by Lisa Fiedler
“What are you talking about?” said Pup.
“I’m talking about vengeance!” spat Dev. “I’m talking about finally taking my revenge against that coldhearted monster Firren.”
Before Pup knew what was happening, the deadly tip of Devon’s sword was pressed to Hope’s throat. She let out a squeak of fear, and the sound seemed to go directly to Pup’s heart.
The sickening realization that Dev was not what he seemed came hard and fast. In that instant, Pup understood that the soldier’s whole story had been a lie. DeKalb was not the traitor with the nefarious plot to destroy and torture the royals . . . Dev was.
Poor Hope. The child had played right into the villain’s paws! If only she hadn’t announced that she was a member of the royal family! Because now Pup knew exactly what Dev meant by Hope’s revelation changing everything: Dev no longer needed Pup’s alliance. He had something better with which to get his revenge.
Hope.
And what better way to torture the emperor and empress than by harming their littlest princess?
Blood boiling, whiskers quivering with anger and fear, Pup prepared to pounce on the armed soldier. He bared his claws and summoned his strength . . .
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Pup,” Devon advised, a chill calm in his voice, his steady, hateful gaze never wavering from the trembling little princess. “I’ve waited too long for this moment. Truth be told, I’d much prefer to take my revenge slowly, perhaps by sending Firren first a chunk of the child’s ear, then maybe a swath of her fur, followed by half of her pretty little tail.”
Hope clutched her blanket and let out a horrified whimper. Pup’s claws itched to sink into the soldier’s flesh.
“Yes, I would much rather do that,” Dev snarled, his eyes still boring into Hope’s. “But . . .”
“But what?” croaked Pup.
“But if you’re entertaining any heroic delusions about attacking me . . . if you make so much as a single move in my direction . . . well, I’ll simply have to kill the child right here, right this minute. This blade is sharp, you see.”
To demonstrate, he flicked his wrist, effortlessly slicing her blanket in two; one half landed in the dirt. She clung to the remaining piece.
“You see? She will be dead before she hits the ground,” Dev promised. “And I shall take great joy in delivering her bloody corpse to her empress mother, perhaps even with that ridiculous diamond crown still perched atop her lifeless little head.”
Pup could see the tears streaming down Hope’s face. He had to do something. But he was smaller than Dev and unarmed.
Now in the distance he heard the faint growl of a subway approaching. As it sped nearer, the noise grew to a roar and the blinding glare of its headlight brightened the tunnel, faintly at first, then with more intensity.
Pup wasn’t sure if Dev was even aware of it, focused so raptly as he was on his trembling captive. The soldier surely didn’t notice the spray of prisms her tiara was suddenly splashing across the tunnel.
In that moment, Pup knew what to do.
He waited . . . one, two, three more seconds as the train raced closer . . . then he cried out, “Hope!”
It was an automatic response; despite the lethal weapon pressed against her throat, hearing her name caused the child to jerk her head around to face him . . . just as their gloomy section of tunnel filled with dazzling white light.
The reflection that burst forth from her diamond headpiece was like a flash of gunpowder exploding in Dev’s face. Shocked and blinded, he dropped his blade and covered his eyes. “Ahhhh!”
It was just the opening Pup needed. He lunged forward and sunk his teeth deeply into Dev’s leg. Then he grabbed Hope and her severed blanket, swung her into his arms, and ran.
Dev’s howl of pain and outrage followed them into the darkness.
“Where are we going?” Hope asked, her voice muffled against the sweaty fur of Pup’s chest.
“As far from Atlantia as we can get,” he answered, rounding a corner. “I want to keep you safe, but I can’t show my face in the city until I’m sure Pinkie won’t kill me on sight. I have to find a way to prove to Pinkie that I’m innocent before I can even think about entering Atlantia.”
“Oh. Well, I guess that makes sense.”
Hope’s dainty paw clutched the tiara to keep it from falling off as Pup barreled on. “But you’re running toward the city,” she cried.
“I know that,” he panted.
