. We’ve all got scars, some worse than others. Noemi is right about that. Two doors down and she walked up a small path in a little garden, no bigger than the cells back on the Rig, and stopped in front of a white door with a brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head.
Irene knocked three times, her heart pounding against her chest even harder, and bounced from foot to foot. She heard shuffling from inside, the click of a lock, and the door creaked upon slowly.
A frail woman, pale and sickly, stood in the doorway, leaning hunched over on a single crutch tucked under her arm. She was tiny, barely scraping past five feet, but her smile was warm and her eyes – Will’s eyes – were brown and kind. Her angular face, sunken from years of illness, was framed by light brown hair and a thin fringe, brushing slim eyebrows.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Can I help …?’ Her eyes widened.
Irene swallowed and looked down the street to make sure Takeo and Tristan were still there, parked in the black sedan up against the kerb. ‘My name is Irene,’ she said. ‘Irene Finlay. Your son … Will. He … Will sent me to come and see you, Ms. Drake.’
‘Lana,’ Lana Drake whispered, a hand clutching her neck. Tears sprang into her eyes. ‘Please call me Lana. I saw your picture on the news. They’re saying such nasty things about my Will, about what he’s done. I don’t believe them. My Will would never, but the media people won’t stop calling. I would have unplugged the phone, but Will called me a few days ago – were you with him?’ She paused to take a breath, tears fighting her excitement. ‘But you escaped with him? Are you in trouble?’
‘I did escape with him, yes. Ms. Drake … Lana, there’s a lot we need to talk about. But the Alliance aren’t after us any more. Not at the moment, anyway. The important thing is Will wants us to go somewhere safe.’ Irene was certain they were still being watched. And given the video they’d just sent out across the web, made more of an enemy of Lucien Whitmore, which was why they had to follow Takeo to Japan – to Haven. Follow the web.
‘The Alliance came to see me, as well, gave me medicine,’ Lana said. ‘That stopped yesterday. I worried they had found Will. Is he OK?’
‘There’s a place we can take you,’ Irene said and stepped forward, across her threshold, to grab Lana Drake’s arm if it looked like she might fall. ‘And I … we may be able to help you get well. Something better than the medicine from the Alliance.’
‘Is Will there?’ she asked, a tear clinging to her eyelash before cutting a slow track down her face.
Irene nodded. ‘He’s going to meet us there soon. He promised.’
‘My Will never breaks his promises.’
‘No, no he doesn’t. Will you come with us?’
Lana considered and then nodded. She made to stand up straight without her crutch, but wobbled from the strain. Irene offered her arm. ‘Can you help me pack a bag, dear, and grab a few jars of the blackberry preserves from the pantry? Has Will ever told you how much he loves blackberry jam?’
Irene laughed. ‘Oh yes. He never shuts up about it.’
End of Book Two
Acknowledgements
To Pete Sturdy and Jonathon Bush, two smart guys whose feedback was not only absurdly helpful, but unnecessarily (and yet delightfully) cruel. You did good, lads.
To Tracy Erickson, who I will defeat in medieval combat on the shores of Crater Lake one day soon.
To Drusilla Connor. Thank you for reading the early drafts, Dru.
To Eugenie Furniss, my supportive and brilliant agent!
And to my amazing editor Naomi Colthurst, who not only paved over the many potholes in the road, but steered me on a better path for the story. Thank you, Naomi.
Joe Ducie
British-born Joe currently resides in Perth, Western Australia. Joe attended Edith Cowan University and graduated in 2010 with a degree in Counter Terrorism, Security and Intelligence. Joe has also studied Creative and Professional Writing at Curtin University.
When not writing stories, Joe’s work over the past few years has involved border protection, liaisons between domestic and international military forces, private security consulting, living out of a suitcase, and travel to some interesting places dotted around the world. He is primarily a writer of urban fantasy and science fiction aimed at young adults and, when not talking about himself in the third person, enjoys devouring books at an absurdly disgusting rate and ambling over mountains. Preferably at the same time. The Rig, Will Drake’s first adventure and Joe’s first book, was the joint-winner of the 2013 Hot Key Books and Guardian Young Writers Prize. Follow Joe on Twitter: @joeducie
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First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Hot Key Books
Northburgh House, 10 Northburgh Street, London EC1V 0AT
Text copyright © Joe Ducie 2015
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-9714-0454-2
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