Pup ran until he reached the spot he’d been looking for. He placed Hope carefully on the gravelly ground and took her hand. “Don’t worry, Hope,” he said. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“Thank you. But why did you bring me toward the city?” Hope asked. “If everyone wants to kill you, shouldn’t you be running away from Atlantia?”
Pup smiled, lifting his eyes upward to the chipped tile and moldering earth of the tunnel’s ceiling. “You are a smart little spy, aren’t you?”
“Well, I try.”
“I brought you here because this is the only way to get where we need to go.” There was a brief silence as Pup continued to study the wall. He was vaguely aware of Hope picking up a stone—a sharp one, from the sound of it scratching against the wall. She kept herself busy with this for several moments. When she’d completed her task, she spoke again, her words filled with trust.
“So where exactly are we going?”
“To the only place where I know that neither Dev nor Pinkie will ever find us,” Pup replied. “The place they’re least likely to come looking.”
“Sounds mysterious.”
Pup squinted hard, scanning the boundary where above met below. At last he found what he was looking for—a hole carved into the dirt near the very top of the tunnel wall. Relief washed over him as he lifted the princess onto his shoulders.
“Here we go,” he said, forcing a note of hearty confidence into his voice. “To our mysterious hiding place.”
“Where exactly is that?” Hope wondered.
“Back where I came from,” Pup told her. “Back to Brooklyn.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AS I ARRIVE AT THE IRON gate that separates Atlantia from the Great Beyond, I see one of Pinkie’s soldiers making his solitary way back to the city. It is Devon.
And he is limping.
I approach him anxiously, keeping my hood close around my face.
“What happened?” I ask, eyeing the bandage that is wrapped primitively around his leg. “You’re injured.”
He looks at me with wild eyes. I attribute this to the fact that he must be in great pain.
“How was my news received?” I go on eagerly. “The note I gave you earlier today . . . did the emperor send you out to collect Pup safely and bring him back to the palace to make his apology?”
“I’m quite sure he would have done precisely that,” says Devon slyly, “if I had bothered to inform him.”
“What do you mean ‘if’?”
“Come,” he whispers, then grasps my arm, much harder than is necessary, and tugs. “I will tell you all you need to know.” He propels me into the shadow of the wall that surrounds the city.
“I did not share your note with Pinkie and the others,” Devon reveals, “because I wanted to find out for myself if Pup planned to proceed peacefully as your message implied.”
There is something bitter in his eyes, and suddenly my every instinct tells me that he is not a friend. “That was not our agreement,” I snap. “You were supposed to tell them that Pup wanted to apologize.”
“Apologies,” snorts Devon. “They always come a day late and a dollar short, if you ask me. I’ve never put much stock in apologies.”
For some reason, he has not let go of my arm.
“Have you a brother?” he asks me.
I nod. “Two.”
“Sadly, I cannot say the same. My brother was taken from me when I was very young. In Felina’s battleground, in fact.”
“That is tra
gic,” I say in what I hope is a comforting tone. I wriggle slightly, hoping he will release his grasp. He doesn’t.
“We were a jovial litter, my siblings and I. There were four of us in all—Celeste, Hazel, myself . . . and Ira. My brother.” He shakes his head; the gesture is one of grief, but his eyes say something different. His eyes burn with anger.
There is more to this story than he is telling me. “Wasn’t it unusual for Mūs pups to find themselves in the battleground?” I venture. “I thought the elders were strict about letting anyone beside the scouts out from behind the wall.”
He bares his teeth in reply.
“You have my condolences,” I tell him. “About your brother. But as to my message—”
“There were so few places to hide. A moldy knapsack, a torn sneaker. A silver cup. Ira was so frightened . . .” Again, he shakes his head. “We reached for him, stretching, grasping . . . She didn’t help us. She could have saved him . . .” His far-off expression sharpens to one of keenly focused fury. “And you dare to scold me for failing to deliver a note?”
“I’m sorry, soldier,” I say quickly. “I did not mean to challenge your sense of duty. If you will excuse me now . . . I apologize profusely for troubling you.”
I turn away and hurry toward the gate. I have already reached into the pocket of my cloak and withdrawn a paper scrap, on which I begin to compose yet another message to the emperor. This one is even more urgent than the last.
But I hear the shuffling of paws behind me. And then his chilling voice:
“I told you, I never put much stock in apologies. Even profuse ones.”
His claws grasp my hood, just as I am stuffing the hastily scrawled missive back into the folds of my cape. My disguise falls away and I glance over my shoulder only long enough to see the startled expression on his face; clearly, I am not who or what he expected to find hidden beneath this cloak. Then he reaches for his sword. Before I can even move, the heavy handle is swooping in the direction of my head. The metal pommel finds its mark, dead center on the back of my skull.
There is only the gritty scrape of dirt and stone beneath my cheek.
And then, darkness.
CHAPTER TWELVE
GUILT OVERWHELMED HOPPER.
Hope had run away. And the responsibility for her disappearance was his and his alone.
Everyone was gathered in the throne room, desperately trying to think of where she might have gone. No one—not Hopper, Zucker, Firren, Dodger, Pinkie, or the four distraught royal heirs—could identify a single destination.
“I should have known she was running away,” Hopper said, for perhaps the hundredth time. “Why else would she have brought along my blanket? And her tiara. She took the blanket to use as a bedroll. And the tiara because . . .” His chest heaved with a shuddering sob. “Because she knew she wasn’t coming back.”
“I don’t understand why Hope would run away,” said Dodger. “She’s a good girl. She’s happy here.”
Hopper said nothing, but his gaze went unwillingly to the huddle of royal heirs, sniffling at the foot of their father’s throne. It was a piece of furniture Zucker almost never used; he was uncomfortable with such pomp and circumstance. But today was not about ceremony; today the bereft father simply could no longer bear his own weight. When he’d stormed into the throne room just moments before, he’d gone right to the oversize chair to drop his head into his paws in misery.
“But she wasn’t happy!” said Raz.
“Not at all,” Go-go confirmed. “And it was all our fault!”
“We teased Hope,” Brighton admitted, removing her glasses and wiping her eyes. “We were bullies. She liked everything fancy and royal and we made fun of her for it.”
“I guess it wasn’t so funny after all,” Fiske added, wiping the tears that streamed down the soft fur of his snout. “She ran away because of us.”
“Because we were mean to her and called her a hopeless runt,” said Brighton.
“Because we called her a spy,” Go-go added.
“I’m as much to blame as you are,” said Hopper. “When I saw her alone in the city, I should have insisted she come home with me.”
Zucker lifted his face from his paws. “It ain’t your fault, kid,” he rasped, his sad eyes meeting Hopper’s guilty ones. “You couldn’t have known.” Then he cast a disappointed glance at his litter. “The rest of you, however . . .”
“We know we were awful!” wailed Go-go. “And I’d do anything to bring Hope back.”
“There’s nothing you can do,” snapped Raz. “So stop being such a dope.”
“Don’t call her a dope!” cried Brighton. “She’s just trying to help.”
“Enough!” said Pinkie. “This is no time to be fighting amongst ourselves. Hope is gone. The only thing we should be thinking about is how to find her.”
The room fell silent but for the sniffles and sighs of the children. Hopper allowed himself a glance at Firren, who sat beside the emperor in her equally luxurious royal throne. It was due to be removed from the palace later in the week, in fact, but right now Hopper knew Firren wasn’t thinking about the evils of overprivilege; right now she was thinking about Hope.
Firren hadn’t said a word since she sat down. Her shoulders, as ever, were pressed back so that, even seated, her posture was regal and imposing, her paws folded in her lap, her dainty chin uplifted. Her sword leaned against the intricately carved arm of her chair, shining with power. But her eyes were dark. Ordinarily they glinted and sparked with joy, intelligence, passion. Today they were simply blank.
Hopper thought his heart might crack.
When the doors opened, every head swiveled to see who had entered. Nine pairs of desperate eyes honed in on Ketchum, the head of royal intelligence, as he made his way across the gleaming throne-room floor.
“Have you found her?” asked Dodger, springing up from his seat.
“No.”
Go-go began to weep inconsolably.
“But there is news.”
“Tell us, Ketch,” said Zucker, his voice an agonized croak.
“One of Pinkie’s soldiers has just returned.”
Pinkie scowled. “Only one?”
Ketch nodded, then motioned to someone just outside the door. Hopper had a sudden flashback to a far-less-sophisticated version of himself, hiding in that very spot, peering around the doorframe at the bloodcurdling sight of the emperor Titus perched upon his throne. He imagined he could still see the scar snaking across the old rat’s snout and hear his deep voice echoing through the chamber.
But Titus was gone. It was Zucker—the Zuck-meister—who sat upon the throne now, waiting for word of his missing princess.
The darker-brown mouse came limping through the door. Devon, Hopper thought his name was. Clearly, he’d been in some sort of battle, for his leg was injured. Bandaged.
With a piece of Hopper’s patchwork quilt.
Zucker recognized it at the same second Hopper had. “You’ve seen her!”
“I have, Your Highness,” said the soldier. “In the tunnels.”
“Is she all right?” This question came from Firren, although Hopper almost hadn’t recognized her voice. It was high and thin, airy . . . as though it had been sliced into shreds of itself with her own sword. “Is she . . . alive?”
“Very much so,” said Devon. “But . . .”
Hopper’s heart seized in his chest. “But what?”
Devon lowered his eyes.
Ketchum cleared his throat. “When Devon returned from the search, I of course told him that the princess had run away. But it would seem he has information regarding that . . . misconception.”
“What do you mean ‘misconception’?” asked Zucker.
Devon gave the emperor a level look. “Your daughter has not run away, Your Majesty. She has been kidnapped.”
The only sound was Firren’s sharp intake of breath. Hopper wasn’t sure when exactly he’d begun to tremble.
“Kidnappe
d?” Zucker repeated.
“By whom?” Pinkie demanded.
Hopper heard his own voice ringing through the room before he even realized he’d spoken. “By Pup.”
He didn’t have to see the soldier’s somber nod to know that he was right.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I AWAKE IN THE SHADOW of Atlantia’s wall. My first thought is that I have made a terrible mistake.
If only I could remember what it is.
There is a pounding sensation at the back of my head, and I must blink several times to clear the blur from my eyes, but it would seem that I am in one piece.
Standing, I notice a heaviness that hangs about my shoulders and a sweep of fabric around my hind paws. A cloak.
A cloak?
Why in the world would I be wearing something as cumbersome and impractical as a cloak? It is not as if I am in hiding. I shrug it off and leave it there beside the wall. Perhaps one of the poor wanderers (for there are still a number of them) will find it and put it to good use.
Ignoring the pain in my skull, I head through the gate and toward the palace steps. Perhaps my brothers will be about, although they are busy these days, training for the emperor’s elite squad of military officers. One of them, Pritchard, serves under Ketchum in the Royal Intelligence Service. The other, Bartel . . . hmmm, well, for some reason, I can’t quite remember Bart’s position at the moment. Something to do with weaponry, perhaps? Or maybe he frosts the tea cakes in the kitchen? How odd that I can’t recall. But I’m sure it will come to me eventually. All I know is that he’s recently been promoted and I’m very proud of him indeed.
As I make my way toward the palace, I notice that there is quite a commotion taking place. Soldiers have assembled. A captain whose name escapes me is barking out orders. First Lieutenant something-or-other . . . Gardner? Garnet? Garfield! Yes, that’s it. Garfield! First Lieutenant Garfield and Bartel are handing out fresh swords (so much for my tea cakes theory). Even Fulton, the smithy, is present. He has placed his burly self beside the emperor Zucker, who appears agitated. Even from this distance I can see he wears an expression of fury. Or perhaps it is panic I see on his face. On closer inspection I see that it is both.